Michael A Singer: Books Novels & Stories

"But what does this have to do with Michael? Why did you disappear? Why didn’t you come to us sooner?" Michael’s face twisted with shame. "Because I thought I could fix it. I thought I could stop it by writing the book. But I was wrong. The more I wrote, the deeper I got, the closer I came to uncovering the truth. And then... then I started seeing things. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I could feel it—the presence. It was like it was watching me, waiting. It’s been trying to take me for years, but I didn’t realize how close I was to the edge until it was too late."

None of them had. And yet—Henry had risen, brushed the snow from his sleeves, and gathered his books without a word. Michael’s stomach twisted. That was exile: falling where no hand reaches down to help. Now, he would speak for all the hands that never reached. He sat again, pressing his pen to his paper.

“You didn't have to call me just to tell me to use your first name, y'know.” “True. Thing is, I'm being haunted by a blonde singer.” “Beg pardon?” Julia laughed, a musical, happy sound. Michael felt better about himself than he had all week. “I needed to hear your voice, Michael. Just talk to me. What have you been doing today?”