Archive for the ‘Ghosts’ Category

The Dead Phone, by Bryan Alaspa

Posted: May 3, 2012 by Shaina in Bryan Alaspa, Ghosts, Thriller and Suspense
2
The Dead Phone, by Bryan Alaspa

The Dead Phone, by Bryan Alaspa

The Dead Phone, by Bryan Alaspa
Available at:
Amazon

Description:

Warren Hollis is a seasoned true crime writer. He likes to submerge himself in the local culture when he writes, so he packs his essentials and heads to Knorr, Pennsylvania. It’s a tiny town in western PA, the kind of town most people on their way to Pittsburgh or New York would drive right past. It’s a town full of friendly, smiling people, but it hides a dark past.

Years ago a man began sneaking into the bedrooms of young girls and taking them under the cover of night. Days later, a grisly calling card would be left for the families to find. He became known as “The Boogeyman” and the rural town of Knorr, and the surrounding communities, have done all they can to forget those terrible days when no one was safe, not even when nestled into their own beds.

Warren arrives and starts asking questions. He stays in a small cabin just outside of town. It’s a nice place, exactly what he’s looking for. There’s just one strange thing: a big, heavy black phone at the top of the stairs. It’s not connected to anything. The phone is just a decorative hold-over from the party line days. Something about it disturbs Warren, the way something about Knorr disturbs him, as well. Someone is hiding something about “The Boogeyman.”

Then the killing starts again.

And, in the middle of the night, a phone that should never be able to ring – begins to do just that…

Excerpt:

“It’s perfect.”

Warren Hollis stood in front of the mostly-wooden cabin and smiled.  Around him was nothing but the soft hiss of nature itself.  The sound was comprised of the leaves of the impossibly green trees rustling in the breeze and the soft drone of insects.  The summer sun struggled to push its way through the canopy of leaves and etch its way across his arms and the back of his neck.  The sun didn’t cause the sweat to break out across his face and run down his back. That came just from the humidity, which seemed to make the air as thick as a blanket but much less comfortable.

“I’m glad you think so,” said the thick, short-haired man standing less than ten yards away from him.  Glen Dahane was a round man, but he wasn’t fat.  The moment Warren saw him he realized the man was mostly muscle beneath the stretched fabric of his shirt.  He reminded Warren of the strong men he sometimes watched compete on some obscure sports channel as they threw beer kegs over their shoulders and over a bar set high.

“If the inside is anything like the outside, this is exactly the kind of thing I am looking for,” Warren said.

The house was modest and it was old. It was also mostly made of wood with a large front window that overlooked the front lawn and the forest around it.  The driveway was crushed gravel that wound down through the trees before depositing any vehicles that might be upon it on a two-lane road that could only be called a highway as part of a joke.  The house was two stories, but it was not very big.  It was just as Warren had hoped.

Warren was in rural western Pennsylvania because he had a project that brought him here.  Warren was a writer and, more to the point, he was a true crime writer.  If there was one thing that helped him write, it was getting away from the crazy and busy life he had back in Chicago.  The house he was looking at right now was exactly the type of house he loved to live in when he was working on a project.

“Shall we check out the inside?”  Glen asked.

Warren gestured toward the door.  “Lead the way.”

The living room was large.  The walls were wood paneled.  The inside of the home smelled like pine.  The furniture was a surprise.  It was remarkably new, although it looked like it had been ordered online from some modern place like IKEA.  The couch looked comfortable, however, and the television looked flat, large, and modern.  Warren guessed that there was a satellite dish somewhere attached to the roof.  The space immediately inside the front door ran around toward the back of the home.  One area of that large space, behind the living room area, had a dining room table.  Adjoining that was a counter that attached to the kitchen, making a breakfast nook.  The kitchen had modern appliances that gleamed silver.  Beyond that was a sliding glass door and huge wooden deck that faced the spacious and neatly-trimmed back lawn.

“Wow,” Warren whispered.

“I thought you’d like it,” Glen said.

Warren walked through the living room.  Then he trailed his hand across the kitchen counter and over the stools that sat beside the counter.  He couldn’t help but smile.

“Is there much upstairs?”  He asked.

Glen shrugged.  “There’s the bathroom with shower.  Then a little loft space that I figure you can use for your writing.  Oh, and there’s the bedroom.”

Warren smiled again and shot up the stairs.  The stairs were made of wood and they creaked in a way that delighted him as he bounded up them two at a time.  He immediately turned right and down the short hallway and into the bedroom.  The large king-sized bed in the room took up much of the space.  The heavy bedroom door appeared to be made of wood capable of stopping a cannon ball.  There was a closet and a dresser in the bedroom and the bed’s blanket was a dark blue that Warren just loved.

Outside the bedroom, and to his left, was the bathroom.  It was small with a toilet just behind the door, and a mirror on the wall.  There was also a claw-foot bathtub.  Surrounding the tub was a rail and from that was a shower curtain.  It would only have been better, in Warren’s opinion, if he would have to get the water from a well and warm it up on a wood-burning stove.

He ran out of the bathroom and stopped to look at the loft space that emerged just out of the short hallway that led to the bedroom.  It was perfect and he planned on using the desk that sat there, overlooking part of the living room and the front door.  He smiled.  This was just what he wanted.  He looked down and saw that Glen was still standing there looking at him.

“Sorry,” he said.  “I guess I was getting just a little carried away.

