The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

Then, beneath those sounds Sam heard another. It was far away, but not far enough. A sly cascade of dirt and stones. He could hear her, coming.

Margot.

Falling Asleep in the Rain

Robert P. Ottone

Clay Whitley stared out the window of his empty car of the Metro North Railroad as he checked his Fitbit and noted with amusement that even at nine at night, the dark woods and mountains looked beautiful. They seemed to rush by, dark teeth chewing into the navy blue-colored sky, the occasional bit of light pollution highlighting the separation between the trees and the sky. One of the conductors of the train walked down the aisle and checked on him. “Sir, our next stop is Kirkbride’s Bluff.” Looking up, Clay smiled and thanked him. He must’ve missed the announcement, and when he looked around the car, he realized how alone he was.

As the train came to a stop, Clay noted the mist that had begun to accumulate on his window. He rose, grabbed his briefcase (which was empty except for his pills, an apple, banana, and flask of whiskey), and exited the train, standing on the platform. He looked around and waited for anyone else to step off, and when the doors closed and Clay saw how alone he was, in the darkness, on the platform, a ping of anxiety struck him.

Clay always felt lonely, even when surrounded by hundreds, sometimes thousands of people. He never married. Never sired children. Maybe that’s why he found himself on the train to Kirkbride’s Bluff. He had been working late; rather, he had been sitting at his desk staring at his computer for hours until he realized it had gotten late, and instead of catching his usual Long Island Railroad train back home to Long Island, decided it was time to head home. His real home. Where he grew up. He realized that this had more to do with the whispers than his own desire to go anywhere but to his bed, but here he was. On the train to Kirkbride’s Bluff. His childhood town. Where someone whispered and beckoned to him in the night.

In his posh upper-middle class suburb, or at work, he was never more than twenty feet from another person. He knew this because he had become oddly obsessed with the notion one night when he couldn’t sleep and stood in his pajamas between his home and his neighbor’s and realized that a mere twenty feet away was their master bedroom. He never spoke to his neighbors. Not because he wasn’t friendly, but because they didn’t speak any English and always just smiled and waved, saying something in Chinese to him when they met eyes. He always waved back and wondered what they did for a living.

It was around this time that Clay began hearing the voices. At first, he believed them to be thoughts. Simple concepts that would slip into his head, telling him to do normal, everyday things that he most likely would find himself doing day to day anyway. Run the dishwasher. Brush your teeth. Wear the bergamot cologne. Call your mother. Small things to which he believed he was the originator, but over time, the whispers became more abstract. They had sounded like someone speaking Russian, but with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. They began to take the form of unknown words, foreign terminology, unintelligible and confusing, but repetitive. Eventually, they took on familiar shape and sound.

Board the train. Return home. Kirkbride’s Bluff.

The most ominous of all: I’ll be waiting.

Clay walked down the steps of the platform and looked around for a cab. No such luck. He took his phone out and pulled up Uber, but again, there were no drivers in his vicinity. The nearest would be an hour wait time, as they were coming from Resting Hollow and currently had a fare.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath and tucked the phone away. The misty rain didn’t bother him much, and he stood under a portico, planning his next move. He decided to head deeper into Kirkbride’s Bluff and walk around town. He figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get his steps in, and when he stepped out from under the portico, he heard the whispers, seemingly beckoning him into the town. He nodded, acknowledging them, which is something he had been doing more of, and walked toward the town, the small shops and buildings in the distance easily visible.

After a while, he found his feet starting to ache, and when he checked his Fitbit again, somehow, he had walked another eight thousand steps. Nearly five miles, and yet, he wasn’t near his hometown. That can’t be possible. The train station was always just outside of town. A mile at most.

“How the hell—?” he said aloud, confused by the number now glowing on his wrist.

The rain had remained misty, and while his suit was flecked with tiny beads of condensation, he didn’t feel wet otherwise. The chill in the air remained, and he walked down the sidewalk, looking at the various storefronts and businesses he frequented in his youth. He walked past GJ’s Dugout, an old baseball card and collectible store he used to frequent with his parents, where they’d buy him two packs of cards per visit. He found himself disappointed after tearing into the packs and the only New York players he ever seemed to get were guys on the useless Mets, a team he grew up despising because they were “losers,” and he didn’t like losers.

The baseball card shop was boarded up, the sign long-faded. Clay couldn’t remember the last time he ventured into the store and wondered how long it had been since the doors closed for good. Many of the stores in the area seemed vacant, their signs either removed entirely or faded, some beyond recognition. There was the pizza joint, Renzo’s, across the street from the other pizza place, Donato’s. Donato’s was his preferred spot, but his friends all