By Rick Hautala
Cindy Toland is familiar with that her sister's violent dying used to be no twist of fate. She understands her abusive brother-in-law too well... is aware the darkish, brutal issues he's able to doing. That's why she took her niece and nephew away into the night—away from a deadly and twisted insanity known as home.
But ten-year-old Billy and his child sister Krissy be aware of anything their Aunt Cindy doesn't. It's concerning the blue girl who comes past due at evening and whispers unusual issues. Billy and Krissy aren't terrified of the girl. although she lives past the grave. yet there's whatever else in the market. anything even more terrifying. It's daddy. And he's coming to get them.
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I slipped my gun away, and tore the sheets off the bed. I caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror. In the eerie red light, I looked like some terrified clown in Hell. I knotted together the sheets and a blanket, then kicked the window out. Above me, I could see the fake Arab minaret hanging drunkenly over the street. It was about fifteen feet above me, but its wooden supports looked inviting. A quick climb up onto the roof, and down the fire escape. Easy. The dead men were silent, and the heat of the flames was growing intense accelerated by the tough old flesh and ratty clothing.
But as usual, Tommy was running at a fair intoxicated clip already and I had to be sober enough to handle the interview with the lawyer. I had an impulse to knock another one back anyway, resisted it for a second and then gave in. That's the way of it. I'm not back in a body for five minutes and I'm all impulses. I could argue that the booze kept my host sedated wherever he lurked at the back of his mind. But the truth was: I became addicted to sensation at the first itch. "Elmo," I said, pleased with the sound, pleased with the sight of the dead man--even pleased with the bite of the fiery hemorrhoid that dictated terms to Tommy's nether regions.
M. and I guess I was dreaming, because I thought I heard a baby crying. I was up, so I decided to go to the washroom. I went--the washroom adjoins the bedroom--and when I was through I heard the sound of a door opening and closing. "There must have been another blackout because I tried to turn on the overhead light. When nothing happened, I felt around on the bed and found my therapist. She was in a deep sleep--we'd shared a bottle of gin earlier, so I grabbed a candle from the nightstand--lit it--and walked out into the living room.
Ghost Light by Rick Hautala