The clock struck four. It was 14th April 1992; the day my first child, Jessica was born. My husband was away for a medical emergency in Naypyidaw, and would not be back home for three more days. I laid in bed with extreme discomfort in a blue plastic gown, with IV drips painfully piercing through both my hands. Out of the blue, a loud scream perforated through my ears. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my heart skipped a beat. I sat up in my bed and confusingly looked at the other patients in my ward. Over the next few seconds, the screams got even louder; it felt as if someone was yelling into the speakers. My eardrums started hurting and being the nosy person that I was, I got up from my bed to investigate the noise.
12th March 1898
To my darling wife Maggie, Well, I’m arriving safely and settling into the new job down in Connacht. If all goes well, we’ll be having more than enough money to pay our debt. The local Lord seems a tight-fisted old miser, probably charges his own children for candlelight at dinner, but the two blokes working with me both seem right enough.
After finalizing his divorce following the death of their 2yr-old daughter, nothing in life seems to make sense. He had shutout the world blaming everyone and everything. The only place he now found solace was in spending long hours driving around and exploring new places whenever he wasn’t working. He was angry with life, destiny, fate and anything that had an influence over his existence that he couldn’t control. Today wasn’t suppose to be any different from the other days that he had spent driving for long hours at the outskirt of town and sometimes hiking except that for the first time in two years, he was lost without a map because the best part of his routine drive and hiking was the thrill of discovering new places with the element of surprise still intact.
Mr. Holliday stared wide-eyed at a wall full of framed pictures. Pictures of the same fireman posing with a rotating cast of important-looking people. There was precious else in the office besides a large whiteboard taped with colored strips and a handful of phones. And more snaps of the same guy indulging his many hobbies.
There is a saying at Warlock’s Heath Coach Station. They say that there is no such thing as a free ride. They say that the driver always knows who has to pay. They say that everyone who rides has to pay. Freddie Thompson was a delinquent. He never went to school, it was far too dull. He wanted to be where the action was. Instead of going to school, Freddie would go to Warlock’s Heath Coach Station and play the waiting game.
The way she spoke into her tape recorder was slow and precise. Her voice echoed off the walls in the cold, musky room. The grey walls surrounding her were ominous; they trapped the eerie, unsettling presence within the space. She had a clear view of the large, dusty windows across from her. Seemingly haven’t been cleaned in years, they displayed an insidious winter scene, equal parts chilling and enchanting to the doctor. She opened her notebook and placed it on her lap, anticipating what her patient would soon tell her.
Dan’s windowpanes shook with the roaring wind outside as rock sized pellets of rain hit the glass loudly making him open the curtains to his study. He always loved nights like this where he could just listen to the calming sound of heavy rain as he tried not to despise all the homework he got from his university classes. He yawned, his mouth opening completely wide as his eyes began to droop shut the words he was reading became fuzzy. Dammit, he thought to himself, he needed to finish this paper but he gave zero shits about tax evasion and the professor of this class was probably going to fail him no matter if he wrote knowledgeably or not.