The Lost: Book Two, The Eddie McCloskey Series (The Unearthed 2) (31 page)

Anso
n
cursed his luck. The first time in a couple weeks—not not three months like Alice thought—he’d decided to bark at the moon with the fellas at the watering hole and the spirit had decided to drop by tonight of all nights. Disinhibited by the booze, he’d reached out to Alice and she’d responded. Maybe she still did care for him. But then the ghost. Its visits had been driving them apart, Alice terrified and questioning her own sanity.

“Where is it, Alice?”

But Alice was off in Wonderland. He had no idea what she was doing. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her body tensed. Hands fisted. At first he thought she was praying but then he took a second look at her.

“Alice, honey …”

Her mouth moved but no words came out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. Through the shirt, her skin was icy. The cold made him jump.

“The hell?”

Alice’s eyelids opened and revealed only milky whiteness.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Anson grabbed her, afraid she was going to faint, but Alice stayed vertical. Her body was as hard and cold as a block of ice. He shook her because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Alice, honey!”

Suddenly her eyes rolled back down like sevens on a slot machine and her knees buckled. She collapsed against him, still icy cold like she’d spent ten minutes locked in a freezer.

“Anson …” Her voice was groggy, faraway. “She’s here.”

Anson got a better grip on his wife and propped her up. “You okay, honey?”

“Anson …”

Anson didn’t like the way his wife looked. Her skin was flushed, she looked about to lose consciousness, and she was unnaturally cold. Was it possible to get spontaneous hypothermia? Anson didn’t think so but he was no doctor.

“Okay, honey, we need to call the ambu—”

Something pushed him from behind. Anson toppled forward and he lost hold of his wife. She spilled onto the floor, almost as lifeless as a corpse.

Anson fell into the kitchen counter, sent the dishes flying. They hit the floor and shattered.

Anson wheeled around, fists ready. Somebody had pushed him. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t know how, but whoever it was the son of a bitch was going to get it.

But there was no one there.

Anson checked the floor where he’d been standing but it was clear. He hadn’t tripped on anything.

On the floor, Alice started moving. He kneeled, gripped her arm. “Slow down, honey. Just stay like that a moment.”

Her eyes were clenched shut and she gripped her stomach like she was about to vomit and she moaned.

Something knocked into Anson’s shoulder and he fell away from his wife. Okay, this time he knew he’d been pushed.

But there was no one or no thing in the room with them.

A chill ran down Anson’s spine. There was nobody else in the house. But that left one explanation, and that explanation terrified him.

The spirit had pushed him.

Alice was right. It was becoming more aggressive.

His wife opened her eyes and the color returned to her face. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Honey, I think it’s—”

Another shove. Anson slipped, kept his balance, then got pushed again. His ass hit the handle on the cupboard.

Another shove, this time from the side. He almost cartwheeled into the kitchen table. His wife screaming. Him yelling.

He was flung off the kitchen table through the threshold. Landed in the living room. The blows weren’t that powerful. If he could see where they were coming from he could have easily braced for them but he was fighting blind.

Then the invisible hand got stronger.

It forced him backwards. The back of his legs hit the couch and he flipped. His feet crashed into the coffee table as he fell off the couch.

“Anson!”

His wife hurrying into the room. Despite how lousy he’d been to her, she was rushing to help him. Her love shamed him. He didn’t deserve it. Like all the men she’d ever given herself to, he’d been a no-good son of a bitch.

But that would stop. From now on, he’d be the man she deserved. No more drinking. No more anger. No more intimidating her. He could be better than all that. He could listen. He could provide. He could be a better man. He just had to try.

“Anson, are you okay?”

“Honey, I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes. “Hold on.”

“What are you doing?”

Alice didn’t answer. Her mouth started flapping again. Her eyes became white slits. Her skin translucent.

Anson felt a pressure on his arm, like the spirit was trying to pick him up. He readied for the next blow but it never came. The pressure on his arm suddenly gone. He looked to his wife.

Alice’s eyes fluttered, like they were trying to unroll. Her arm was cold to the touch again but he held fast.

“Alice, honey, I love you. Alice …”

Her eyes unrolled and she looked at him like she didn’t know him.

“Alice?”

