Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense Fynn Perry (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

look and so he pointed to a monitor screen above the viewing window which was showing a live feed with sound relayed from a ceiling-level camera within the interview room.

“For the record, I’m Detective Michael Williams. Before we continue, we have to wait for your attorney.” Hardwell did not respond. He kept his head lowered. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then in walked another uniformed officer, followed by a man in his fifties dressed in chinos and a dark-brown corduroy jacket, shirt, and tie. He stopped and confidently addressed the occupants of the room with an air of authority. “Robert Devereux, Mr. Hardwell’s attorney. Anything my client has said to you so far, without me present, is inadmissible.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Devereux. Your client simply said ‘sorry’ repeatedly when he was arrested,” Williams smirked as he got up to shake hands with the lawyer.

The lawyer sat close, but not too close, to his client, to whisper something into his ear.

Jennifer was fixated on Hardwell’s lowered head. It was as if he knew that her not seeing his face was tormenting her.

“We have you on CCTV purchasing this knife.” Williams slid a photo of a knife with an ebony handle and a distinctive skull-shaped decoration across the table, letting it rest below Hardwell’s bent head. The prisoner raised his head, ignoring the photo, to look directly at the viewing window, and a smile seemed to play at the edges of his mouth.

Jennifer stood motionless, staring at the face on the other side of the one-way glass. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Not only was it the missing piece from the macabre jigsaw of her nightmares, but the eyes were unlike anything she had seen before–––they were the eyes of a spirit, not just glowing orange, but giving off a raging fire of orange light. This seemed to be a spirit and a human form merged into one.

“Jennifer? Jennifer?” Her father’s voice called, pulling her out of her trance. “It’s him,” she muttered and then looked directly at Clarke and repeated firmly, “It’s him!”

Her eyes snapped back toward the window. She was unprepared for what happened next.

Jennifer could see the light from Hardwell’s eyes growing increasingly intense. His face and the exposed areas of skin on his neck and hands looked as if a fire was illuminating them from within. For one hideous moment, an eerie shadow of his skull was cast onto the inside of his face as the light moved outward. His skin appeared translucent and mapped with blood vessels as the glow shone through it and through the fibers of his clothes. It—whatever it was—was about to exit.

It appeared as a crown of light bursting through his balding pate, which then radiated from his chest and arms, every corner of the room becoming immersed in a soft, orange glow. A head––glowing orange and translucent––was rising from the living, breathing body of Vernon Hardwell.

Jennifer, gasping, looked up at the screen showing the camera feed. It now showed Hardwell’s body slouched forward, unconscious. She looked through the one-way glass for a clearer view. The spirit—for she was sure that’s what it was—had fully emerged from Hardwell and was now standing in the center of the table, appearing to wear it, as if it were a designer’s ridiculous catwalk folly. Hardwell’s chest fell forward with his head following, and his forehead collided with the unforgiving metal of the table with a heavy thud. The spirit stood for a moment staring at the mirrored glass, then started toward it. Every fiber in Jennifer’s body was screaming at her to run, yet somehow, she couldn’t take her gaze away from the face of the spirit. Her legs remained anchored to the floor, while all around her there was commotion over the arrestee’s sudden collapse and unresponsive state.

In the interview room, a paramedic had appeared and was attending to Hardwell as an argument raged between the detective and Hardwell’s lawyer. Jennifer’s attention was still fixed on the spirit. It glowed the same color as John and it was male but that’s where the similarities ended. The face was not easy to forget: a hard rectangle––thuggishly handsome. The looks of someone in his thirties, with a brutally muscular build clad in a prison- type jumpsuit. She noticed punctures in it–––the same as John’s single knife wound. Whereas John had only one, this guy had about twenty.

As he slowly moved through the steel table toward the viewing window, he was staring right through it. His long hair, pointed beard, and the way in which he seemed to float as he approached, made him look like a macabre vision of the Messiah in some bizarre second coming. There was an expression of pure evil on his face and his eyes were now burning white with only a tinge of orange at the edges.

Jennifer backed away, turning sharply for the door, and collided with Sergeant Clarke, who was standing immediately behind her. Losing her balance momentarily, she realized she had already lost her chance to escape. She muttered an apology.

The spirit was now less than a half-inch from the glass. Jennifer had no way to escape without causing a commotion and making the spirit aware that she could see him. She quickly feigned indifference toward him, mirroring the concern of the other occupants in the room, who were staring at Hardwell’s collapsed body.

The spirit’s face was now literally pressed to the viewing window.

The orange light radiated out into the glass as the spirit’s head penetrated it and stared directly at Jennifer, only a fraction of an inch now from her head. Her heart raced, but she knew she couldn’t show any fear. She had to look past it, her vision now tinted with orange and two intense points of bright-white light burning into her retinas. She focused on Hardwell’s unconscious body, which had now been propped upright while an examination by a paramedic was taking place.

“Maybe he can’t be revived. Maybe it’s God’s will. You