Release Blitz, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway:

Wounded Air by Rick R. Reed

Rick and Ernie found the perfect apartment on Chicago’s West Side. Before they’re settled, Rick begins having all-too-real disturbing “dreams.” Each time, an emaciated young man with sad brown eyes appears, terrifying and obsessing him.

From their next-door neighbor, Paula, Rick learns about Karl and Tommy, who lived there before them. Tommy’s mysterious disappearance pains her. When she shares a photo of her with Tommy and Karl, Rick is shocked and troubled. Tommy is the man who appears to him in his dreams.

The ghostly visitations compel Rick to uncover the truth about Tommy’s disappearance. It’s a quest that will lead him to Karl, Tommy’s lover, who may know more about Tommy’s disappearance than he’s telling, and a confrontation with a restless spirit who wants only to—finally—rest in peace.

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In this scene, we witness the first appearance of the ghost in the apartment Rick and Ernie have rented on Chicago’s West Side.

 

I gasped and did one of those takes you see in the movies, where one blinks rapidly a couple times, just to make sure that what one was seeing was real.

A chill coursed through me. The hairs rose on my neck. My mouth went dry.

A complete stranger stood in the doorway. He looked behind himself, down the common hallway, and then back into the space. He didn’t seem to be aware I was only a few feet away, watching.

He was about my age, midtwenties, and stood about five-foot-six with a too-thin frame that made me want to feed him a few Giordano’s pizzas. The guy had dark, buzzed hair and a matching goatee. His skin, even in this dim light, looked ashen, marred by sores in various stages of healing. He lingered just over the threshold and the weird thing was, there was the odd sensation that he—I don’t know—didn’t exist in the same place and time as I did. Irrational? Sure, but it’s what I felt.

His dark eyes darted about our new home, as if he were looking for something, yet not seeing anything at all.

“Hello? Can I help you?” I said, standing still, licking my lips. “Hey man. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

I was too weirded out to know exactly what I was feeling. I wasn’t quite scared, more like stunned. In shock? I tried to assume that maybe he had the wrong apartment.

He certainly looked harmless enough. In fact, if I put enough breath behind it, I thought I could probably blow him off his feet.

He didn’t answer. He continued to look right through me, as though I wasn’t standing there, all six feet two inches of me. Other than stacks of boxes, rolled up rugs secured with twine, and furniture shoved at odd angles, I was pretty hard to miss, even in the orange-tinted light seeping in from our huge window.

And then he walked, a little jerky, farther into the room—right into my and Ernie’s new home. Like he owns the place. Who the fuck is this guy?

“Hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing?” I snapped. “What’s the deal?” I moved a bit closer, thinking to block further entry. Should I cry out for help? Call the cops? I fingered the phone in my pocket and for a moment, wished it were a weapon instead.

There was no indication he heard me.

Dumbfounded, I watched as he continued his progress into the apartment unabated. I was too stunned to do anything but stand and watch, gnawing on a hangnail. He moved into the center of the room and did something really strange—he squatted and felt around on the bare floor, as though groping for something.

He paused for a few moments. The rest of his actions were all pantomimed. To the best of my ability, I could discern what looked like someone taking a pipe in his hands, bringing it to his lips, firing up a bowl with—again—a non-existent lighter, and then blowing out an invisible cloud of smoke. He closed his eyes and whatever his imagination told him he was smoking must have been deeply satisfying. His eyes popped open once more and he appeared all at once more alert.

I sniffed. There was an odd odor in the room—something chemical, like burnt plastic. When I sniffed a second time, though, it was gone. I’d imagined stuff before, but I’d never conjured up a smell.

At that moment, he seemed to notice me standing there. I’m sure I was slack-jawed and, to be honest, starting to get more than a little bit scared. I gripped the phone in my pocket once more, my fingers holding it so tightly I feared cramping. As stealthily as I could, I withdrew the phone from my pocket, brought up the home screen, and then pressed 911.

But I didn’t hit send. Not yet.

Would anyone hear me if I screamed? Over the roar of an L train?

And if I did place a call to the cops, what would I say? Someone was in my new apartment, pantomiming what appeared to be drug use?

It was then I glanced over at the door and realized something that caused my blood to run cold.

The chain lock near the top of the door was in place. Now that I saw it, I remember pushing it into place just after Ernie left.

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About the Author:

Real Men. True Love. Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.

Connect with Rick: www.twitter.com/rickrreed www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks https://www.instagram.com/rickrreed/ https://www.amazon.com/Rick-R-Reed/e/B000AP5H2G https://www.bookbub.com/authors/rick-r-reed