Breeder: A Novel of Supernatural Horror by Douglas Clegg

Author:Douglas Clegg [Clegg, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, horror, Occult & Supernatural, Thrillers, Supernatural, Gothic, General
ISBN: 9780979686276
Google: OCKgBQAAQBAJ
Publisher: Alkemara Press
Published: 2014-11-05T18:37:18.020508+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

“What book?” Hugh asked, cradling the phone between his chin and scrunched-up shoulder—he propped the refrigerator door open with his right leg bent at the knee, and with his hands managed to move around all the jars of pickles and jams that Mrs. Deerfield had given them.

On the other end of the line, the clerk at the bookstore said, “Diaries of an Innocent Age by Standish, Mr. Adair. You ordered it in June, but it was hard to locate—the company who published it has been out of business for ten years. We finally got it, though. It just took a little longer than usual.”

“Oh, right,” Hugh said absent-mindedly—he found what he was looking for, a half-empty Miller Lite behind the orange juice carton. “I pretty much forgot about it—I’ll be down sometime today.”

When he hung up the phone, he sniffed at the bottle of beer—it had gone flat. He’d opened it and put it in there the day before the trip to the beach. They’d been back a few days, so what did he expect? But he’d gone eight days without a drink of any kind, on his best behavior at the beach, for Rachel’s benefit. And the beach had been trying, particularly after the accident with the car and the cat. With Rachel crying, Penny Dreadful crying, and Hugh feeling miserable and then the rain and the late start in the noontime traffic congestion; with Rachel, her eyes red, saying that they should just turn the car around and go home, wondering how Mrs. Deerfield would ever forgive them… Hugh had craved a drink like a pregnant woman craves pickles. Then the beach was overcast most of the time (and still he managed to get a painful sunburn which no amount of lotion seemed to help—his nose continued to peel, and they’d been back three days), and Rachel was too listless, almost withdrawn over the cat’s death, to want to go out to a restaurant. So at night they sat in the motel room and ate junk food and watched bad TV. Hugh had a terrific case of constipation the whole time, and was a Metamucil junkie by the last day—he favored the orange-flavored kind in the small easy-to-toss-away packets; it reminded him of Fizzies from his childhood, dropping the Metamucil in the glass of water and having it hiss and sputter into this utilitarian punch.

But this punch was even better than Fizzies or Metamucil. He held the bottle up and took a long, lingering drink of beer. Flat Miller Lite ain’t so bad. He chugged down the rest and set the bottle on the counter. No, better trash it. Don’t need to get her upset over an old beer. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and tossed it out.

No sign of roaches beneath the sink. No mousedoody behind the plastic trash can.

“Scout!” he called up the stairs.

She didn’t answer.

“Honey, I’m going to run down to KramerBooks for a sec. Can I pick up anything?”

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