Widow's Walk by Wendy Webb

Author:Wendy Webb [Webb, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gothic haunted house; occult supernatural suspense; ghost story; dark fantasy; small town mystery; family life
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2019-12-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Winston pulled up the collar of his jacket against the cooling wind and sprinkle of rain then looked back over his shoulder to check the distance between himself and the house. It was okay. He was safe. Sybil wouldn’t be able to see him even from their bedroom on the second floor. There was nothing between his secret and her, but the quiet solitude of great trees, damp moss, and the distant slap of bay water. He couldn’t ask for a better place to live and a more appropriate place to die. But death wasn’t on his agenda today. There were too many things to do.

He rubbed the tight pain in his chest as if it were a pulled muscle that could be coaxed into relaxed submission by a firm kneading of his palm, and sensed the pain deepen. Still, he was glad to be away from Sybil and the fear and sadness his pain left in her eyes. She would never see him like this again if he could help it. He would do whatever it took to guarantee that quiet promise to himself.

God, his chest hurt. It hurt worse than it had ever before.

Closing his eyes for a second, he mumbled a silent prayer then looked around. The ground rolled and swayed as if he were viewing it from the bow of a storm-riddled ship. Dizziness threw him off balance, and he stumbled. With trembling fingers, he reached into his shirt pocket to search frantically for the little bottle of pills and realized they weren’t there. A pat at the other pocket produced the same result. Digging deep into his pants pocket, he felt the tiny bottle escape his grasp then caught it. Another spasm of pain, deeper this time and searing, seemed to grab his heart and squeeze. He cried out. The pill bottle slipped from his fingers and spilled its contents to the ground.

Falling to his knees, he fought blurring vision to focus on the scatter of white pills spread out before him. One pill, covered in sand and grit, stuck to his finger. He forced it under his tongue and tasted the bitterness of Mico Island mixed with medication.

Mann staggered toward the sturdy bulk of an oak, leaned against it, and tried to catch his breath, to will away the pain that permeated every muscle of his chest. Better now, it was better, easing some. A little. Another few minutes of rest, and he’d be okay.

The pain dissipated in slow layers. He took a deep breath, felt it catch then loosen. Another found pill dissolved under his tongue, leaving only thickened mucus tinged with salty sand. Rubbing a moist hand across his lips, he leaned heavily against the tree to think the situation out.

The heart problem was getting worse. No doubt about it now. And wouldn’t Doc Nesheim get that gleam in his eye when he said everything but “told you so.” Doctors were paid for that kind of nonsense to suggest this test

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