The Guest House Hauntings Boxset, Hazel Holmes [best selling autobiographies .TXT] 📗

Desperation motivated every single movement, and when another hand clamped around her other ankle and tugged her backward, she screamed, the cry bursting from that primal place in her soul that understood the end was near.

“You bitch!” Brent screamed as he flipped her from her stomach to her back, pulling her, Sarah’s back scraping against the cold and rocky terrain.

Sarah bucked and twisted her hips, kicking, fighting back with what strength remained to her, but Brent overpowered her and flung her into a nearby tree.

Sarah’s back buckled harshly against the thick oak, but she was quick to bounce back when she saw him reach for the gun. Back and innards aching, Sarah sprinted toward Brent and then launched her body at Brent, spearing them both to the ground.

Shoulder, elbows, and knees violently cracked against one another and the ground, and when the rolling ended, Sarah lay next to Brent on her back while he tried to push himself up from his stomach.

Disoriented, it took her a minute to get her bearings, but when she saw the flash of silver from the revolver, Sarah scrambled toward it. She snatched it up in her hands, and when she heard Brent roar, she spun around and fired as his body slammed against hers and they cracked against the ground.

Brent’s weight grew even heavier on top of Sarah, but the pistol was still wedged between their stomachs. The pair locked eyes, and Brent’s mouth was hung open in an oval shape, his tongue lolling in his mouth as he gagged.

Sarah lay still beneath him, watching the life drain from his eyes and feeling the warmth of his blood leave his stomach and spread across her body. She felt Brent’s muscles relax, and then eventually blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and onto her cheek.

And finally, Brent lay his head on Sarah’s shoulder and exhaled his last breath.

Crushed by his weight, Sarah struggled to get Brent off. It was her frustration that finally provided the needed strength to move him. She lay there on the ground, eyes shut, sucking in big gulps of air.

Brent’s warm, sticky blood quickly dried and hardened against her clothes, and Sarah finally pushed herself to a sitting position.

Dirt and dead leaves stuck to the back of her head and back, and she stared down at the blood that covered her body and the revolver that now rested between her legs on the ground. She stared at the weapon, then turned to look at Brent.

His arms and legs were splayed out awkwardly, and a massive red stain covered his abdomen. Blood still bubbled up from the wound, and his eyes were open, his face staring up at the fading afternoon sky. He was still and quiet.

And the longer Sarah stared at the body, the more her nerves frayed and unraveled. She hyperventilated. A sourness plagued her stomach, which lurched and twisted. A warm, acidic bile crawled up her throat, and Sarah scrambled on her hands and knees away from the scene of the crime as she vomited into the bushes.

Two more rounds came up before she was finished, and then some dry heaves brought on by the sudden stench of blood that still lingered on her shirt. She wiped her mouth and then stumbled away from the pile of vomit, still struggling to catch her breath.

Sarah planted her hand on the trunk of a nearby tree to help support her, her entire body shaking from the exertion and the cold and the rundown fatigue that had crippled her body. She placed her forehead in the crook of the arm that she folded against the tree trunk, her mind throbbing and aching.

She stole one more quick glance at Brent’s body. Despite the murderous thoughts that had plagued her since she was a teenager, imagining all the different ways that she wanted to kill the people who had hurt her over the years, she couldn’t comprehend what she’d just done.

Brent was dead.

Sarah circled that thought like a dirty water running down a drain. She’d killed him. A man who she had slept with, a man whose body she had used, and in return given her own to him. A man who was a cop, a killer, and an asshole.

Whatever feeling of resolve or closure that she’d hoped to find with his death didn’t arrive. There was no moment of clarity now that he was dead, only more questions and fear about the repercussions of what would happen to her. She’d just killed a cop, and she was the only witness to the murder. She could cry self-defense, but she knew that Brent’s cronies back in New York wouldn’t let his death go without retaliation.

“Fuck.” Sarah slammed her head into her arm. “Fuck!” She repeated the motion, slamming it harder. No matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did, she just couldn’t escape the shit loop that she’d found herself in. Any move she made was just one more scoop for her grave. It was never going to end. The pain, the suffering, the questions, the fear, it would follow her until the end of her days. Safety was an illusion, and Sarah had shattered the last of that charade the moment she put that bullet into Brent’s gut.

Sarah turned back to the body, but her eyes fell on the revolver. It was still on the ground between them. Blotches of blood diminished some of the shine, but not its appeal. She shifted her glances between the gun and Brent’s body.

Maybe that was the only way out. The only way to end the fear, to end the pain, was to end it all. No more running, or fighting, or struggling. All of it could be erased in the blink of an eye, the lightest pressure of her finger on the trigger.

The thought festered in her mind like a disease, and Sarah finally pushed herself off the oak tree.