By Richard Matheson
Tom Wallace lived a normal lifestyles, until eventually an opportunity occasion woke up psychic skills he by no means knew he possessed. Now he's listening to the non-public options of the folk round him-and studying stunning secrets and techniques he by no means desired to comprehend. yet as Tom's lifestyles turns into a waking nightmare, even better jolts are in shop as he turns into the unwilling recipient of a compelling message from past the grave!
This eerie ghost tale, by way of award-winning writer of Hell House and I Am Legend, encouraged the acclaimed 1999 movie starring Kevin Bacon.
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Additional resources for A Stir of Echoes
Thinking maybe he was going crazy, but knowing, somehow, that would be the least of his problems. They would be into that fog anytime now and maybe they already were. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that Gosling had been nervous about that fogbank rolling at them. George didn’t know much about fog and particularly fog at sea . . but there was something unusual about this one. And he didn’t believe for a moment that fog glowed like that. It just wasn’t natural. What had Lisa said at the docks?
Nothing seemed to fit, though. He’d been in plenty of heavy fogs, but none of them like this. “Shit,” he said to himself. ” He went to the captain’s cabin and knocked gently on the door before entering. Things weren’t terribly rigid or strict aboard the Mara Corday, but the captain was still the ship’s master and deserved respect. Captain Morse was seated at his desk, his fingers drumming nervously. Morse was a heavy man, a curious combination of fat and muscle. He was clean-shaven and slicked his hair straight back from his brow.
And it was everywhere. A solid, misting mass of yellow-white fog like nothing he’d ever seen before in his life. It looked so thick you could scoop some up with your fist and put it in a jar. But that wasn’t the worse part. The worst part was that it looked blank. Neutral. Nothing. Like they were stuck in the middle of nothing, lost in the static on a TV screen. Even the ship didn’t seem to be moving, yet he could feel the engines, hear the bow cutting the drink. What kind of brownwater, butthole sailors are these?