Filed To Story: The Saltwater Curse Book PDF Free
Someone’s out there. I can feel it. My short breaths make my head swim as I navigate the shitty, user-unfriendly app Deedee’s friend made.
A figure appears in the camera installed on the porch. I hit Pause, frowning. What the… I rewind the footage, watching him or her—or it
—move in reverse, from the front of my house to the windows by my bedroom, circling my place before retreating into the woods.
The figure is nothing more than a giant blob of darkness that doubles in size in front of my bedroom window.
I scroll back, earlier into the night when the sun set and I had just gotten back home. On the screen, my face is as clear as day, as is the fly that landed on my leg and the puff of fumes from the exhaust.
How could anyone pull something like this off? This is far more advanced than anything I know exists. What would turn a person into a black blob on screen? At least two feet around them is blurred and distorted.
I scramble to the safety of my hiding spot to grab my laptop off the bench before scuttling back beneath the desk. With the gun in my clammy hand, and the device in my other, I pull up the tapes. Maybe there’s an issue with the app on my phone.
But no. All sixteen camera angles show the same thing.
I silently tap my foot on the floor. I don’t feel safe stepping foot outside to do an in-person check. I don’t feel safe inside either.
Cold sweat trickles down my back. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, debating whether to wake Deedee up to send out an SOS.
It was probably a fucking poltergeist. Tommy’s actual ghost, not a figment of my imagination.
Whatever it was, it can wait until morning. Until then, the Glock is never leaving my hand.
I lower the laptop to the floor, rise to my feet, then tiptoe to the door. According to my security cameras, the living room is empty. Still, I hesitate, a scream lodged in my throat, ready for any sudden movement.
Fuck. Here goes nothing. I throw the door open and dash for my bedroom, slamming it shut behind me before locking it and shoving the deadbolt in place.
I clamber for my bedside table, whipping it open and faltering at the sight that greets me. Maybe putting a hunting knife next to my monster dildos wasn’t the best idea.
Shoving the toys aside, I grab the mini taser then change into a practical pair of shorts before locking myself back in my workroom.
It’s going to be a long night.
I’m seeing triple.
My blood sugar is shot from the adrenaline rush I’ve been riding for the last fifteen hours.
I’m on three hours of sleep.
Every time I turn my head, I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion.
I’m convinced Tommy is sitting in the back seat of the car.
My painkillers have made me drowsy, but it’s done fuck all to get rid of the pins and needles assaulting half my arm—not to mention the near-agonizing pain every time I move my elbow.
To top it off, I’m stuck in rush-hour traffic because my fucking supplier thought five o’clock in the middle of Seminyak was a good time to do a drop.
I spent the whole day messing around with my cameras to figure out if the anomaly was intentional or a fault on my part. When I couldn’t get to the bottom of it, I installed a couple of sensors that link to a silent alarm in my bedroom.
Droplets of sweat trickle down my spine, burning the inflamed, still-healing tattoo rubbing painfully against my cotton tank top.
The AC in Nat’s car isn’t strong enough. I feel like I need to throw myself into the water just to wake up—and Jesus fucking
Christ, this weather is going to be the death of me if Tommy’s family doesn’t kill me first.
I pull up into a free parking spot on the side of the road and say a silent prayer before stepping out of the car. My equilibrium shifts, and I nearly trip over my feet while doing a 360 check of my surroundings.
Balancing myself on the dirty car, I avoid a near collision with a motorbike and hustle to the sidewalk. I scrub my clammy face, willing myself to wake up so I can pay proper attention. But the world is too loud. Too busy. There’s too much everything.
Too many people want to kill me. I’m in a constant state of fatigue. I need a twenty-four-hour nap. I like my life here—or, at least, I liked it better when the only soul who visited me was Deedee.
I considered booking a hotel room tonight so I can sleep without fear, but I figured if I’m going on the run, I need to save all the money I can. There’s no point wasting it for a single night of reprieve.
Tourists and locals mingle in the street, getting from point A to B or sitting back, taking drags of a cigarette. As always, nobody pays me any mind, but it still feels like I have a thousand pairs of eyes trained on me.
I keep my head down, fighting the ripples of fatigue as I keep my eyes peeled, passing a few more stores before crossing the road into an air-conditioned smoothie joint. Once I have my order in hand, I settle in the seat near the back of the store with a clear view out the front window, waiting for Wayan. If I spot one of the Gallaghers, I’ll have a few second head start to make a run for it.
Deedee may have vouched for Wayan, but I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. The guy rubs me the wrong way.
The pressure in my head grows with the ever-present feeling of doom. The dread doesn’t pair well with my smoothie, but I force myself to polish it off, swallowing down the bile. I need all the energy I can get. Forgetting to eat all day was also a bad move on my part.
My gaze flicks in the direction of the beach. It’s been days since I’ve been out in the water. If I live to see tomorrow, I’ll go.
Maybe for the last time.
My leg shakes restlessly. I check my phone at five o’clock on the dot to see a text come in from Wayan that he’s going to be forty minutes late.
Fucking prick.
That’s another forty minutes of me being out in the open.
I shift in my seat, pushing myself up against the wall, flinching whenever someone walks in or when there’s a loud noise. Even though it’s not my place, I send a frustrated message to Deedee about her supplier. They might be friends, but I don’t care at this point. It’s plain rude and disrespectful to send that type of text at the exact time you’re meant to meet.
Wayan doesn’t pull up across the street from the smoothie joint until an hour and half later. I would’ve gone straight home if I didn’t need the supplies to make more chips and fix one of the machines at the factory.
I sway as I jump to my feet. The world is vibrating with colors and sounds I swear I can smell. I blink back the exhaustion from my eyes and storm across the street, narrowly avoiding a collision as I slip into the front seat of his car. The plan was to meet inside, but fuck it. I’ll get in. I can’t sit in there for any longer.
I have a gun in my bag, a switchblade in my boot, and a modified taser in my pocket. If Wayan wants to fuck around, he’ll find out.
The car unlocks as I approach. The constant state of anxiety has strung me so tight, I’m about to snap.
“What the fuck do you call this time?” I fume, slamming the door behind me. Cigarette smoke and BO slams into me, and I almost swing the door back open to escape it.
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