The Haunting of Rachel Harroway Boxset: A Gripping Paranormal Mystery by J.S Donovan

Author:J.S Donovan [Donovan, J.S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

Woodrow Gates had been running behind on Martin Malone’s autopsy. The Poisoner’s body had been stripped and laid bare on the slab, though he thought it fitting to take care of the victims first. It was Gates’s form of karmic justice.

With a fresh pair of blue latex gloves snug against his bony fingers, Gates turned on his CD player and put on one of his favorite Chopin’s Waltzes. There was something soothing about ending his day on a musical note. He set aside his bone saw, scalpel, and other instruments of dissection, taking a few moments to twirl around and dance with an invisible companion.

He danced over to the cabinet and pulled out the embalming fluid, put it on his special stainless-steel tray, and returned to the drawers, where he gathered rubber tubing, rib shears, bone-cutting forceps, chisels, a bone mallet, and his favorite: the Virchow skull breaker.

Just like in med school, he liked to have everything laid out in front of him before he started on a job. With his assistants all taking night classes to get their diploma, he couldn’t rely on some young hottie to pull over the hazardous waste hamper if he accidentally punctured the large intestine. Gates did not mind, though. He liked being able to dance and hum and enjoy his own weirdness. He’d say he was the oddest duck to pass through this office, though the world would never know it. Besides, there was only one other person stranger than him. The enigma that was Rachel Harroway. He thought she was epileptic, but that made very little sense considering that she never had a seizure away from a cadaver. Some of the local law enforcement called her a witch or clairvoyant behind her back. Gates wouldn’t go that far in his theories, but there was something Harroway was hiding from the world, and he was intent on finding out.

Grabbing the final tools, he turned back to the dissection table and gasped. Martin Malone was sitting up on the cold slab. His head was downcast, with his greasy black hair dangling over his face. As fast as lightning, his dark eyes, full of life and vigor, locked with Gates’s, which were grey like dirty ice and wide with terror.

On autopilot, Gates slung a deep stainless-steel tray at the living dead man’s face. Martin took the hit across the jaw, staggered off the table, and then rammed the scalpel into Gates’s neck. The coroner stumbled back, hitting the sink as Martin punched him with the scalpel in the stomach and chest. Gates’s legs betrayed him, and he hit the cold floor. Crimson painted his white lab coat at his front. His gloved hand held the puncture in his neck, which pumped a steady stream of blood. He tried to talk, scream, anything, but could only gurgle blood.

Naked and dripping with Gates’s blood, Martin Malone stood over the old man with a look of fascination on his handsome face. “Detective Harroway—where does she live?”

Gates kept his mouth closed.

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