The Rising

By Dayle A. Dermatis

The tragedy of 9/11 raises ghosts and insecurities, opens old wounds. Doug Masterson leaves his wife, Deborah, and embarks on a quest to understand his purpose in the world, while Deborah, with the help of the spirit of a woman who once lived in their house, struggles to piece her own shattered life back together. “The Rising” is an uplifting short story about hope and humanity.

DAYLE A. DERMATIS has been called “one of the best writers working today” by USA Today bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith. Under various pseudonyms (and sometimes with coauthors), she’s sold several novels and more than 100 short stories in multiple genres. She lives and works in California within scent of the ocean, and in her spare time follows Styx around the country and travels the world, all of which inspires her writing. She loves music, cats, Wales, TV, magic, laughter, and defying expectations. To find out where she is today, check out www.DayleDermatis.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Soul's Road Press
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311745453

Dayle A. Dermatis

Dayle A. Dermatis is the author or coauthor of many novels (including snarky urban fantasies Ghosted and the forthcoming Shaded and Spectered) and more than a hundred short stories in multiple genres, appearing in such venues as Fiction River, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and DAW Books.Called the mastermind behind the Uncollected Anthology project, she also guest edits anthologies for Fiction River, and her own short fiction has been lauded in many year's best anthologies in erotica, mystery, and horror.She lives in a book- and cat-filled historic English-style cottage in the wild greenscapes of the Pacific Northwest. In her spare time she follows Styx around the country and travels the world, which inspires her writing.To find out where she’s wandered off to (and to get free fiction!), check out DayleDermatis.com and sign up for her newsletter or support her on Patreon.* * *I value honest feedback, and would love to hear your opinion in a review, if you’re so inclined, on your favorite book retailer’s site.* * *For more information:www.dayledermatis.com

Book preview

Start Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Information

WHEN DEBORAH MASTERSON walked through the front door, she knew something was wrong. A moment later, she thought they’d been robbed. The living room seemed too clean, until she saw that things were missing: the Klimt print from the far wall, the pile of Doug’s books from the coffee table. The basket of loose change and keys and junk on the low bookcase by the door was empty except for a peppermint candy from Pizza Hut and a butterfly paperclip.

She didn’t put her purse down, not wanting to disturb anything before the police had a chance to look at things. She walked slowly through the dining room into the kitchen, mentally picking out the wrong details on the way. Doug’s leather jacket wasn’t hanging on the back of the chair, and she doubted he would have hung it up; they’d been having that discussion for the past five years. And it was too hot a day for him to be wearing it.

When she got to the kitchen, she saw the note on the white tile counter, and before she read it, she knew.

I’m sorry, it said. It’s not you, it’s me. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I love you, but I’ve got to get out of here. I need to clear my head, find my center again. I’m sorry. Be good to yourself. Love, Doug.

Deborah sat down hard on the bench in the breakfast nook. A pressure was building inside of her, and she knew if she let it out, she’d shatter into a million pieces. It rose up like a scream, but all that escaped was a high keening noise that she didn’t recognize as coming from herself.

She’d seen it coming; all the signs were there. But she thought they’d been doing all the right things to keep this from happening. Doug had been going to counseling; she was supportive and loving; they tried to make time for each other. But since 9/11, he’d been drawing farther away, farther into himself, to a place she couldn’t follow. His therapist had said it was natural, that it would simply take time. He’d obviously been wrong.

They’d been lucky, Deborah knew. Living in California all their lives, they hadn’t had family or close friend in New York City or DC. The closest they’d come to losing someone in the World Trade Center or the Pentagon had been a friend’s cousin and the father of a friend of a friend.

She hunched in on herself, rocking back and forth, trying to contain the building pressure. Her stomach twisted, knotted, and she gasped, unable to believe that she could feel normal again, that the shock and panic and grief could go away.

It was too obvious to call it a mid-life crisis,