The Haunting of Leigh Harker by Darcy Coates

Author:Darcy Coates [Coates, Darcy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-06T16:00:00+00:00

14

Ill Omens

The gate’s alarm rises like a dying animal, fading into a sky smattered in violent reds and sickly golds. Clouds hang thick above my house like an ill omen, soaking the sunset into their depths, chilling the air prematurely.

As the gate closes behind me, I pull my jacket tighter. Wind has sprung up, snapping, and the lawn is showing frost damage. As I follow the cracked stone path toward the door, I cannot help but look toward the living room window. The curtains are open. A lamp inside infuses warm color into the glass.

Of course. Sarah is inside. I’m not coming home from work. I stop, only halfway through the yard, and wait for the mental disconnect to subside. This habit—this mental routine—may be the only thing tethering me to the world. Sarah believes I have unfinished business. But I don’t feel as though I do. I want to provide answers for my sister. I want to know what happened to me, even if the truth isn’t pleasant. But those thoughts, although present in the back of my mind, are not driving me. Pure dumb habit is.

A bitter smile curls my mouth. The wind is growing colder. I shake the jacket up, unfurling the collar around my throat, and move forward.

The golden light in the living room windows draws my eye again. I picture a man standing in the yard, knee deep in the plants, leaning against the glass, hands pressed to either side of his head as he looks inside. Shudders rattle me.

Sarah has spoken to him. The thought comes abruptly, ringing with truth before I can even question it. She spoke to him a second time, even after I told her not to. Begged her not to.

The proof is at the front door. A pair of shoes are lined up on the mat. Men’s loafers, an unassuming brown shade.

Fear sticks to my tongue, to the back of my throat, thickening in my stomach. I break into a run. Hit the door hard. It’s unlocked; it bursts open, slamming into the doorstopper. Then I’m inside, wild and breathless, clutching the leather straps of my bag.

Two figures sit in the living room. One is very familiar—Sarah, underneath my quilt, her long gray hair braided and hanging over her shoulder. She wears a shawl across her shoulders to ward off the chill that has invaded even my home. Her eyes, circles of flashing light, turn on me as I enter.

The second figure has his back to me. He is still familiar. Horribly so. Cliff’s sandy hair has a peculiar cut, too long to match the decade, not quite long enough to be a relic from the eighties. It’s parted down one side and the strands sway over one another whenever he moves his head.

He turns, slowly, toward me, and I cannot breathe. He would have looked thirty if his skin hadn’t aged so prematurely. It’s pocked and creased, thickened from being in the sun, drooping slightly around the jowls and throat.

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