Oracle: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Series (A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery Book 1) Carissa Andrews (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📖

“What she means is,” Blake says, “she knows who her keeper is.”

The man eyes Blake, then glances at me.

“Think it’s best you two get yerselves gone.”

Blake nods, “Yeah, think you’re right. Sorry to be a bother.”

He takes me by the hand, marching me through the house and to the front door. The man stumbles behind us, the shotgun still firmly clutched in his hand. Opening the door, Blake shoves me out into the porch, and turns back to the man.

Without hesitation, I keep walking to the Rover. I might be headstrong, but I sure as hell ain’t stupid.

How the hell are we going to get Esther out now?

There’s no chance the man’s going to let us back in after all this.

I watch from the seat, wondering what Blake could possibly have to say to the man at this point.

A moment later, Blake takes a step onto the porch, but turns back to the man—firmly swiping his elbow upside the man’s head. Almost in slow motion, he drops like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Kicking the car door open, I rush up the stairs.

“What the?” I say, my voice higher pitched than it should be.

Blake turns back to me, and shrugs. “Damn drug was taking too long to kick in.”

“Holy shit, is he okay?”

Blake chuckles, turning to me. “Does it really matter at this point?”

I glance down at the old man sprawled out on the orange shag carpet. He’s actually not as old as I suspected originally. Without the panic of being shot lingering over me, I realize he’s only in his mid-forties—fifties, tops. But all the years of alcohol abuse hasn’t been kind to him.

“Not so much,” I say, shaking my head.

“Good, then help me find Esther and let’s get the hell outta here,” Blake says, rushing to the closet under the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we—I don’t know—tie him up or something?” I ask, pointing at the man’s sprawled-out body on the floor.

“Nah, it will take hours for it to wear off. By then, he’ll be locked up good and safe in his very own cell,” Blake says, rushing to the closet door at the back of the stairs.

I take a final glance at the crumbled body of a wasted life.

How does anyone ever get to this point? Alcohol, drugs, sex addictions, money problems. Human beings can be so easily warped and twisted.

I don’t know where to put the sorrow welling up. Not necessarily for the man, but for innocence lost. If I know anything about people, it’s they don’t start out this way. They’re made.

“What the hell? There’s nothing here—it’s just a coat closet,” Blake calls back, an edge of panic playing at the edges of his rough exterior.

Shaking my head, I walk to the door frame and have a look inside. He’s right. There’s nothing. Flinging apart the drabs of old coats, flannel shirts, and overalls, I trace the back wall. There’s no door—no buttons.

“Step aside,” I say, pushing past Blake and heading back to the man.

“So help me, Diana…if I knocked out some poor old drunk dude for no reason—” Blake warns.

“It’s him. I know it is. She’s here—”

Walking over to the man, I lean down, and place my right hand over his.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhhh. Give me a minute,” I tell him, as I close my eyes.

My mind is flooded with garbled images; thoughts and memories all mashed together in a strange conglomeration of near incoherence. Dark holes, swimming doorways, a necklace swinging around his fingertips with something dangling at the end, laughter, and more drinks.

“Dammit,” I say, standing up and having a look around the room. I walk to the other end of the room to get a different vantage point.

There has to be something here. Something to clue me in.

“What’s going on?” Blake asks, following me. “Diana, talk to me. Where is Esther?”

“I don’t know, Blake. I’m trying to read the room. Can you shut up and give me a minute, please?” I say, casting a back-the-eff-off glance his direction.

“Unbelievable. I knew it…” he says, walking away and reaching for his cellphone.

With him out of the room, colors, sensations, and impressions clear up. I hone in on the ones related to Esther—because I can sense her here. Now and before. The echoes and impressions of when she first arrived are muddled with the excitement she was feeling about getting to finally cuddle the puppy she’d been promised. Yet, she also knew something wasn’t quite right. She didn’t like the smell of the house, or the stench of the man’s breath, and she knew she was too far and her parents were gonna freak.

All of my instincts and impressions are screaming she’s close by—only the path to her is muddled.

“Blake, can you step outside for a moment?” I call out.

He steps back in the room, covering the voice end of his cellphone, and makes a face.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“I need to get a clear read and I you’re getting in the way,” I say.

“Oh, so now this is my fault,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, sure. I’ll step outside while I’m trying to find a way to clean this mess up.”

“Super,” I say sharply.

As soon as he leaves the house, the back end of the room lights up like a Christmas tree. Red and green light surround the grungy back wall of the living room.

Standing up, I walk to the main entry to the living room—the one leading to the stairs and the hallway, then back around to the closet and second entry on the other side.

There’s way more space beneath the stairs than the tiny closet uses. I place my hands along the walls and close my eyes. Esther suddenly floods my mind as she slams on the other side of the wall. It’s mildly soundproofed—but I can still hear her trying to get the attention of anyone on the other end. Pulling back, I search for how she got in there. Remnants of energy used to bring us to the here and now.

With