DarkWalker Read Free Page A

without a trace.
    7.
     
    The room was typical of cheap motels: springy bed, mold in the shower stall, a 20-inch television that got HBO and ESPN. Pale beige carpeting, heavy brown drapes, a musty odor that outright refused to be vanquished despite the three scented candles Jack had scattered about the room. He’d bought those specifically because of the odor, eight bucks that could’ve been two meals.
    The bed was more comfortable than sleeping in the car, which he sometimes did. He usually slept dreamlessly, but he also rarely went to bed before four.
    Midnight
came and went without incident.
    Half an hour later, still trying to get comfortable, Jack heard voices outside his room.
    Jack Harlow had heard a lot of voices. They didn’t always belong to people, living or dead; some seemed to be entities onto themselves, repeating phrases but not engaging a conversation. The whole “The Devil made me do it” syndrome could often be blamed on mental instability or outright insanity, but sometimes there were voices saying “Kill your neighbor’s dog” or “Go to the kitchen and get the butcher’s knife.”
    Jack didn’t trust voices. He didn’t listen to them. He sure as Hell didn’t question them.
    These voices probably belonged to regular, everyday people stumbling back to their motel room. There were two distinct males, one other that might’ve been female. Their whispers carried weight, pushing through the walls and into Jack’s ears. The words were unimportant.
    But they echoed, in a way words weren’t supposed to echo. As if caught within a bubble, bouncing back and forth, doubling and trebling over themselves so that, quite quickly, the words were unintelligible.
    Red numbers on the clock:
12:38
.
    Jack turned over to look at the ghost sitting on the side of his bed.
    “Thought you were asleep,” the ghost said.
    “Not that lucky.”
    She was barely visible, a wisp on the air, facing away from Jack. Hands to either side, on the bed, bent at the elbows. She leaned forward, as if about to push herself to her feet.
    “And I can’t really scare you any, can I?” she asked. “Not like a regular person.”
    “Guess not,” Jack said.
    “Do you know the way out? To the light, I mean. I hear about it, and I’m told I should go there, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. I always thought, when I died, I’d be able to see again.” She paused. “Can’t.”
    “Don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe it’s warm?”
    “You’re warm,” she said. “But I see what you mean. Well, not really see .” She forced a little laugh.
    She sounded young, not as annoying as the ghost in the bar. No notes of sadness or desperation tinged her voice, just acceptance. He felt sorry for her.
    “You died here?” Jack asked.
    “In this very bed.”
    Jack sighed, and unconsciously shifted.
    “It didn’t hurt,” she said. “Not really. It was just a little . . . surprising.”
    “I can’t help you,” Jack told her.
    The voices outside were gone. They’d rebounded within the ghost. Now, silence echoed within her. The distant night sounds from outside were too muted to have resilience.
    “I’ll go into the warmth. Like you said.” Then she faded, slowly, into nothingness.
     

CHAPTER TWO
     
    1.
     
    By day, Lisa Sparrow worked in an office in Winter Park . Through her window, she had an obscured view of the interstate, so she could judge the flow of traffic and opt for back roads to get home.
    It was a good job, in that it never came home, rarely required overtime, and paid well. She took late lunches so the second half of the day was almost over before it began. She worked at a computer most of the time, editing reports, changing the same words and adding the same commas daily. The reports changed, but the mistakes never did.
    They gave her time off when she needed it. She was never alone in the office. She played CDs at her desk, low so no one else really heard them. She had an actual office, not a