Page 53 of After Life
And all it took was saying his name, thinking of talking to him, and I was gone.
Chapter 12 — Julian
The storm was still going, maybe weakening a bit, and I was alone in the room I meant to share with Oscar. Between the thunder and the sound of those damn hurricane shutters flapping loose, I couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, could barely keep from screaming in frustration, fear, and rage. My phone had no signal and despite the little voice in my head telling me I could do it, I knew walking to Tibbins Quay, even without my leg the way it was, would be one of the worst things I could do in that moment.
So think it through, dork.
My inner voice sometimes sounded like CeCe and it was both motivational and annoying.
What can you do? You can’t walk to Tibbins Quay. You can’t call out for help. So stop obsessing over those. Focus on what you can do.
Dork.
This would be easier if I was actually talking to CeCe, I thought, scrubbing my hands over my face. “Alright. First things first. The house isn’t safe,” I muttered, dropping to sit on the edge of the bed. Ray-Don and Sandra were aggressively odd, hiding something and acting like I was the enemy.
Which, depending on what they were hiding, was a possibility.
Oscar was not Oscar. Was he drugged? Concussed? Pretending?
Or was his earlier spell what he thought it was? Someone borrowing his body?
“That’s not possible,” I muttered, then paused. “Then again, I didn’t think Reggie was possible until last month. Hey, Reggie, now would be a great time to visit. I need help.”
Nothing. Not even a drop in temperature. “Asshole. Love you, though. Mean it.”
I waited for an hour, maybe a bit more, until the house felt quiet. I didn’t hear anyone moving around but then again, they could’ve been tap dancing in the hallway and I wouldn’t have known. The storm’s eye had already passed and now, the worst side, the ‘dirty’ side, was slamming over us and making the wind howl outside like a living thing. It would only be a matter of hours, most likely, till it passed but that still felt too long. Even then, it would still be causing havoc with debris, swells, and God only knew what else. Play dumb, I decided. Play dumb and act like you’re not worried about Oscar at all.
I made my way back down the stairs with careful steps, stopping when I heard Ray-Don complaining just inside the study. “I don’t know why you need me to help,” he whined. “Soon as the storm lets up, you know it’s prime time for me to head out there and start pickin’.”
“I need you to help me,” Sandra bit out. “Jeremiah, a little help here?”
Cold fingers gripped my throat, my stomach.
My heart.
I’m hearing things. That has to be it. I had too many painkillers. Maybe I fell in town, hit my head. Maybe I’m having a stroke. They did say that was a possibility, even this far out after a head injury. A clot is cutting off oxygen to part of my brain. I’m dying and my synapses are misfiring wildly and this is all part of my death throes.
They suck. I’d rather have something dramatic and definitely not this.
“I think we’re fine without him. All he does is bitch,” Oscar muttered, though the cadence of his words sounded wrong. Not like his usual speech pattern. Too slow, the words almost thick, like he didn’t know how to navigate the shape and space in his mouth to make words happen.
“Christ,” Ray-Don muttered. “I wish you’d put him in the closet or something. This shit’s creeping me the fuck out.”
Oscar unfolded himself from his spot on the sofa and stretched, sighing. No—Jeremiah sighed in Oscar’s body. My stomach clenched hard, and I closed my eyes. It’s not him. It’s not him. He’s safe somewhere. He has to be.
He had to be because if that was someone using Oscar’s body, violating Oscar’s body... A scream clawed at my throat as I watched him move toward Ray-Don with Oscar’s legs, Oscar’s sway of the hips, but without Oscar’s grace. Without Oscar’s presence. It was indefinable but something was missing. He looked, sounded, and moved like Oscar but one look could tell me whoever that was, they weren’t him.
He was a shell, filled up by the wrong spirit.
Oscar’s voice, slurred a bit as Jeremiah tried to navigate Oscar’s voice, cut through the room. “Ray-Don, it takes two people. One to prepare the sigil, the other to prepare the body. This,” the sound of a hand hitting bare skin, “is temporary. We need the final passage tomorrow, as the tide goes. Or don’t you remember how to read?”
Ray-Don grunted in annoyance. “I’m just sayin’. He ain’t fightin’ you. The Wreckers opened up the light. We all saw it. He’s gone. You don’t need me a’tall!”
Jeremiah made an annoyed sound and Ray-Don muffled a yelp. “Christ, Jeremiah! Why you hittin’ me?”
“Because you’re useless, Ray-Don. You care about that ridiculous dream of treasure more than this. If this finally succeeds, don’t you know what that means for us? Immortality, of a sort. Replacing the vessel when it breaks like so much pottery.”
Oh my god. This is unreal... I sank down to sit on the tufted bench under the coat rack, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that we were not filming an episode here. The clusterfuck would enter epic proportions, I thought with a wild urge to cackle in panic. Instead, I slipped to my feet and made a bit of noise, stopping at the study door like I’d just come down.
