The Raising by J.E. Taylor

Author:J.E. Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, demon, ghost, raising the dead, gypsy, witchcraft, suspense
Publisher: JET-Fueled Fiction
Published: 2018-05-29T00:00:00+00:00

LIGHT FILTERED IN THROUGH the sheers and blinded me. I rolled, burying my face in the back of the couch and cursed the arrival of sunrise. The strange dream surfaced and I snapped my eyes open, glancing around at the living room. Was that bizarre ritual only a dream?

I rolled and stared at the ceiling for a moment before dragging my tired butt off the couch and into the bathroom. The mirror showed me more than I wanted to see. Dark circles surrounded bloodshot eyes and the smear of soot on my cheek gave credence to the ritual. I didn’t need to venture into the kitchen, but I did. The macabre scene at the table sent a chill from my heels to the tip of my cranium and I shuddered.

It was real and despite the blood and bone and ash scattered on the tabletop, hope’s bright light edged its way into my heart. Was it possible?

For a moment I believed, and then reality crashed down and obliterated hope like a broken dam annihilates everything downstream. I shook my head, disgusted with even entertaining the thought. I grabbed the Clorox wipes and scrubbed the blood from the light surface, sweeping the contents into the garbage. I wrapped my fingers around the silver flute and the smell of smoldering skin filled the room before the burning sensation shocked the nerve endings and produced a yelp from my lips. Pain gripped my hand; the glass tumbled to the floor and the ping of silver bouncing off the tile rippled through the air. I stepped back, held my wrist, and stared at the red flesh and the surfacing blisters.

“Damn it.” Operating with my hand in this condition was out of the question. My fingers throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I crossed to the sink; I slid my hand under the cool stream. The minute I turned the faucet off, the pain flared again and I hissed. Swearing under my breath, I grabbed the oven mitt and picked up the silver chalice. I dropped it into the stainless steel sink and the beads of water in the basin boiled on contact.

Fear crept up my back and brought a metal tinge to my mouth.

I doused the glass with water from the spout. A billow of steam rose and the water sizzled, making a sound close to a scream of protest.

I let the water flow and went in search of a salve for the blisters. An aloe plant flourished on the living room windowsill; I snapped the tip of a branch off and squeezed the sticky liquid onto my burns. The heat in my fingertips dulled, but even the minute pressure of the gel created a stab that cascaded up my arm like wild-fire.

Before I could inspect my wounds, the shrill ring of the phone broke through the silence. I scooped it off the base, pressed the on button and brought it to my ear without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello, baby.”

I blinked, unable to focus, unable to believe the seductive timbre flowing through the phone line.

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