The End
About The Author
Cathy Spencer lives in Calgary, Alberta with her husband and two daughters. Like her heroine, Emma Nolan, CM works as an administrative assistant for a Calgary university. Unlike Jack Nolan, her faithful actor-husband is still alive.
Connect Online with Cathy Spencer
Author's blog: http://cmspencer.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CMSpencerAuthor
Road Kill is the first in the “Anna Nolan” series. Here’s an excerpt from the second novel, Town Haunts, coming out in 2013.
Town Haunts
Chapter One
It was the middle of the night, but Sherman couldn’t sleep. Too many old demons whirling around his brain and pricking at his conscience. Frustrated, he threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, the soles of his feet chilled by the bare floor boards. He ran his hands through his clipped, grizzled hair, and pushed himself off the bed. Thrusting his feet into slippers, he limped downstairs in his shorts and undershirt.
The kitchen was dark, but Sherman didn’t bother with the lights. He fumbled for a water glass from the cupboard and took the vodka bottle out of the freezer. The stark fridge light was enough to see by as he poured two fingers’ worth of alcohol into the glass and put the bottle back. Walking to the sink, he dribbled a little tap water over the vodka and swirled it around before taking his first sip. Ahh. The alcohol was cold and smooth going down the back of his throat.
Meaning to count to twenty before taking a second sip, he rested the glass on the sink and looked out the window past the dingy curtains. The house was set up high on a hill next to the Crane cemetery, allowing him to see over the wall into the grounds. For a moment, he thought he caught a flicker of light through the trees. He rubbed his eyes and stared, straining to see, but the wind was up and the trees were thrashing. There ‒ he saw the light again, briefly. Maybe it was one of those blasted kids up to no good again. They had no respect for the dead, knocking over tomb stones, spray painting ugly messages on the walls, and leaving empty beer cans right on top of the graves. He’d better take a look, or else he might have a mess to clean up tomorrow.
Forgetting to savour his drink, Sherman downed the rest and hurried upstairs to put on his pants and a warm jacket. It was mid-October in the Foothills, and the nights were getting frosty. He grabbed his cemetery keys and hobbled down the stairs as fast as his sore knee would let him. Letting himself out of the house, he slid down the damp grass heading for the gate in the cemetery wall. The door screeched as he opened it, and he cursed himself for not keeping it oiled. Easing the door shut behind him, he paused in the flat orange light beneath a security lamp.
Everything was still except for the gusting wind. He could see his breath coming out in excited little puffs and smelt the tangy wood smoke from the houses on the other side of the church. He shivered as the wind caught at his clothes. It was too flippin’ cold to stand still for long, so Sherman crossed the cemetery road and set off across the grass. The sky was enshrouded in thick grey cloud, and it was inky black among the plots. He got his bearings from the familiar tombstones, running his hands over their chilled, smooth surfaces as he hobbled past them. Pausing by a stone angel, Sherman peered to the left, toward the newer part of the cemetery. That was the direction the light had been coming from when he had seen it out the kitchen window.
There it was again, blinking through a stand of twisting evergreens. He crept toward the trees, taking his time not to snap a twig along the way. Was that whispering he heard? He stopped dead to listen, but the branches were creaking too much to be sure. Reaching the evergreens, he edged around them carefully, trailing his hands over their rough bark.
He knew exactly where he was. There was a bench on the other side of the trees with a plot directly in front of it. The words inscribed on the black tombstone read, “Evelyn Mason, Beloved Wife and Mother, April 17, 1951 – November 2, 2011.” Evie’s grave. He rounded the trees and burst out of hiding.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he hollered. But there was no one there, just the dim outline of the tombstone. He hesitated, sure that this was where he had seen the light.
“Sherman . . . ,” a voice sighed on the wind. He jerked his head sideways, trying to follow the sound, but it was impossible to tell where it came from. His hands clutched the bench, the metal cold and hard beneath his fingers.
“Who’s there?” he yelled, straining to see in the dark.
“Sherman . . . ,” the voice moaned, coming from the heart of the plot feet-deep in front of him. His breath came in short gasps, rasping in and out of his throat, his legs shaking.
“Sherman!” the voice shrieked, piercing his ears and squeezing the breath out of his chest. He turned to run, and tripped. Clawing at the ground, he staggered to his feet, terrified of skeletal fingers clutching at his shoulder. He tore across the grass and ran between the plots, barking his shins on more than one tombstone. He found the ring road and pushed himself down it, running and hopping as fast as he could go. Reaching the door in the wall, he flung it open and sprinted up the slope for home.
Thank God he had left the front door unlocked. Once inside, he shot the bolt home and ran upstairs to cower in bed with all the lights on. He laid there, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. Resting his right hand over his heart, he tried to will it to calm down. “Mental imaging” the people at the clinic had called it. He swallowed hard and attempted to think. Was he crazy, or had his wife just called to him from the other side of the grave?
Her photograph was on his bedside table in a polished silver frame, the only valuable thing still left. The picture showed her as a young woman, her blond hair cascading in silky waves to her shoulders, her blue eyes winkling. Clutching it to his chest, he rocked back and forth on the bed.
“I’m sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice cracking.
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