Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Once the ladder at the bottom is kicked down, we descend to the alley. Despite the overwhelming sea of heads we observed from above, the “sea” seems to part as we enter it, as if to politely make way for us. But it does nothing to calm my nerves as we become lost in the crowd. Spirits pour into the street like a creek giving way to the mother river on its inevitable journey to the ocean. I want to say it sounds like regular chatter—like a crowded room, or like any busy day at Spooky Beans Café—but the tone is dragged by a sense of helplessness and despair. I’m aboard a sinking ship and everyone is confused, unsure of where to go for the life rafts. I’m in an unfamiliar office building that’s caught fire and my coworkers are desperately seeking out the exits. Nothing feels comfortable. No one sounds alright.
Westley has been lost in this madness all day?
How are we possibly going to find him?
As we move down the street, panic builds inside me like ocean waves, growing stronger each time they crash against the shore. Someone’s voice becomes louder at my side, like a wail of despair, but when I turn, all I see are a dozen indistinct faces. Someone else screams out from behind, but when I look, I can’t even be sure who screamed, or whether it was a scream I heard at all. The more I become overstimulated by the voices and noises, the more afraid I become.
Light floods my vision. I shield my eyes with my free hand, but our feet don’t stop moving. Despite not being fully visible, the crowd seems to push us along, just like the powerful current of a river.
When I lower my hand, the street and the buildings are gone. Instead, we’re in the middle of a subdivision. The road, sidewalks, and lawns are littered with people meandering around in search of something, though it seems like no one has any discernable features. I can’t quite seem to focus on any one person’s face.
“Griffin? Did you … take us somewhere?”
“I … I don’t know.” My hand clings to his tighter as we stay by each other’s side. “Everything changed.”
I squint as I stare at the lawn across the street. The shape of the tree near the front windows of the house looks familiar. The longer I stare at it, the more I realize I know it. I’ve climbed it. I raced circles around it with a friend of mine back in elementary school.
Wait a second. “That’s my childhood home.”
Byron follows my line of sight. “Really?”
“Except it’s missing the tire swing on the tree.”
“How did we get here? I thought your family lived outside the city someplace, hours away.”
The light blinds me again. I shield my eyes.
When I drop my hand, I’m in a school gymnasium. My high school gymnasium. It’s dark in here except for light coming in through a line of narrow windows near the ceiling that run over the bleachers. Only a few souls are in here, and in stark contrast to the ones out in the street, these ones are silent and sad, each of them sitting alone, some in the bleachers and others on the court.
“Are you doing this?” asks Byron.
“I-I guess so …?”
“Okay. So you can transport us to different places somehow.” He faces me with urgency. “Babe, you have to focus. We’re looking for Westley here, not taking a trip down memory lane.”
“Are these even memories?” I ask. “Or are we, like, going to these places in present time?”
“How am I supposed to know??”
“I’m still trying to figure out why my parents took down the tire swing.” I frown, momentarily distracted by the thought. “It was my favorite swing. Where the hell will I escape to when we visit for Thanksgiving? I can only take so much of my Aunt Marney before—”
“Griffin.”
“It’s a serious concern,” I insist. Our conversation has drawn the attention of two of the whatevers sitting in the bleachers. They look at me with their featureless faces and eerie, nonexistent eyes. Everything feels so empty and meaningless here. I’m starting to realize why these spirit beings all look so damned depressed.
“I just want to make sure we have a Thanksgiving to go to,” says Byron through his teeth, “and if we don’t focus and find West soon …”
“Right. If the magic of the gross tea wears off while we’re outside of our bodies, something bad happens. I remember Madame Seazall’s cryptic warning.”
“You’re clearly capable of taking us places,” Byron tells me. He takes hold of both of my hands, bringing my face to his. “Maybe that other half of your soul that West has is ‘reaching out’ to you or something. Can you feel it somehow?”
Yeah. I can feel my dick getting hard again.