Tiny Terrors (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 8) by Scott Langrel

Author:Scott Langrel [Langrel, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2017-12-18T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Eddie Simpson had the shakes, and it was only partly because his body was currently in the process of detoxing itself. He rose from his raggedy recliner, walked over to the window, and carefully peeked out between the dusty slats of the lowered blind. Outside, nothing moved. Just as nothing had moved the previous dozen or so times he’d checked within the last half hour.

Trying to steady himself, he returned to his seat and turned his attention to the television. He usually enjoyed the sitcom which was currently airing, but tonight, he couldn’t concentrate on it. The laugh track sounded canned and phony, and the jokes and dialogue—usually hilarious—seemed stale and contrived. Eddie glanced again at the window, but forced himself to remain seated.

He tried telling himself he was just being paranoid, but a part of him knew better. Too many things had happened over the past couple of days. It couldn’t be coincidence. Somebody knew.

Eddie scratched absently at the sling holding his right arm. It itched like a bastard, but he supposed he’d gotten off easy. The bearded gorilla who’d done this to him had to be the one who’d taken out Mikey and Dustin. Somehow, the bearded man had discovered their secret. Eddie didn’t know how that was possible. He certainly hadn’t said anything, not even when the lumberjack had broken his arm like a twig. Eddie had screamed, and Eddie had cried, but he hadn’t talked. That left only Dustin, Mikey, and Walt, and he couldn’t very well ask the first two if they’d said anything. Even worse, he hadn’t talked to Walt for days. For all Eddie knew, Walt was busy decomposing in a ditch somewhere.

When Eddie had heard about Dustin, he’d become concerned. When he’d found out about Mikey, he’d flipped out. He hadn’t had anything more than a puff of pot in twenty-four hours, mostly because he was afraid the cops might come snooping around, but also because he didn’t want to be uselessly high if the bearded man showed up.

He looked at the loaded .45 on the table beside the recliner. It was no doubt stolen; he’d taken it as partial payment for an eight ball of meth several months ago. He knew enough about the gun to load it and fire it, but if the shit hit the proverbial fan, he’d have to shoot with his left hand. Which sucked, since he was right-handed. But he would have to make do. He wasn’t about to go up against that giant psycho unarmed.

Eddie suddenly grabbed the remote and muted the sound coming from the television. Had that been a noise coming from outside? He listened for several long moments, his breath caught in his chest, but heard nothing more. Slowly, he exhaled and sat the remote on the table beside the gun. He didn’t bother turning the sound back on; the show was doing nothing to take his mind off his troubles, anyway. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. This sobriety thing just wasn’t working out for him.

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