Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes by Alex Smith
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 3.0 MB
“In six days, six hours, and six minutes, I will come back and kill you.
Tell anyone, and your wife and child will die. Call the police, and your wife and child will die. Try to run, or hide, or trick me in any way, and your wife and child will die. And they will not die quickly, Blake. Theirs will not be a good death. It will be slow, and it will be bloody, and they will know the full horror of hell before I end them.”
When Blake Barton opens the door to a stranger one morning, he comes face to face with an unimaginable evil. Because this stranger claims to be the devil, and he promises to kill Blake—not now, but in six days, six hours, and six minutes exactly.
Plunged into a nightmare race to save his wife and young son, Blake finds himself fighting not only the stranger but an army of young men who call themselves the devil’s disciples—men who will do anything to please their master.
As time runs out, Blake realises that in order to fight evil, he must find the devil inside himself.
And in doing so, all hell will break loose.
He shooed Doof into the kitchen, shutting the stairgate to stop him bolting. Then he opened the front door, the wood sticking the way it always did when the rain started. A couple of tugs got it free, a wave of cool, wet air billowing past him. There was no sign of anybody. Their house wasn’t huge, but it was surrounded on all four sides by garden—the reason they’d fallen in love with it. A long, winding, crazy-paved path meandered the twenty feet or so to the gate, the street beyond partially screened by gnarled apple trees.
“Hello?” Blake called out. If it had been a delivery driver then they might have scarpered after a second or two, they were always so impatient. Had Julia said she was waiting for anything? He couldn’t remember. He stepped onto the path, the stone sending a chill up his legs. It wasn’t quite autumn yet, but nobody had told the weather, the seasons moving fast, as if they were in a hurry to get the year over and done with. “Hello? I’m here.”
Man, it was quiet, the world muted in that weird way it was when everything was wet. They lived in Old Costessey, a quiet, leafy town that had slowly merged with the city of Norwich, and their road wasn’t ever busy, but you could usually hear laughter or shouts or slamming doors or even the gunning of engines from the main road. Now, though, the only sound was the soft patter of rain on grass, the whisper of something in the trees. The goosebumps had risen on his arms before he even noticed he was creeped out.
He took another few steps, his arms wrapped around himself—partly to stop his dressing gown from billowing, partly because he felt suddenly defensive, exposed. He had the weird feeling that somebody was watching him, that he’d stepped out of his door onto a stage in front of a silent, invisible audience.
The garden was flush with bushes and trees, most of which had been there when they moved in. He scanned them, looking for whatever was giving him that feeling.
There, sitting in one of the apple trees.
“I see you,” he whispered.
The magpie cocked its head, a hoarse caw breaking the silence. It flapped its wings hard enough to shake free some leaves, but it didn’t take off. Blake stared it out for a second more then looked hopefully around the garden. What was the rhyme? One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy. There was nothing else in sight.
“Sorrow it is,” he said. “Thanks a lot, you bastard.”