Beyond Her Final Breath (Book 1- Shadowland Duology) | Wattys2015

.Chapter Eleven.

Henry parked the car in the carport, his wife beside him holding a plastic grocery bag. He got out of the car, his pentagram necklace falling out of his shirt.

“Honey, your necklace.” His wife scowled.

She absolutely hated his “antics” and refused to even acknowledge it other than to complain. Which was okay with him, because he had full claim on the attic.

“Sorry,” he said, slipping the pendant back under his T-shirt.

He closed the car door behind her and followed his wife into the house. Fumbling with the house key, he opened up the front door.

The sound of feet walking down the stairs met his ears, and he gripped his key tightly.

“Hello? Is someone there?” he called.

The walking paused. Silence fell over the house.

“Must’ve been my imagination,” he muttered.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs, like someone was running. He clutched his wife’s hand and held it tight, slowly backing out of the door.

A loud thump shook the house, and Henry called out again. “Hello? Is there someone there?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt like smacking himself. Of course someone was there.

A screen door slammed shut, and he rushed into the house and to the back door. There, he caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair and black flats.

He returned to his wife, one hand combing through his graying hair. She still stood outside, confusion evident on her face.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just thought I heard something.”

She gave him her signature look and began to unpack the groceries out of the bag.

A feeling niggled in the back of Henry’s mind, and suddenly he felt that he needed to check on the attic.

“I’ll be right back.” He gave his wife a kiss on the cheek while she simply rolled her eyes.

His knees ached with every step up the stairs, and the old wood groaned beneath him. His hand grasped the splintering banister, but it did not hurt his calloused hands.

HIs breaths came in labored pants. “I’m not as young as I used to be,” he wheezed.

The wood creaked a bit when he reached the top of the stairs. The ladder to the attic lay up ahead.

Henry began the descent up the ladder, only stopping to push the hatch open.

Right away, he could tell something was off. The layer of dust the coated the floor had been disturbed, leading to the heavy oak bookshelf.

Henry crept over to the shelf, quiet for some reason.

Dust covered every book except… a blue book on the bottom shelf. The dust had been hastily wiped off, finger marks obvious on the leather.

His work-worn hand pulled the book off the shelf.

An oval onyx was set into the binding, silver wirework framing the polished stone.

He hooked a finger around the thick front cover and opened the book. The yellowing pages fanned out, spreading dust around, before opening up on a page.

Henry’s blood turned ice cold when he saw the heading: Reaper. HIs hazel eyes scanned over the text. His stomach tied itself up into a knot of fear.