They ran down the hall as fast as they could, swerving around and over fallen blocks of stone, past the empty rooms, and then rushed down the large staircase. To the left, the locked double doors. On the right, the bar. The door to the entranceway ahead. They were almost free of the destruction, just a little further, when Isaac heard a terrifying shriek, a voice he almost mistook for his dead wife’s.
He stopped running and, through the thinning dust, saw Amy lying on her stomach just beyond a mountain of stone that was the stairs. She reached her hand out, cried for him.
Over her head, the ceiling cracked apart.
The laughter filled the room, bellowing louder—taunting him. Isaac would never be able to reach his daughter before the ceiling collapsed.
There was only one person who could.
Simmons heard the earthquake and knew what he had to do. The voice inside was quiet, no longer doubtful. This was his moment, his part to play.
His fate.
Simmons lunged toward Amy, grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, but as he turned to run, he slipped and fell forward. His face slammed against the stone floor. He lifted his aching head and stared down at a crack, the crack Amy had tripped over, and then turned to see if she was okay. Isaac had her in his arms, backing away.
And with that, Daniel Simmons was satisfied.
He never felt the weight, or the lack of breath. There was only silence and darkness.
Amy screamed in her father’s arms while the group watched the high ceiling collapse on top of Simmons, choking him beneath the rubble. When the large chunks of stone finally stopped falling, Amy peered up at her father. She had a frightened look in her eyes. “We have to help him.”
"We can’t sweetheart. I'm sorry." Simmons’s right hand was poking out from underneath a large mass of stone. The hand wasn’t bleeding, or moving. Isaac wondered if he was really saying sorry to his daughter, or Simmons. "I'm afraid he's—"
Boom!
The bar beside them burst into flames sending a ball of fire blazing through the roof.
The wood crackled.
The fire burned.
Dozens of black spiders rushed out of the flames and scampered across the floor. Isaac squished a few of the spiders under his shoes on his way to the door at the far end of the large room. Virginia opened door number one and stepped into the small entranceway. Isaac followed, carrying Amy in his arms.
Virginia gazed through the darkness ahead, searching for the front doors, but at some point, the corridor must have caved and the doors were now blocked. They would have to find another way out. Virginia led Isaac past the table to the only other door in the room, left of the fireplace.
Behind door number two was a dining room. A long, oak table stretched across the rectangular room, many tall chairs sat underneath. The fire had already spread into the kitchen around the right corner and threatened to engulf the dining room. Isaac set Amy down on her feet and ran over to a window on the left side of the table.
“Stand back,” he yelled.
Then he snatched one of the dining room chairs by the backrest and golfed it through the window. The wooden legs shattered the black glass and the chair toppled outside in the rain.
One after the other, the three carefully crawled through the jagged windowsill and ran out into the storm. They didn’t look back until they reached the edge of the dark, hazy forest.
The flames now ripped through the dining room. The circular pillars at the front steps snapped and crashed to the ground. One of the columns fell backwards and tore through the front double doors. And in the distance, serrated bolts of electricity lit the gloomy sky as the stone mansion voiced one final roar before collapsing into a grave of fire and ash.
Author's Note
Thank you for purchasing The Gift of Illusion. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. The manuscript sat on the shelf for eight years collecting dust as life went on by. But Isaac's story always haunted me, or taunted me, and the time had come to set it free. I'd love to know what you thought.
mailto:[email protected]
In the meantime, I'm working hard on a novel about a woman who's given a chance to get back a child she lost during labor. Look for it in 2012. I'll also be releasing a book of poetry in the coming months called The Rebirth. I've included a few poems after this note as a preview, and a short story just as a bonus for following me this far. Thanks again for the support. For the latest updates on current or future projects visit my website or become a fan on Facebook.
http://www.richardbrownbooks.com/
Richard Brown
May 2, 2011
Instinctive
Gliding through the highest trees
A bird whispers with the breeze
The beauty of the bank, it sees
A serpent swaying on the clay,
Gently stalking out its prey
To live yet another day
Upon the desert of this land,
Where with the rustling of the sand
Are placed in reach of nature's hands,
Who so suddenly can break
The home, the throne that all create
The knot of life unto the lace
Bound with skin, and buried deep
Beneath the light where none can creep
Their thirsty eyes upon the seed
Growing bigger, faster—further
To the point where fear will hold her
Awake—I pray, from the claws of murder
Slowly sneaking from behind
The shadows of its filthy swine
To then commit another crime,
And escape without a scent or trace
The patient earth with smiling face
Replenishes the old disgraced
Into a much more worthy creature
Capable of expanding features
To teach the lesson like the teacher
For all the many to be so born
Without a choice, to be so sworn
Into the circular eye of the storm,
With winds to shake the deepest core
Of all that sheltered you before,
Will be able to shelter you no more!
Guardian Angel
One time I thought I could control
This ever-changing role;
Of visions never clear—
Of angels to appear.
I knew not in my mind
Of creatures this divine,
Never hoped or prayed to find
A love to last all time!
But in the dimmest light it's there
With a sense so calm and fair
Shone off my soul, reflects
A promise to protect.
While now I wake within this need
Of thoughts never believed
To be true, until I see
Its shadow still behind me!
Of Love Of Hate
How is this social restlessness
Only a lesson of the heart?
Drowning out the mortal crest
With emotions torn apart!
