The Eighth Witch by Maynard Sims Read Free Book Online Page B

skin on his face that wasn’t cut, grazed or bruised. Thankfully they couldn’t see the rest of Norton’s body, but Ellis’s description of the state the professor was in when he found him painted its own vivid image in their minds.
    Lacey and Sparks followed them into the room and shuffled around the wall so they had a clear vantage point. Dr. Jhadav crossed to the vital signs machine and checked the monitor. When he turned away from it he appeared satisfied. “Perhaps you would like to talk to him, to let him know you’re here,” he said to Annie.
    Annie nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.”
    Carter pulled a green tubular steel chair across to the bedside and gestured for her to sit. She was hesitant.  
    “Give it your best shot, Annie,” Carter said.
    “But I hardly knew him. It should be Holly speaking to him, not me.”
    “Try anyway.”
    Annie settled at the bedside but seemed uncertain what to do or say.
    Jhadav smiled at her. “You can hold his hand if you like. It’s one of the few parts of him that isn’t bruised or broken.”
    Annie took Norton’s hand in hers and squeezed it very gently, scared it might crumble to dust if she gripped too hard. “Henry,” she croaked. Her mouth and throat were impossibly dry. There was a water jug on the stand at the side of the bed. She poured herself a glass and sipped it before trying again. “Henry, it’s me, Annie.”
    Jhadav made a carry on motion with his hand when she fell silent again.
    “Henry, can you hear me?”
    Norton lay motionless. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest, helped by a ventilator that was pumping air into his lungs by a tube inserted into a hole in his throat.
    “Henry?” she tried again. “Oh, this is useless. He can’t hear me.”
    “Here, let me try,” Carter said.
    He helped Annie from the chair and handed her a tissue to dry her eyes. He took her place and picked up Norton’s limp, clammy hand and nestled it in both of his.
    He started to speak. A soft, toneless monologue. After a few moments he closed his eyes. His words continued in a steady flow but he was no longer aware of them, even if they made any sense or not. They were coming from one part of his brain, but another part was communing with the figure on the bed, communicating with him on a much deeper level.
    Images started to flow into his mind, sketchy and unclear at first but gradually becoming clearer, more vivid. Overriding the images was something else. An emotion so deeply felt it was almost screaming at him. Terror. Sheer, bloody terror.
    Carter tried to calm the emotion, sending wave after wave of reassurance into Norton’s mind, and gradually the scream quieted to a whisper.
    The scene changed suddenly. From the deserted towpath Carter found himself transported to a black steel door set into a vast, white brick wall. Gradually the door swung inwards and Carter stepped inside.  
    Inside the doorway hung a heavy brocade curtain, vibrant reds and golds embroidered in images so hideous Carter averted his eyes. He pushed the curtain to one side and stepped through only to be confronted by a short, white-brick corridor and another curtain, this one even more grotesquely embroidered than the last. Impatiently he moved forwards, sweeping the curtain aside.
    Another short corridor, another curtain.
    He encountered three more before he finally found himself in a large, rectangular chamber, painted a stark white like the wall and the corridors, and lit blindingly by spotlights set into a black ceiling.
    In the corner of the room a figure crouched. He was naked, arms thrown over his head. It was Henry Norton. And Norton was crying softly.
    Carter approached and crouched down next to him. “Henry,” he said softly, gently. “Remember me? It’s Robert Carter. We met at Annie Ryder’s house last night.”
    Norton continued to sob.
    Above the sound he was making came another. The soft, swishing sound material makes when it moves in the air.