Little Secrets (30 page)

Then they went up.

And they didn't come back down.

Chapter Forty-Five

Ginny rocked.

Asher, warm and clean, sucked sporadically at one breast, rosebud mouth going periodically lax. Ginny smoothed her hand over the baby's soft, downy hair. She sang him a lullaby, soothing her son to sleep. In the next room, her husband slept too.

In another house, another place, Caroline Miller and her children were also warm and fed and safe. But did they sleep? Did they dream? Ginny didn't know. The police and Social Services and Brendan Miller and lawyers and the media had all taken their pieces of Caroline and the children from the basement. Ginny had visited them in the hospital just once, right after they were found, and then only because she and Asher had been admitted as well.

She and Sean had managed, so far, to keep the reporters camped out in front of the house from bothering them too much; she supposed at some point they'd have to talk to them, or they would all give up and go away. They bothered Sean more than they did her, if only because Ginny clung to the idea that somehow sharing what happened might help Caroline and her family more than keeping all of it as yet one more secret.

Ginny was tired of secrets.

In her arms, Asher stirred and let out one small cry, then fell further into sleep. Ginny rocked, her eyes closed, smiling at the sound of Noodles's collar jingling as the cat padded into the library and jumped onto the Victorian couch where she'd taken to spending most of her time. She was still too thin, but she never got underfoot anymore, and she never ran into places she wasn't supposed to go.

Ginny rocked, dozing in the dark. There came the creep of small bare feet, the whisper of cold air swirling, the soft brush of fingertips against her own. Maybe those things would always be in this house. They'd never go away. But Ginny didn't open her eyes, because she knew it was all a dream. That was all, just a dream.

She wasn't haunted any longer.

About the Author

Megan Hart writes books. Some of them use a lot of bad words, but most of the other words are okay.

She can't live without music, the internet, or the ocean, though she and soda have achieved an amicable parting of ways. She can't stand the feeling of corduroy or velvet, and modern art leaves her cold. She writes a little bit of everything from horror to romance.

Find her at:
www.meganhart.com
,
www.twitter.com/megan_hart
, and
www.facebook.com/megan.hart!

Live fast, die young, and leave a bloodthirsty corpse!

Ghost Heart

© 2016 John Palisano

Live fast, die young, and leave a bloodthirsty corpse
.
That's the saying of a new pack of fiendish predators infesting a New England town. They're infected with the Ghost Heart, a condition that causes them to become irresistible and invincible…as long as they drink the blood of the living. But these vampires don't live forever, and as the Ghost Heart claims them, their skin loses color and their hearts turn pale. When a young mechanic is seduced by the pack's muse, he finds falling in love will break more than his heart.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Ghost Heart:

We headed outside, toward the alley behind the bar; we walked into the nice, cool drizzle. I loved the change in climate. The bar had been so hot and stuffy, so being outside was welcome. Mike hiked up the collar of his leather jacket and couldn't walk fast enough.

Once we made it around the corner I spotted the Whistleville River just beyond the bridge. I thought about how, a few miles up, on the east side of town, the Jeep in my shop had plunged over that same bridge. I imagined the bodies of the kids stuck there, tangled in the water grass, decomposing, and slowly turning into fish food. I shook off the idea––just chalked it up to collateral damage from a nice Anchor Steam buzz.

We rounded the old brick building and made our way toward the parking lot in back. Rain filtered through the street lamps, falling in curtains, shifting and moving in the crosswinds. A new spotlight lit the rain from the side. Headlights. Tires screeched a few hundred feet in front of us.

There was a Jeep.
Another damn Jeep
, I thought. It raced toward us, stopping with a hard jerk. The rainfall increased.

A window rolled down, but I couldn't see inside.

A raspy, deep voice, said, “Hey.”

“What do you need, man?” I asked. “Come on.”

“You know exactly what you did,” he said. “Disrespecting me and my girl.”

“I don't know you, man,” I said. “I think you're mistaking me for someone else.”

“So you're calling me a liar?”

I pulled my collar up. “Look, friend,” I said. “I don't have time for this. I'm drunk. I want to go home.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “You just want to go home and forget all of this.”

His door opened. It was the big, bald guy that had been next to Minarette. “Too late,” he said. “The damage is already done. Talking about me.” Two others got out of the Jeep. They looked like normal, clean-cut guys in their 20s, only there was something wrong with their expressions. I thought they had to have been high on something. Their eyes seemed so vacant.

“Like I just told you, man––I'd have no reason to. I don't even know you.”

One of the cronies said, “Come on, Damian. Get him already.” I had a name.

I looked over to Mike, who was staring at the other two guys—guys we didn't know—who'd found their way over toward him.

I got shoved. Damian. He was in my face. “What're you going to say now?”

My head got real dizzy. Too much booze. I wasn't in any kind of shape to fight.

He shoved me again. I tried to stay up, and did so barely.

A holler, and Mike was against a wall.

“Leave him alone,” I said. “This isn't his fault.”

“Well,” Damian said, “I don't care.”

He pushed me, but I stepped back.

“This is bull,” I said. “And I sure as hell ain't gonna apologize for something I didn't do.”

He swung for my face–and just barely hit my shoulder.

