Ghost at Dusk by Kevan Dale

Author:Kevan Dale [Dale, Kevan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-73375-043-1
Publisher: Kevan Dale Fiction

27

I don’t fade away, like usual. Normally, I’d be out of the blue and into the black for at least a couple of days before returning. Instead, I come to in the closet, my neck and head aching from having been decapitated by Groan. That’s also strange. I usually don’t feel a thing by the time I’m back. When I peek out past the closet door, I see Alyssa walk by, holding her iPad and looking around. Whispering. Is she looking for me? Sure looks like it. She’s wearing the same black tights and sweatshirt as earlier.

Not feeling Groan, I take a chance and step out a little farther. Everything looks the same. For a second, I think about trying to get in touch with Alyssa again. But then I figure that’s exactly what Groan expects me to do, in spite of his warning. So maybe it’s a trap. He’s probably lurking around outside waiting for me to do it. Not keen on getting killed again tonight, I hesitate. I slide across the entryway to the outside wall. Poke my head through it.

The night is clear the way it only gets in winter, the snow catching the light of the crisp stars and slender moon. I look down the length of the house in both directions. No Groan. Curious, I continue along the house, with just my head outside it. The snow-covered shrubs gather shadows beneath them. No demon that I can see. At the corner of the garage, it strikes me that this is a bad idea. Maybe I’m regaining my senses after Groan’s mauling. Either way, I’m about to duck back inside and hurry to my closet when a movement off to my left catches my attention.

Through the line of backyards past the brook, on the roof of the house: the figure I’d seen before, clear against the snow, bright beneath the midnight heavens. The kid. I watch. He’s waving his arms around again. I look around the yard for Groan.

No wandering around outside. Ever. Not a finger. Not a toe.

Man, I might be as stupid as Groan says I am.

I try not to overthink it. Or even really think it, apparently—because the next minute I’m hauling ass toward the brook, heading to the spot that gets me closest to that other house. Running like all the demons of Hell are on my trail. Or one in particular. You get the point. I bound across the gurgling water, the brook itself looking black like the river Styx. At the boundary—well, at the boundary something weird happens.

Expecting the tug to hold me back, I hurl myself forward. But nothing stops me, and in between the extra effort and meeting no resistance at all, I’m tumbling feet over head, crashing through the snow until I slide halfway into the tarp-covered stack of cordwood behind the kid’s house. I right myself.

How? Why? The questions jackknife in my mind, causing a twenty-car collision.

This is impossible.

I look back. My house is dark, except for the window in my old room, which shines with the pale light of a computer screen.

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