Native Fear by C. F. Page

Author:C. F. Page [Page, C. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-29T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

LONG WAY HOME

Phil?”

Olly blinked.

Phil grimaced, reached for the tear in his white shirt where all the blood had originated from, apparently trying to stop the bleeding.

“For God’s sake, stop lying there and let’s get out of here. You still have my keys?”

Olly nodded. But Phil was still looking at the thing in the corner of the room, seemingly unfazed.

“I said, do you have the Goddamn keys?”

Olly checked his sweatpants pocket. He felt the keyring with the key fob, the Sam’s Club rewards card, and the garage and house key. This time Olly squeezed out a verbal response.

“Then let’s get the fuck outta here.”

As Olly followed Phil out of the bedroom and through the nursery, he thought he heard a cell phone ringing moments before Phil kicked in the locked kitchen door. Making their way through the kitchen, Phil said, “That woman drugged you up. Put you in a trance of some sort. She was going to feed you to that thing in there. Good thing I came when I did—hey, how do we get to the garage?”

Exiting the kitchen through the open pocket door, Olly nodded to the door left of the fireplace.

He followed his stepdad, wondering how he was still alive . . . let alone walking.

And how could Emma have drugged him so completely that he thought he was with Ms. Thawlen? Of course, like waking up from a dream, he realized now that the details were all off. The changing seasons; the office décor; and the fact that Ms. Thawlen looked exactly like Emma Elkhourne—all those things should have been red flags.

They cut through the mudroom, walking slow and cautious. A dim light had been left on and Olly once again noticed three cardboard boxes

(craig harris

tom spaulding

lucy spaulding)

stacked against one corner of the wall, and then realized there was a fourth one set on top of the others. Written with a thick marker was no name #8 (2017), which naturally made him wonder about one through seven. And if survival (among other things, such as coping with the bizarre reality of Phil being at the Elkhourne Ranch) wasn’t on his mind, he would have thought more critically about this fourth box—and its implications.

Phil’s black Ford F-150 sat in a hazy batch of white-yellow light from the fluorescent panels above from which a low buzz came like there was a colony of insects trapped inside. Once again Olly thought he heard a cell phone going off somewhere behind him. It seemed louder this time but that might have been the buzzing, too.

Phil stopped and swatted something to his right. Following the trajectory of his hand with tired, strained eyes, Olly watched Phil’s thumb slide off the glowing orange button next to the light switch. Olly’s eyes shifted from thumb to wrist, but his mind was too dull and exhausted to discern what should have been an obvious red flag.

The garage door yawned open.

Phil rushed down the six or seven stairs, and Olly, a reluctant shadow, followed him.

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