On the path that led into the trees, there were two shadowy figures standing there. They stood side-by-side, and were wearing cloaks that covered their faces and bodies. On top of that, they were…translucent.
What the fuck?
Was he seeing things?
When the one raised his hand, he watched as it motioned him toward them.
Uh…
Did they think he was going to follow two apparitions into the trees at dark toward that feral scream?
Uh…no.
Only, he heard it again, and once more, he knew who it was, and that he couldn’t ignore it.
It was worse. This time, it sounded even more desperate.
Graham had to be in some serious trouble, because the only time he’d ever heard him scream like that was when he’d been under fire, and Michael put his body over his to take the bullets that nearly took his life.
The first time.
Well, shit.
The second figure pointed toward the path, and they separated, as if giving him a clear walkway into the trees to get to it.
Michael couldn’t believe he was going to do this. Had he lost his mind?
Clearly, he was batshit insane.
But he did.
Moving toward them, he got so close he could feel a crackle of energy as he passed them. He could hear whispers, as if they were talking to each other, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure they were.
The craziest part of all of this was that he was actually doing what they asked.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He’d literally hadONEsip of his beer, so this couldn’t be from drinking.
Yep, the answer was clear. Michael had to be out of his damn mind.
As he moved past them, he listened, and he could hear sobs and shouts from somewhere ahead of him.
They were desperate and he was worried that he would be too late. He was thinking about how everyone told him that Graham had tried to die before in that alley, and it gave him goosebumps.
In fact, he felt cold, like his body was swathed in some chilly covering.
Instinctually, he knew what it was.
The dead.
“Come on, show me where he is,” he whispered, needing them to guide him.
The sounds were echoing, and he wasn’t able to pinpoint his location.
“Get me to him. He’s going to die,” he admitted, instinctually knowing that, and wishing simultaneously that he’d never gone to the pub.
He should have stayed.