Oh distance, (what a time ago)
Treading pathways, all to seem
One step too far to ever know
The outcome of the dream!
Waiting, watching deep inside
The eyes of I—a sky so high,
Aboard the endless flight of love,
Fearless as I fly inside
A soul of which always ignored
The passion of a loving word,
Sheltered with its fabrication
Of a child’s imagination!
Twisting shades of silent gray,
With an imminent sacrifice
Of unknown pieces to create
The perfection of a life!
Spiraling, I hope to bring
Status to the whole I serve,
Crying out and wondering
What person—now, will emerge
From the sand, holding h
ands
In body, mind, and spirit—
Reaching out to understand
Why no one wants to hear it!
Of love—of hate, I hold inside,
While always constantly deny
My heart that part in trust we see
Recycled in the same disease!
are you happy now?
He woke on the bedroom floor, his arms crossed over his chest, trembling.
His first thought—after establishing where in the hell he was—was how he’d arrived there.
There on the carpet, on his back.
Had he rolled off the bed, hit the floor, and bumped his head?
He couldn’t remember.
The room was dark and smelled of things both strange and unfamiliar. A ceiling fan spun above him, and for a moment he stared upward and watched the blades cut through the air. When he tried to sit up, he felt a sharp wrenching pain in his abdomen. He cried out and laid his head back down on the carpet.
After a moment he tried again to pull himself up and again failed, but instead managed to roll on to his side. He groaned and struggled for a quick breath. The air was cold and hard to breathe.
And then he saw the blood.
Lots of it.
Someone had stabbed him in the stomach and left the knife buried inside the wound. The blood soaked his white undershirt and trickled down in small streams to the carpet.
He was sure now he had passed out, likely due to extensive blood loss, though by the grace of God, he wasn’t dead. Dying, but not yet dead, what a hospital was apt to label critical condition.
Naturally he wondered who stabbed him, but whoever they were they obviously weren’t here now. They’d fled, believing they’d killed him, and so he’d piece that puzzle together later. If he was going to survive, he needed to find help, and soon.
Where was his wife?
He slowly reached for the knife and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He jerked at the blade a little and then screamed a lot. He wanted to pull it out, and thought he could, but the pain was excruciating.
Still on his side facing the foot of the bed, he took his hand off the knife and grabbed at the bed sheets. Using the sheets as a grip, he slowly dragged his body closer to the bed until his back was up against the mattress. This motion proved to be absolute agony to his wound but necessary nevertheless. On the floor, he was helpless. In order to reach a phone, or find his wife, he needed to stand up.
He let go of the sheets, which he had painted with bloody handprints, and now placed his hands on top of the mattress. He took another quick breath and then began to lift himself on to the bed. The pain hit him harder than ever as the knife gently twisted inside him, and for a moment he thought he would lose consciousness.
Exhausted, he sat there for nearly a minute with his head down, a mixture of spit and blood drooling from his mouth.
Lying next to him on the bed was his wife’s pink robe. She wouldn’t be happy with what he was about to do next, but when was she ever happy anyway? He was her burden, his illness making him unable to work and provide for her, and she’d never let him forget it—yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
Never.
He loved her still, even if she would rather him be buried in the backyard.
He grabbed the robe with his left hand and bundled it up as best he could. His right hand went around the knife.
A tug and the blade came out with little resistance. An upsurge of blood followed.
He winced as he pushed the pink robe on to the exposed hole to slow the bleeding. The robe was instantly ruined. Somewhere the old hag was having a heart attack.
From the bed he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the bedroom door on the other side of the room. He passed his dresser, still applying pressure to the wound, the excess robe dragging on the floor behind him, and stopped at the entrance to the master bath.
The door was open. He heard the sound of splashing water. The mirror above the sink showed only a bleary version of his face.
He stepped closer.
A hot steam met him in the doorway.
As he stepped inside he looked over at the shower. The peach colored curtain was closed and the water was running. He called out to his wife but received no response.
He set the bloody knife down on the counter and wiped away much of the steam from the mirror.
He looked like a sack of rotten potatoes. His sunken cheeks. His old, gray skin. His chaotic hair.
Again he cried for his wife, and still she just showered and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised.
She treated him like he didn’t exist.
He bowed his head.
An empty bottle of pills was in the sink. His medication. The doctor said it would relax the nerve endings in his brain, help him to better focus his thoughts in a productive manner. His wife always said it kept the little lunatic inside on lockdown.
They were both right.
But then she had cursed at him and poured the pills down the sink, he now remembered.
Why would she do that?
He limped toward the shower and snatched open the curtain. There she was, the old hag lying naked on her back in two inches of brown water, multiple stab wounds in her chest and stomach, while the showerhead above rained hot water down, washing away the fresh blood as it bubbled up.
She brought it all down on herself. She let the little lunatic out to play.
Are you happy now?
He threw the pink robe over his dead wife and backed away from the shower. He picked the knife back up from the counter.
The killer smiled at him.
A haunted smile, reflected in the mirror.
A smile all his own.
Then he drove the knife deep into his chest again and again and again until fatigue beat him—until he collapsed to the bathroom floor, the black plastic handle of the blade protruding from his bludgeoned belly like a gravestone.
He lay there, tranquil, hoping the next breath would be his last.
And knowing this time he wouldn’t wake up.
The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 22