Vanish by Tom Pawlik Page B

Whatever these voices were, somehow she knew they weren’t friendly. They weren’t trying to help.
    Then she turned and caught a glimpse of movement across the street. A shadow slipped into a doorway and out of view. Her heart jumped. Was that Kyle? She peered at the doorway. Why would Kyle try to hide from her?
    Another voice whispered behind her.
    Helen’s eyes widened. She wasn’t alone. And something told her she wasn’t safe.
    She jumped back in the Tahoe and started it up. A moment later, tires squealed on the pavement as she tore off, east onto Ohio Street.
    Helen drove for several blocks, glancing in her mirror but catching no sign of anyone following her. She wasn’t even sure what she had seen or heard. Maybe she was imagining things. But still, she thought she had better err on the side of caution. She had no idea who—if anyone—was out there. Who were they and what did they want? And why were they watching her?
    She shook her head. In a matter of seconds, she had gone from desperately trying to be found to just wanting to hide. She drove another few blocks before feeling safe enough to slow down. Spotting a convenience store, she screeched to a stop.
    She suddenly felt vulnerable. She needed a weapon. She needed a gun. Something to protect herself.
    Helen ran inside the store. These places usually kept a gun by the register. She slipped behind the counter and rummaged through the shelves. Far back in the shelf beneath the register, she spotted the rubber grip of a handgun. She reached in; her fingers closed around it.…
    Then something hard pressed against the back of her head.
    “Don’t move.”
     
     
     

Chapter 12
     
     
    MITCH CRACKED OPEN the door to his father’s bedroom. His heart pounded. His mouth had gone dry, yet his hands were damp with perspiration. He switched his grip on the gun and dried off his palm on his pant leg.
    He pushed the door open further. A musty warmth brushed against his face and with it came a pungent scent. Bile and rot. Mitch winced. The curtains were drawn, and though he could not see anything in the muted light, he did hear something: a gentle, intermittent rattling. Soft but steady.
    His eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting enough to make out the shape of the bed against the far wall. Then he heard a rustle of linen.
    Something stirred beneath the quilt.
    A chill ran down Mitch’s spine and he froze. The rattling he heard was the sound of breathing. Labored and gargled.
    Mitch stood in the doorway, unable to move. After a moment, he gathered the courage to whisper, “Dad?”
    The wheezing continued unabated. Mitch swallowed and took a step into the room.
    “Dad? Is that you?” he whispered louder. “It’s me. It… it’s Mitch.”
    The quilt moved slightly, but the breathing did not alter.
    The stench grew stronger as Mitch moved into the room, and he found himself fighting back a gag reflex. He covered his nose and mouth.
    Something inside him urged him to leave. To get out of this house. But there seemed to be another force compelling him forward.
    Mitch moved around to the side of the bed and tugged the quilt down.
    His eyes grew wide. “No!”
    He stumbled backward against the wall.
    It was a woman’s face, gaunt and sunken—little more than a skull covered with a veil of pallid skin, mottled by lesions. Her eyes were open wide in an unfixed gaze. Dark circles ringed her sockets. All that was left of her strawberry blonde hair hung in frail wisps on her scalp. Her breathing came in gargled rasps from the fluid in her lungs.
    “Mom?” Mitch’s horror slowly turned to rage. He pointed the gun at her face. “No,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re not real!”
    The woman’s gaze slowly turned and fixed on Mitch. Her cracked lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth. She reached a withered hand out toward him. Her breathing grew more labored as she opened her mouth as if to speak. The fluid in her lungs rattled like a rake across