The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller

“I didn’t. When I came home, she was acting strange, and before I could talk to her, she left in the boat.”


Another tear traced the same course as the first one, and Becky’s father wiped it away. “She came home from here almost catatonic. She barely said hello and then threw up in the upstairs toilet. We put her to bed, and in the morning—” His voice rose like a roller coaster before the big drop. “I found her broken on our sidewalk. My baby girl, gone. Do you get that?” He tilted his head, as if speaking to Evan in another language. “Do you understand having someone ripped away from you for no reason?”

Yes, I do.

Evan remained quiet, still not knowing if the other man would pull the trigger or not.

“Please don’t hurt my son.”

Becky’s father blinked and licked his lower lip. “She left a note, but it didn’t explain anything, no reason why. But she must’ve been up all night writing, while my wife and I slept. She wrote ‘clock’ over and over and over on a piece of paper until there was no white left anywhere, only the word ground into it with ink.”

A cold clarity gripped Evan. He should agree with Becky’s father, tell him there was something wrong with the clock, that it was unnatural. He should go with him down to the basement to destroy it, and when Becky’s father wasn’t looking, take the gun from him and kill him.

Evan shook his head. No, he hadn’t just thought that. He didn’t want to hurt the man any more than he wanted Becky’s father to hurt them. The uncharacteristic blood thirst receded, and he gazed into the gun’s unblinking eye before looking at the man who held it.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, I really am. I called the hospital after she left to make sure she got home safe. I was worried but—”

But you were too fixated on the idea to really care, too enamored with Selena and— Evan closed his eyes, cutting the voice off mid-sentence. He spoke with slow care, his words metered out with the truth he felt. “I’m sorry, I can’t say how sorry I am, but I didn’t do anything to her.”

Becky’s father watched him with his dark eyes. “Get up,” he finally said, motioning toward the door with his gun.

Evan swallowed, hoping his legs would hold him. He stood and walked out of the room, Becky’s father following him. The surreal quality of the light and sensation of clinging sleep made him wonder if this all was a dream, a nightmare that was a little too real. They moved down the hall and across the living room. The darkness outside the window was thick.

The night will never end.

“Where’s the basement?” Becky’s father said.

“The door on the right,” Evan said, pointing.

“You first.”

Evan could smell the other man’s cologne or shaving cream, and pulled open the basement door. He flicked the light switch on and started down, hearing Becky’s father several steps behind. Panic still gripped him, but it was separate now, detached in a way that made him feel sleepy. He wanted only to go back to bed and lie down, pretend this all was a dream that would fade with the light of morning.

They stepped into the basement after Evan turned the next switch on, and he moved to one side, giving the other man a clear view of the clock. Evan watched his reaction, waiting for an outburst, either tears or maybe a crazed battle cry, but Becky’s father did nothing. He stood motionless, taking in the clock’s wide-shouldered encasements, its black shine. For a moment he thought the man might be transfixed, hypnotized by the sight, but then he was moving, walking in a straight line toward it, his eyes never leaving it. Evan took a half step toward the stairs, trying to judge whether he could make the turn and race up the treads, out of sight before the gun would go off. He needed to get Shaun out of the house and into the pontoon, away from this man whose grief was driving him to things Evan was sure he would never even consider normally.

He glanced at the stairway and then back to Becky’s father as he set the gun on the table and bent to pick up something from the floor near the workbench.

This is your chance. Go while he’s not looking, get Shaun safe and then call someone to get this man some help.

All of his thoughts ceased when he saw what Becky’s father held in his hands.

The can of mineral spirits looked old, the top holding a slim layer of brown rust, and cobwebs first stretched from its handle and then broke, floating back to their tethers on the wall. Becky’s father held the can at arm’s length, then spun the cap off.

“Tessa’s always after me to stop smoking,” he said, digging in one front pocket. “Now I’m so glad I haven’t, because I don’t see any matches down here.”

He drew out a silver lighter, the refillable butane kind, and pivoted toward the clock. Before he turned, Evan saw a manic smile stretched across his lips.

Evan ran.

He didn’t wait to see if Becky’s father would actually go through with what he intended. He didn’t try to talk him out of it. He ran. A solitary pain lanced through his heart as he realized his chance to make things different, as insane as it seemed, would be a pile of ashes soon, possibly with the rest of the house. He almost stopped and turned back, a powerful pull trying to lock his feet to the stairs.

You’re giving up the chance to save Elle, to save Shaun from the disabled life he is cursed to lead. You’re running away again.

The last words came in Elle’s voice, and he stumbled, nearly falling into the kitchen. Evan grunted and continued to move, shoving away everything else besides the need to get to Shaun.

He stepped into the kitchen and ran across the floor, for the first time noticing the chill on his bare legs.

Wait around, it won’t be cold for long.

He nearly brayed insane laughter at that.

Hope you have good homeowner’s, Jase. ’Cause this one’s gonna catapult the old premium!

A loud bellow came from the basement, followed by a metallic clang.

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