He cupped her shoulders.

“Honey, are you okay?”

Alice’s mouth slid open and issued an unintelligible,
inhuman
sound.

“Alice!”

When she spoke it was with a voice not her own. “It’s. Not. Me.”

Anson felt a chilly breath on the nape of his neck and he didn’t know if it was the spirit or his own body working against him. His wife rose on unsteady legs and swayed back and forth.

Anson pushed off the couch and got to his feet.

“Not me,” his wife said.

“Honey …”

“NOT ME!”

Alice screamed like a banshee and flung herself away from him. She stutter-stepped back into the sliding door. The glass spider-webbed.

“Alice!”

She doubled over and gasped like someone had slammed her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her.

Anson ran to his wife, but he was stopped by a shot to his jaw. The blow rang his bell but he managed to stay on his feet.

“Anson, I think it’s—” she started to say.

Alice was thrown violently and knocked the flat screen TV over. She got to her feet and screamed at him to run and was tripped by some invisible foot. She face-planted in the carpet and then her head snapped up like someone had grabbed her by the hair.

Anson raced to his wife, but then the invisible hand thumped him in the chest and he went down. But it was distraction enough for Alice. She got up and took off for the front door.

Anson didn’t know what else to do. He had his cell phone in his pocket. The reception in his house was awful. He prayed the cell would work as he frantically dialed 911.

Before he could say anything, the phone was knocked out of his hand and went under the sofa.

Gre
g
Tolliff had been working the 911 dispatch for three months. In his short time riding the line, the most bizarre call he’d gotten was from a man who’d accidentally driven a nail through his nuts, and the most terrifying call had been from a mother, sick with worry, about her seven-year-old who’d just ingested half a bottle of sleeping medication.

But the call he took that night was more bizarre and terrifying than those two combined.

“911 Dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“... help … stop, stop ...”

The woman wasn’t near the phone but Tolliff heard the raw fear in her voice. He perked up in his seat. This one sounded interesting.

“Ma’am, what is your name and phone number?”

The enhanced 911 system provided Tolliff with a phone number, name, and corresponding address, but Tolliff was following SOP in independently verifying this information. Though glitches were rare, sending EMS and local LE to the wrong place helped no one. LE especially didn’t like walking into a scene they didn’t understand. Some nutters were just waiting for the cops to show up so they could suicide-by-police.

“Stop …” 

“Ma’am, are you there? Ma’am?”

“Anson … noooo!”

“Ma’am? Are you there?”

The line was still active, but there was no answer. In the background, Tolliff heard a crash and more screaming.

Tolliff connected to EMS and LE. “Unknown possible medical emergency. 225 Watoga, Cumberland. The nearest intersection is one mile away at Browning Road and Rural Route 57. Repeat, unknown medical emergency. 225 Watoga …”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

BELLULIS MEIS SEMPER

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Evan Ronan's stories don't always fit neatly into one genre. He reads widely and tries to write as widely. His paranormal thriller series,
The Unearthed
, features his favorite protagonist, Eddie McCloskey, a man who's constantly underestimated and always finds a way to beat the odds through a little hustle, a little brains, and a lot of hard work.

Evan also writes in the YA, historical fiction, sci-fi and mystery genres. He lives with his family in New Jersey, in the same town Eddie McCloskey grew up in.

For more information, visit his website:
www.ronaniswriting.blogspot.com
.

ALSO BY EVAN RONAN

THE UNEARTHED SERIES

The Unearthed

The Lost

The Accused and the Damned

The Hysteria

The Traveler

The Dream Machine (in the works)

The Missing (in the works)

#8 (in the works)

TOMAHAWK AND SABER SERIES WITH NATHANAEL GREEN

Language of the Bear

Through the Narrows

#3 (in the works)

SHORT STORIES

Morale Was Down

Effective Immediately

Not Safe For Work (coming soon)

In The Blood

In The Blood #2

In The Blood #3

In The Blood #4

Frontier Justice

Harm

OTHER BOOKS COMING SOON

Undo (YA / sci-fi)

OtherWorld (middle grade fantasy)

The Eighth Man (sci-fi noir)

THE LOST.
Copyright 2014 by Evan Ronan. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: October, 2014