He was way stronger than me. I was in trouble. My shoulder thudded. There'd be a nasty bruise. The bastard.

I put up my fists while Damian hovered.

Mike was on the ground. One of the goons was on top of him. Looked like they were robbing him.

“Get off him,” I said. “You bullies. What the hell?”

His fist, my face.

Every color exploded––like I was in the middle of a mortar shell.

I tried to put up my arms to block him, but I'd been knocked for a loop.

And he hit me again.

I felt incredible pain.

I felt nothing.

My feet failed first—my legs followed.

Down for the count, the others cheered.

Everything felt like it'd turned slow motion. Reaching behind, I sat myself down. The world spun. The hit was too much for me to brush off.

Damian kicked me in the chest. My breath forced out, the hit knocked me to the pavement.

I heard more cheering, and more laughing.

My breath wouldn't catch.

Damian leaned over me. His pug-like face looked inches away, then, miles away.

He said something, but it didn't register. Everything sounded like we were inside a tunnel.

More kicks to my middle.

My body and mind were separate. There was nothing grounding me.

I turned my head to check for my friend.

The two goons were centered on his head. They'd leaned down and it looked as though they were eating him. What the hell?

They were on his neck. They held him down with their hands. The veins on the backs of their hands were puffed out, like they'd done steroids.

One lifted his head. He looked so normal, other than those vacant eyes. The ghoul could've been anyone. Blood rimmed his lips and dripped from his chin: it was Mike's blood. Our eyes met for a moment and from between the ghoul's lips a worm-like thing slipped out. The tip was pointed and sharp. It twitched just a bit and I knew it was his tongue, although it was different than any other I'd ever seen or heard of.

He lowered his head again. When he connected, Mike jerked. It seemed more like a reflex than a reaction. Mike's eyes were shut. His skin had gone pale.

They were draining him of his blood.

One of their shirts had come undone in the front in the scuffle. His chest looked so white it was almost clear. I swear I could see his insides moving...could make out the faint movement of a beating, translucent heart. A stream of red entered the chamber, blossomed, and then colored the cradle of veins surrounding the organ. Blood. Mikey's blood–drained from him and taken inside the ghost-like heart of the ghoul kneeling over him.
How could the blood get from its tongue to its own heart so damn fast?
I thought.

I tried to yell and scream, but nothing came out. I was in shock. Nothing worked. I looked up to see where Damian was. He'd walked away from me and stood a few feet away from his creeps; he watched them work. Damian's skin was the same pasty white as his consigliore.

I turned my head and every nerve inside me seemed to explode at once. Mike laid still a dozen feet from me. Rain ran from his forehead, down his cheek. Only it wasn't just rain, I noticed. A good stream of blood ran within the rain. There were unnatural gaps in his throat where they'd fed. Moon-shaped bruises marked his flesh.

Those bastards. I'd get 'em. Somehow, some way, I knew I would. They stood over him, both of them wearing goatee-shaped smears of blood. Formerly empty eyes glistened. The blood––Mike's blood––had reinvigorated them.

The sons of bitches.

Damian looked lit up from the inside. That sounds funny, because people don't glow. It's just that the rain seemed not to touch him. His skin didn't look well at all. Maybe it was because he was so pumped from the fight that he just looked that way. Who knows?

He'd won. They'd won in no time.

I considered myself a big guy, but I'd been outgunned. I was shocked at how fast Damian had taken me down. It was inhuman.

Drugs. Had to have been drugs. Maybe coke. Definitely some kind of upper. That'd explain it.

Then? One final insult–a swift kick to my balls.

The blinding pain knocked me down from space, and back inside my beaten husk.

Bile rose. I turned my head, spewing hot, half-digested beer everywhere.

“You should take a picture,” one of the goons said.

“Don't need to,” Damian said, “I won't forget this.”

Neither would I.

Damian laughed and looked down at me. “You loser,” he said. “You got something smart to say now?” He spat at me, turned, and walked away. I heard them get inside the Jeep, turn it on, and drive away.

He and his crew were gone, leaving Mike and me lying broken in the rain.

Once I could no longer hear their Jeep leave, I pulled myself up. Everything hurt and stung. My wet clothes clung to me. I crawled over toward Mike.

Nudged him.

Got nothing.

Kept pushing, tapping, and calling his name.

No response.

I used my thumb to try and open an eye.

No reaction.

I checked for a pulse.

Found one, but it was faint.

The skin of his wrist was cold.

I tried CPR, but never really learned how, so it was for naught.

Reaching inside my coat pocket, I found my phone in pieces. One of Damian's kicks must've smashed it. Still, I tried to turn it on. Just in case I could make one more call. No dice.

I screamed at Mike.

A few folks had made their way over, probably after hearing my yelling. I hollered for them to call an ambulance, and the cops. They didn't have to, though. Blue and red lights arrived moments later, just as the rain let up. I got myself to a bench, and sat.

When I finally got my head on straight, I watched as the EMTs put my friend on a stretcher. They rushed, going as fast as they could. Mike was in big trouble.

So was I.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

Little Secrets

Copyright © 2016 by Megan Hart

ISBN: 978-1-61923-087-3

Edited by Don D'Auria

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: February 2016

www.samhainpublishing.com