Greely's Cove by Gideon John

Author:Gideon, John [Gideon, John]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction.Horror
ISBN: 9780515105087
Publisher: Knight Paperbacks
Published: 1991-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

17

Mitch Nistler awoke with cramps in his muscles and an ache in his skull, his cheek resting against rough wooden floorboards. More than a minute passed before he overcame the numbness of his limbs and managed to sit upright. Another full minute dragged by before he was able to make sense of his surroundings: He was sitting on the rickety, rain-soaked porch of Cannibal Strecker’s crack house, his back propped against the locked door. His trousers and shoes were caked with mud, his shirt ripped and sopping from a panicky romp through wet foliage, his face and hands welted from searing twigs and nettles.

He could not remember ever being this cold. His chest felt tight and his throat raw, and he worried about having caught pneumonia.

“Fuck a bald-headed duck,” he wheezed, gathering himself to stand up.

He staggered against the splintery doorjamb as the horrors of the previous night trickled back into his head. The corpse of Lorna Trosper had opened its eyes. Terror had gripped him, causing him to drop the body and flee into the cold night, like a man with demons on his heels. The fog had engulfed him, and he had crashed headlong into the forest, colliding with rough tree trunks, sprawling countless times over fallen logs. He had somehow clawed his way back to Old Home Road and followed the road here, to the tottering old house that Strecker had acquired and converted to a crack laboratory, wanting only to put distance between himself and the horror in his upstairs bedroom. He had collapsed in the shelter of this front porch, exhausted and near insanity. How long he had slept he could only guess.

He coughed and raised his wrist to look at his watch, only to discover that he had lost it, along with his glasses. Though the fog had begun to lift, the sky was yet a gauzy gray that blocked out the sun. Was it morning or noon, he wondered, or would it soon be night again?

God forbid that night should come again.

The sound of an approaching engine came through the mist—the powerful, huffing engine of a truck making its way over Old Home Road toward the crack house. Mitch pressed a palm against his forehead to fight dizziness, to force himself to think straight. It would be Strecker and his horrible girlfriend, Stella DeCurtis, coming to brew up another batch of crack. Mitch didn’t need this: How on earth would he explain why he was here—or his battered appearance?

He needed to get away.

He launched himself down the crumbling cement steps toward the thicket that bordered the yard, stumbling repeatedly, and lurched past the rusted shell of an ancient Dodge that was nearly hidden by a thatch of man-high weeds. Beyond it was a tall pine with dark branches, surrounded by thick clumps of holly and sword fern. He hunkered down in the foliage and waited, scarcely daring to peer around the rough trunk of the tree. Strecker’s black Blazer wheeled into the yard and halted next to a pile of derelict kitchen appliances.

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