Read Online Wildwood Road by Christopher Golden - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Golden
Tags: Fiction
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hoped that in a short time their income would catch up with their expenses.
With Jillian's promotion last year to paralegal manager, they at last had a little breathing room. Now it was time to do some of the things to the house on Persimmon Road that they had been holding off on. One of those was finishing the basement. Michael had begun framing for walls in July. It was the sort of thing he had to do in spurts, when he had the time and inclination.
No day like today,
he thought.
He was nearly done. A couple of hours of work remained, and then he would be able to go out and buy the insulation and the sheetrock. That would be a big job, however, and it wasn't something he was going to worry about today. Not with the thudding headache that had settled like storm clouds across his skull. Not when every quick move shot him full of so many aches that he felt a hundred years old.
The Patriots were playing Dallas today. Kickoff was at one o'clock. Once the game started, he could hide in front of the television. Jillian didn't mind football, but it held no interest for her. With the game on, she would find other things to do in the house, perhaps even go out to do errands, as she so often did on Sundays. By the time the game was over, it would be dinnertime.
By then, Michael hoped that her anger would have cooled some. Then, maybe, they would be able to talk about what had happened the previous night. Their conversation in the car had been clipped and tense. Never in his life had he been so confused, and yet the person to whom he would naturally have turned for help was in no mood to lend him comfort.
It had taken Michael several minutes just driving around before he was able to get his bearings enough to find his way home. Jillian had wanted to know what had happened, how they had ended up spending the night on the side of the road. To his shame, Michael hadn't been able to tell her. He knew he must have had some flash of insight and realized he had to pull over before he passed out behind the wheel, but he couldn't remember any of it. Images of the previous night were jumbled in his mind, many of them disturbing and some, he felt, possibly only dreams or drug-induced hallucinations.
He remembered the masquerade perfectly, including their departure. He could recall Jilly passed out in the backseat. But the drive home from the Wayside Inn was all a blur. The hum of his tires on the road, of the car engine. He had been sleepy. Drunker than he had thought.
God, how could you have driven like that?
But that was the key, wasn't it? He had not felt drunk when he had gotten behind the wheel. Then again, wasn't that what they all said?
A ripple of silver. Come find me.
Michael winced at the picture that flitted across his mind, like the lingering colors on the inside of his eyelids after a camera flash had gone off. And a voice. A little girl's voice . . .
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. He shook his head. None of it made sense. He had had only a few bottles of Guinness. Certainly not enough to induce this kind of blackout. He knew it was possible, of course. Had experienced it before, waking up in the morning to discover himself guilty of some fairly embarrassing behavior. But it had been years since he had been that intoxicated. Since college, in fact.
But to drive that way, to park on the side of the road and sleep it off and not remember how he got them there?
Michael was almost as angry with Jillian as she was with him, but most of his hostility came from guilt, and from the terror that filled him when he thought about what might have happened to them. As humiliating as it had been to be woken by the police rapping on the car windows, it was nothing compared to the worst-case scenario that had played out in his mind again and again since they had reached home that morning.
Not his own death. No, the worst thing would have been if he had gotten Jillian killed, and survived to know it.
He squeezed his eyes tightly
With Jillian's promotion last year to paralegal manager, they at last had a little breathing room. Now it was time to do some of the things to the house on Persimmon Road that they had been holding off on. One of those was finishing the basement. Michael had begun framing for walls in July. It was the sort of thing he had to do in spurts, when he had the time and inclination.
No day like today,
he thought.
He was nearly done. A couple of hours of work remained, and then he would be able to go out and buy the insulation and the sheetrock. That would be a big job, however, and it wasn't something he was going to worry about today. Not with the thudding headache that had settled like storm clouds across his skull. Not when every quick move shot him full of so many aches that he felt a hundred years old.
The Patriots were playing Dallas today. Kickoff was at one o'clock. Once the game started, he could hide in front of the television. Jillian didn't mind football, but it held no interest for her. With the game on, she would find other things to do in the house, perhaps even go out to do errands, as she so often did on Sundays. By the time the game was over, it would be dinnertime.
By then, Michael hoped that her anger would have cooled some. Then, maybe, they would be able to talk about what had happened the previous night. Their conversation in the car had been clipped and tense. Never in his life had he been so confused, and yet the person to whom he would naturally have turned for help was in no mood to lend him comfort.
It had taken Michael several minutes just driving around before he was able to get his bearings enough to find his way home. Jillian had wanted to know what had happened, how they had ended up spending the night on the side of the road. To his shame, Michael hadn't been able to tell her. He knew he must have had some flash of insight and realized he had to pull over before he passed out behind the wheel, but he couldn't remember any of it. Images of the previous night were jumbled in his mind, many of them disturbing and some, he felt, possibly only dreams or drug-induced hallucinations.
He remembered the masquerade perfectly, including their departure. He could recall Jilly passed out in the backseat. But the drive home from the Wayside Inn was all a blur. The hum of his tires on the road, of the car engine. He had been sleepy. Drunker than he had thought.
God, how could you have driven like that?
But that was the key, wasn't it? He had not felt drunk when he had gotten behind the wheel. Then again, wasn't that what they all said?
A ripple of silver. Come find me.
Michael winced at the picture that flitted across his mind, like the lingering colors on the inside of his eyelids after a camera flash had gone off. And a voice. A little girl's voice . . .
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. He shook his head. None of it made sense. He had had only a few bottles of Guinness. Certainly not enough to induce this kind of blackout. He knew it was possible, of course. Had experienced it before, waking up in the morning to discover himself guilty of some fairly embarrassing behavior. But it had been years since he had been that intoxicated. Since college, in fact.
But to drive that way, to park on the side of the road and sleep it off and not remember how he got them there?
Michael was almost as angry with Jillian as she was with him, but most of his hostility came from guilt, and from the terror that filled him when he thought about what might have happened to them. As humiliating as it had been to be woken by the police rapping on the car windows, it was nothing compared to the worst-case scenario that had played out in his mind again and again since they had reached home that morning.
Not his own death. No, the worst thing would have been if he had gotten Jillian killed, and survived to know it.
He squeezed his eyes tightly
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