Free The Haunted Air by F. Paul Wilson

expression concerned instead of annoyed as he stepped forward. “You look bust, bro.”
    Finally he could speak. “I just had the worst nightmare of my life. It seemed so real and yet … it couldn’t have been.”
    â€œWhat happened? I mean, what it about?”
    â€œSomeone here, in the room, coming for me …” He decided not to tell Charlie how the dream had ended.
    Charlie nodded. “Well, no mystery where that come from, yo.”
    Right. No stretch to interpret this dream, but Lyle
couldn’t shake its remnants … the cold … and the presence.
    â€œBut I was so sure someone was here.” He pointed at the knife on the floor. “I even tried to cut him.”
    Charlie’s eyes widened as they fixed on the blade. “Sweet Lord, I can see I better start locking my door at night case you start sleepwalking.”
    He grinned to show he was only kidding. Lyle tried to return the smile, and hoped it didn’t look as sick as he felt. If Charlie only knew …
    Lyle picked up the knife and turned it over and back, shuddering at the memory of the blood he’d seen coating it. He examined his worn reflection in the surface of the blade, as pristine as when he’d taken it from the cutlery drawer earlier tonight.
    Okay, so he hadn’t stabbed Charlie. Thank God for that. But against all reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else had been here in this room tonight.
    Maybe he should go out and find himself a gun.

IN THE IN-BETWEEN
    It still does not know who or what or where it is, but memory fragments flash like meteorites through its consciousness, frightening glimpses of sharp objects and gushing red liquid.
    It must leave here, must get out, OUT!

1
    â€œI’ll be fine, Mom,” Vicky said as Gia gave her one last great big hug before releasing her to the camp-bound bus. “You’re just having separation anxiety.”
    Gia had to laugh as she pushed her daughter back to arm’s length. “I’m having what?”
    â€œSeparation anxiety. I read about it in the camp brochure.”
    â€œBut you’re supposed to have it, not me.”
    â€œI am. I’m worried you’re going to cry when I leave.”
    â€œI won’t. I promise.”
    Another kiss and a long hug—how she loved this little eight-year-old who sometimes acted forty—and then Gia backed up to stand with the other parents.
    No tears, she told herself as she watched Vicky step up into the maw of the idling bus. It will only upset her.
    She and Vicky had cabbed down to the pick-up spot by the UN Plaza, with Vicky doing most of the talking. A good thing, because Gia wasn’t feeling so hot this morning. Her stomach felt queasy. Nerves because Vicky was leaving her, or something else?
    Nerves, she’d told herself. Has to be.
    Whatever the cause, the bumpy cab ride hadn’t helped matters. She’d been very happy to listen to Vicky rattle on about how she couldn’t wait to work with clay on the lathe at art camp this year, because she’d been too young last time.
    Gia kept her emotions pretty well in hand until Vicky took a seat by a window and waved to her. Gia saw the dark hair she’d braided into a French twist this morning, saw that big smile and those sparkling blue eyes, and almost
lost it. But she gamely forced a tremulous smile and blinked to keep the tears at bay.
    What kind of a mother am I? She’s only eight and I’m sending her off to stay with strangers for a week. I must be crazy!
    But Vicky so loved art camp. She’d tried it for a few days last year and this time pleaded to stay for a week. Gia knew she had talent and wanted to give her every opportunity to nurture it.
    But a whole week away in the Catskills … that was forever.
    The door closed, the engine gunned, and the bus moved off. Gia waved till it was out of sight, then allowed herself the luxury of a few tears and