Read Online Wildwood Road by Christopher Golden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Golden
Tags: Fiction
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together and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he steadied himself and drove another nail.
There were images in his mind that confused him. The last thing he remembered—really remembered—was nodding off at the wheel. But there were other things
Come find me.
Other pictures in his head. A little blond girl, a halo of light around her head. An old, rambling house on a hill, dark and abandoned. A nightmare. It had to have been. For how else to explain the feeling of unease that crept up his spine when he thought of such things? He could picture himself even now, in the midst of that nightmare, standing in an unfamiliar kitchen. He had a vague memory of a chorus of little-girl voices singing jump-rope songs.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
And something . . . some weird trick of the light that in his dream had frightened him.
Some trip. Some fucking trip.
The sleeve of his D'Artagnan jacket was torn, and there were several small cuts on his face. Little pinprick things that Jillian hadn't noticed.
Of course she hasn't noticed them. She won't look you in the face.
Some fucking trip,
he thought again. Michael was certain that's what it had been. Someone had dropped something in his beer. What other explanation could there be? Maybe there had been a house and a girl and he'd tried to keep driving afterward and couldn't make it home. Maybe. If so, they were both fortunate he had had the sense to pull over and park for the night. But he wasn't ready to talk to Jillian about it. Not when things were like this between them. It made his belly hurt to remember what it had been like driving home with her this morning. She had sat in the passenger's seat with her arms crossed, expressionless, gazing out at half-stripped trees as they drove.
Now, in the basement, Michael propped a two-by-four in place, plucked a nail from his lips, then hammered it into the wood with four solid strikes. He added a fifth unnecessarily, and it marred the wood in a strange crescent.
In his mind was an echo of the last words Jillian had said to him this morning, just as they had pulled into the driveway.
“I can't believe you let this happen.”
Michael had dropped the car into park and responded without looking at her. “You weren't exactly the picture of sobriety. I had to carry you to the car.”
He heard her swear under her breath, and knew what was going through her mind. That sort of public display was something she would have found disgusting in anyone else. The idea that she had done such a thing, that others might have witnessed it, appalled her.
Of course, he had exaggerated. He had certainly had to support her to get her to the car, but he had not carried her. Just then, however, Michael was stinging from her anger and disappointment, so he was in no rush to alleviate her concerns.
A flash of guilt went through him now as he recalled that sin of omission, but he was not prepared to correct it. Not yet.
Michael and Jillian were lucky. In one another they had found love and patience and good humor. When they fought—as all couples did—their arguments usually sprang from anxiety over money, or from disagreements over their respective families. Michael had only his mother and his older brother, both of whom lived on Cape Cod. Jillian had a large Italian family spread across half a dozen North Shore cities and towns. They did things differently, of course. Had different approaches and expectations about holidays and family events, a hundred little social differences. Such things took time for a couple to adjust to. But even these things were small. In the eight years since they had first met, they'd had only a handful of arguments that had lingered.
This one was simmering.
Michael stepped away from the wall and regarded his handiwork, hammer dangling in his grip. All that remained was to frame the little pantry he had decided to add. Jillian was always wishing for more storage space in the kitchen and, if they were going to finish the
There were images in his mind that confused him. The last thing he remembered—really remembered—was nodding off at the wheel. But there were other things
Come find me.
Other pictures in his head. A little blond girl, a halo of light around her head. An old, rambling house on a hill, dark and abandoned. A nightmare. It had to have been. For how else to explain the feeling of unease that crept up his spine when he thought of such things? He could picture himself even now, in the midst of that nightmare, standing in an unfamiliar kitchen. He had a vague memory of a chorus of little-girl voices singing jump-rope songs.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
And something . . . some weird trick of the light that in his dream had frightened him.
Some trip. Some fucking trip.
The sleeve of his D'Artagnan jacket was torn, and there were several small cuts on his face. Little pinprick things that Jillian hadn't noticed.
Of course she hasn't noticed them. She won't look you in the face.
Some fucking trip,
he thought again. Michael was certain that's what it had been. Someone had dropped something in his beer. What other explanation could there be? Maybe there had been a house and a girl and he'd tried to keep driving afterward and couldn't make it home. Maybe. If so, they were both fortunate he had had the sense to pull over and park for the night. But he wasn't ready to talk to Jillian about it. Not when things were like this between them. It made his belly hurt to remember what it had been like driving home with her this morning. She had sat in the passenger's seat with her arms crossed, expressionless, gazing out at half-stripped trees as they drove.
Now, in the basement, Michael propped a two-by-four in place, plucked a nail from his lips, then hammered it into the wood with four solid strikes. He added a fifth unnecessarily, and it marred the wood in a strange crescent.
In his mind was an echo of the last words Jillian had said to him this morning, just as they had pulled into the driveway.
“I can't believe you let this happen.”
Michael had dropped the car into park and responded without looking at her. “You weren't exactly the picture of sobriety. I had to carry you to the car.”
He heard her swear under her breath, and knew what was going through her mind. That sort of public display was something she would have found disgusting in anyone else. The idea that she had done such a thing, that others might have witnessed it, appalled her.
Of course, he had exaggerated. He had certainly had to support her to get her to the car, but he had not carried her. Just then, however, Michael was stinging from her anger and disappointment, so he was in no rush to alleviate her concerns.
A flash of guilt went through him now as he recalled that sin of omission, but he was not prepared to correct it. Not yet.
Michael and Jillian were lucky. In one another they had found love and patience and good humor. When they fought—as all couples did—their arguments usually sprang from anxiety over money, or from disagreements over their respective families. Michael had only his mother and his older brother, both of whom lived on Cape Cod. Jillian had a large Italian family spread across half a dozen North Shore cities and towns. They did things differently, of course. Had different approaches and expectations about holidays and family events, a hundred little social differences. Such things took time for a couple to adjust to. But even these things were small. In the eight years since they had first met, they'd had only a handful of arguments that had lingered.
This one was simmering.
Michael stepped away from the wall and regarded his handiwork, hammer dangling in his grip. All that remained was to frame the little pantry he had decided to add. Jillian was always wishing for more storage space in the kitchen and, if they were going to finish the
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