The door swung open.
Before he touched it.
Gabriel backed away from the door so rapidly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. He moved all the way to the other side of the bathroom, the small of his back mashed against the hard edge of the vanity.
He stared at the half-open door. He tried to detect movement on the other side, a shifting shadow, anything. But he saw nothing.
"Who's there?" he asked. His voice crackled.
He heard only his shallow breaths, and his racing heartbeat. No intruder's footstep. He felt alone in the house, too.
So how had the door opened?
His hands, clenched in fists at his sides, began to tingle.
He studied his fingers. They looked normal, but it felt as though cool sparks danced across his skin-the same curious sensation that had occurred last night.
What was going on?
As he contemplated the question, the tingling subsided.
Gabriel wiped his hands on his pants and returned his attention to the doorway. He stepped forward and looked behind the door. There was no one there, of course.
A breath of wind whispered inside the room and teased the curtains.
"The wind did it," he said.
But he didn't really believe it; it was a woefully inadequate theory, the equivalent of slapping a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. The wind could not have twisted the knob like a corporeal being and opened the door.
That left him with only two possible explanations.
The first: his house was haunted. He thought that was as likely as the theory that the world was flat. He was a man of reason and logic. He didn't believe in ghosts, hauntings, any of that superstitious nonsense.
So that left him with the second, and far more disturbing and plausible, possibility: he had hallucinated the whole thing, which meant he was losing his mind.
Chapter 7
nn Tuesday, Isaiah performed reconnaissance. I
JHe'd arrived in metro Atlanta late last night. After checking into a Days Inn located off 1-75 in Marietta, he was asleep within three minutes of hitting the mattress.
Nightmares tormented him. Dreams of gunfire, death, and eternal darkness. Fearsome visions plagued his sleep every night, and though they visited him daily, they were no less terrifying. It was the price he paid for his history of violence; he'd suffered such dreams since he was a teenager.
As he showered, he ignored the scar tissue on his chest. The mark of the bullet that had nearly stolen his life.
Dressing in jeans, a black T-shirt, and Timberlands, Isaiah kept his attention on a photograph he'd placed on the nightstand: a snapshot of his mother and father, smiling as they dined at a Japanese restaurant in Chicago, so many years ago.
It was the only keepsake he'd taken from Mama's house after she was murdered.
Isaiah took the photo with him as he left the hotel. He kept the picture on his person at all times. To make sure that he always remembered his promise.
No matter what ...
He took 1-75 South into the heart of Atlanta. He wanted to take in the skyline of this so-called City Too Busy To Hate, this monument to the New South-and his new home.
Skyscrapers jutted into the hazy morning sky like giant blunt knives, sunlight coruscating along their edges. Gigantic billboards flashed enticements for air travel, lotteries, and Braves games. Opiates for the masses.
But at road level, highways 1-75 and 1-85 merged, creating an ugly traffic snarl. Drivers chatted on cell phones, weaving in and out of their correct lanes. Others cut off one another with impunity and switched lanes with reckless abandon, not bothering to use turn signals. A soccer mom in a Honda Odyssey swerved in front of Isaiah, nearly clipping his bumper, and when he tapped his horn to alert her of what she'd done, she shot her hand out the window and gave him the finger.
Isaiah cursed under his breath. These people had lost their damn minds.
He was thankful when he inched out of the clogged traffic and made it to the exit ramp for 1-20, which would take him to southwest
Before he touched it.
Gabriel backed away from the door so rapidly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. He moved all the way to the other side of the bathroom, the small of his back mashed against the hard edge of the vanity.
He stared at the half-open door. He tried to detect movement on the other side, a shifting shadow, anything. But he saw nothing.
"Who's there?" he asked. His voice crackled.
He heard only his shallow breaths, and his racing heartbeat. No intruder's footstep. He felt alone in the house, too.
So how had the door opened?
His hands, clenched in fists at his sides, began to tingle.
He studied his fingers. They looked normal, but it felt as though cool sparks danced across his skin-the same curious sensation that had occurred last night.
What was going on?
As he contemplated the question, the tingling subsided.
Gabriel wiped his hands on his pants and returned his attention to the doorway. He stepped forward and looked behind the door. There was no one there, of course.
A breath of wind whispered inside the room and teased the curtains.
"The wind did it," he said.
But he didn't really believe it; it was a woefully inadequate theory, the equivalent of slapping a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. The wind could not have twisted the knob like a corporeal being and opened the door.
That left him with only two possible explanations.
The first: his house was haunted. He thought that was as likely as the theory that the world was flat. He was a man of reason and logic. He didn't believe in ghosts, hauntings, any of that superstitious nonsense.
So that left him with the second, and far more disturbing and plausible, possibility: he had hallucinated the whole thing, which meant he was losing his mind.
Chapter 7
nn Tuesday, Isaiah performed reconnaissance. I
JHe'd arrived in metro Atlanta late last night. After checking into a Days Inn located off 1-75 in Marietta, he was asleep within three minutes of hitting the mattress.
Nightmares tormented him. Dreams of gunfire, death, and eternal darkness. Fearsome visions plagued his sleep every night, and though they visited him daily, they were no less terrifying. It was the price he paid for his history of violence; he'd suffered such dreams since he was a teenager.
As he showered, he ignored the scar tissue on his chest. The mark of the bullet that had nearly stolen his life.
Dressing in jeans, a black T-shirt, and Timberlands, Isaiah kept his attention on a photograph he'd placed on the nightstand: a snapshot of his mother and father, smiling as they dined at a Japanese restaurant in Chicago, so many years ago.
It was the only keepsake he'd taken from Mama's house after she was murdered.
Isaiah took the photo with him as he left the hotel. He kept the picture on his person at all times. To make sure that he always remembered his promise.
No matter what ...
He took 1-75 South into the heart of Atlanta. He wanted to take in the skyline of this so-called City Too Busy To Hate, this monument to the New South-and his new home.
Skyscrapers jutted into the hazy morning sky like giant blunt knives, sunlight coruscating along their edges. Gigantic billboards flashed enticements for air travel, lotteries, and Braves games. Opiates for the masses.
But at road level, highways 1-75 and 1-85 merged, creating an ugly traffic snarl. Drivers chatted on cell phones, weaving in and out of their correct lanes. Others cut off one another with impunity and switched lanes with reckless abandon, not bothering to use turn signals. A soccer mom in a Honda Odyssey swerved in front of Isaiah, nearly clipping his bumper, and when he tapped his horn to alert her of what she'd done, she shot her hand out the window and gave him the finger.
Isaiah cursed under his breath. These people had lost their damn minds.
He was thankful when he inched out of the clogged traffic and made it to the exit ramp for 1-20, which would take him to southwest
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