Wake the Dead by Rod Kackley

Author:Rod Kackley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery and suspense, paranormal horror, St. Isidore Collection, By Rod Kackley, dark fiction, supernatural, ghosts, demons, evil spirits, paranormal mystery books, paranormal apocalypse, paranormal ghosts spirits demons, horror novels
Publisher: Rod Kackley
Published: 2017-05-17T00:00:00+00:00

13

Yeah, it was creepy. Kali was pointing at the people who must have belonged to that car she and I saw in the parking lot. They were quite a ways off, in another of the clearings of the Forest. She led the way.

I should have taken her by the hand, put Kali on her bike and me on mine, and started riding. My plan following the straightest line possible to get out of the Forest still seemed like the best idea until Kali took my hand and ran her fingertips across my face.

The bikes stayed on the ground. My first choice became Plan B, and I followed Kali just like I had been doing since minute-one.

Crawling slowly through the underbrush, both of us looking over our heads, occasionally. Kali had learned a lesson about what might be hanging overhead—we got to the edge of the clearing and snooped on the last minutes of the lives of a family of four.

They were pleasant looking enough. But the scene was unusual. You see, two teenagers were standing in a tree, buck naked, on a very study branch.

A man and a woman, I assumed they were the parents, were fully dressed, on the ground.

This next part would have been unusual too, but remember we were in the Suicide Forest.

The kids were wearing nothing but a hangman’s noose around each of their necks. The other end of the ropes were flung up over another one of those big, sturdy branches where people were so often hung out to die in the Forest.

On the ground below the teens, who were staring straight ahead, evidently entirely comfortable with their nudity and ropes, Dad had a gun. Mom held a Bible.

Kali and I were kneeling in some tall grass, looking out from either side of a big tree.

I heard her whisper, “Do you think he is going to do it?”

It was as easy to predict as snow in the winter. The father was going to shoot his children. When they fell, the ropes would snap tight around their necks. Tourists would find them swinging from the tree and rush to use their smartphones to take pix and video.

There was even an app now that helped the "deadies"— as we St. Isidorians liked to call the tourists who searched for the corpses of the Forest—discover the recently suicided.

Kali might be wondering what would happen next. But it was so painfully apparent to me, I didn’t see any reason to speak. I also didn’t see any reason to try to get in the way of the bullets that would end their lives. I might have stopped it. I think I could have taken the Mom, and Kali—my lithe athlete of lust—would be able to take Dad down.

But we didn't move. Neither of us. And I do feel guilty about that now, but not quite as guilty in a cold, shuddering way, as I did then.

As the father, climbed into the tree, moved toward the boy and gently placed the

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