The Burning Time by J. G. Faherty Read Free Book Online

it, Sally headed south on Birch, paralleling Main Street. Her breath came in hard gasps but she continued on, imagining Damon waiting by the steel railing, perhaps already impatient.
    Perhaps thinking she wasn’t coming.
    She forced her legs to move even faster. Her lungs burned and sweat ran from her forehead. Her nightshirt stuck to her chest, outlining the contours of her breasts. When she reached the Johnson’s farm, she cut across the field, pushing her way through the rows of half-grown feed corn.
    Five minutes later, she burst from the stalks, struggling to breathe. Colored motes danced in her vision.
    “I’m coming,” she tried to call out, but the words were little more than a croak. On trembling legs, she staggered to the embankment and up the hill. When she reached the top, she didn’t waste time wiping the sweat from her body or the blood from her broken fingernails. She crossed the road and climbed the divider on the side of the bridge overlooking the Alleghany River.
    “Damon? Where are you?” Was she too late? She looked up and down the road, but only empty darkness waited, broken at periodic intervals by the greenish glow of the street lamps.
    Look down, Sally.
    She did, and her heart skipped a beat. There he was, his arms open wide, as if to hug her.
    Or welcome her.
    Go to him. He’s waiting.
    “Damon,” she whispered and leaped from the bridge. His image smiled, and she felt herself smiling in return. Then her expression turned to horror as the face below her morphed into an obscene parody of Damon’s all-American good looks. The skin fell away, revealing the bloody skull beneath. Instead of a tongue, a black snake with glowing red eyes wriggled and curled between yellow, aged teeth.
    Sally opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. She hit the water face-first, crashing right through the dead-Damon’s chest. As rubbery, impossibly-strong tentacles encircled her body, and her lungs filled with cold, muddy water, she heard the voice in her head one last time.
    Laughing.
     

 
Chapter 8
    The following morning brought no relief for John. Still distracted by the events of the previous afternoon, the stifling heat pounded at him as he made his way across town to the Anderson’s house. He arrived, sweaty and enervated, at eight, just as Danni and Mitch were leaving.
    “There’s cold water and ice tea in the fridge,” Danni said. “Make sure you stop and rest. The last thing I need is to have you pass out from dehydration or heat stroke while I’m gone.” She smiled to take the sting from her words. “Besides, I’m not sure my insurance would cover it.”
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m going to work on the porch today, so I’ll be in the shade.”
    “All right. Mitch will be home at noon, and he can fix lunch for you both.”
    John waved as the car pulled away and then laid out the tools he’d need. In the past week, he’d already replaced the kitchen linoleum and patched the holes and cracks in the sheetrock throughout the entire house. Over the years, he’d found he had a real knack for carpentry, enough so that the projects at the Anderson’s were moving along fast and easy.
    After measuring the porch and determining the plank lengths he’d need, he removed his jacket and shirt and began sawing. He’d thought the manual labor would add to his malaise, but instead, he found it almost rejuvenating, as if each motion of the saw built up the charge inside his emotional and physical batteries. By the time he finished cutting the sections of wood, sweat was pouring off him, the rivulets cutting miniature canyons through the sawdust coating his arms and chest. But instead of exhaustion, he felt better than he had in days.
    Nothing cures the blues like hard work. His father had always said that whenever John had gotten into a mood. Back then, John had figured the hard work made you too tired to think about being depressed, but now he wondered if there might not be more to