Glen nodded.  Warren turned and was about to head back down the stair when he stopped.  It was something he had not noticed before when he had done his mad dash up the stairs.  It was an alcove, cut into the wall.  It was not very big, perhaps just big enough to hold a small vase of flowers.  However, instead of flowers and a vase, what sat there was a thick black phone.  There was nothing remarkable about the phone.  It was just black and squat.  It was a very old phone, he decided, and when he reached out to pick up the receiver he felt the huge heft and weight of it.  The blackness of his phone had faded, a bit, to a strange gray, as if time and air had conspired to suck it of some of its life.

“What’s this?”  Warren asked, as he walked back over to the stairs.

“What’s what?” Glen replied.

There was something strange about the phone.  Warren couldn’t really put his finger on it.  It was like it was pulling him towards it.  He shook his head and walked towards the tiny alcove again.  He lifted the receiver of this phone from a different era.  Behind it was a thick cable that vanished into the wall.

“Oh, that,” Glen said.

Warren jumped when the other man spoke.  He hadn’t even heard the man walking up the stairs and there he was, suddenly, right next to him.  Warren could smell his breath and there was a faint sourness to it.  Warren wondered if he had eaten something like onions for lunch.

“This is quite a phone,” Warren said.  “Is it connected to anything?”

Glen shook his head.  “No, that’s a hold-over from another era.  Back in the day this whole area was on a party line.  You had to listen to your own specific ring when a call came through and just about anyone throughout the community could pick up the phone and listen in.  It was quite a mess, but it was pretty common out in the middle of nowhere like this place is.  Anyway, the party line is long gone.  I just keep the phone because, well, I kind of like it.  Plus, it just fits so nicely in the little alcove there.”

He shrugged.  Warren smiled.

“I love it,” he said.  “It just adds to the charm of this place.  Plus, hey, given the weight and heft of this thing, if a bear attacks me I can use it to beat the thing to death.”

Warren’s smile got bigger and Glen smiled back. The two of them laughed.

“OK,” said Warren, “this is a done deal.  Let’s get all of the paperwork signed.”

Three weeks later Warren awoke to a bright sun streaming in through the window of the cabin.  He yawned and stretched and then scratched himself for a bit.  He bounded out of the room and down into the kitchen.  He had spent several days stocking the kitchen and the house with what he knew he would need.  Then he had made sure he could get an Internet connection and then promptly put his laptop  aside and dragged his heavy manual typewriter up to the desk he had placed near the edge of the loft space.

Warren mostly wrote fiction and he published them himself.  They sold moderately well, and he made a decent living with them.  However, he really made his money by writing his true crime books.  That was why he was really in western Pennsylvania.  He was here because of the murders.

The murders happened about twenty years ago.  A series of children were abducted from their bedrooms and murdered.  They had been horribly violated and butchered.  There were five known victims and the killer had sent letters to the local press, taunting them with his brazenness and his ability to commit the crimes.  Then, after two years of keeping the small towns in western Pennsylvania in fear, they had suddenly stopped.  He had been known simply as the Boogeyman. A name based on the childhood monster that lurked in closets and snuck up on sleeping children.

To Warren that was not a particularly good name.  He, however, did appreciate that the killer was not well known outside of the state of Pennsylvania.  So, when he was looking for another topic to write about, he found very little written about this string of murders.  It was just the kind of thing that his publisher loved.

Like a lot of writers, Warren was a bit eccentric when it came to his writing.   He was not a Luddite.  He had a laptop with an Internet connection and he had a scanner and a printer and everything else.  He just enjoyed writing his first drafts using the large black Underwood typewriter he found at an estate sale when he first started his writing career.  Was it tough to get ribbons?  Yes, but he found a guy in New York who supplied him and he had dozens of them stock piled.   Was it tough to keep it maintained and working?  Yes, but the same guy in New York was willing to do repairs at a reasonable price.

There was something about using the ancient machine that he loved.  The keys were difficult to work and you had to punch them to get them to type.  There was also a certain kind of magic to rolling a piece of paper into the typewriter, hearing the clacking of the keys, and the dinging sound of the return.  It was real work using the thing and he liked it.

He rarely used outlines when he was working on his fiction.  He preferred to let the words just flow from him.  He sometimes had character bibles and he kept a Moleskine notebook with him at all times filled with ideas and characters, but he rarely had outlines.  When it came to his non-fiction, though, he outlined everything.  He took pages and pages of notes in another Moleskine that he always designated for each project.  His desk would become completely buried in papers.  At the moment, his desk was only starting to develop a serious case of piles.

He picked up his notebook and thumbed through it.  He had lots and lots of papers filled with clips from the newspaper from years ago.  Too many of them were filled with photos of parents in tears and their entire worlds shattered.

He spent the morning working on the outline in his notebook.  He sat back, rubbed his eyes, and stretched.  Outside, he could hear birds chirping and the wind was blowing gently through the trees.  He decided it was time to go for a walk.  That, and he wanted to venture down to the local newspaper and see if he could talk to the editor.  While it seemed unlikely that the editor who had been running the paper during the days of the Boogeyman was still around, Warren hoped the current editor might have some knowledge of the case or at least know where the paper’s coverage of the events surrounding the killings might be.  He had an afternoon of gazing at microfilm ahead of him.

He stood up and heard both of his knees pop.  He smiled as he gazed down at the living room and the dining room that he could see from his perch.  The sun was streaming in through a window in the kitchen.  He watched dust motes drift lazily through the beam of sunlight.

Warren had spent a lot of years working in offices.  He could still remember, with a shudder, the days he spent driving to work and working long hours in a cubicle farm.  Warren was quite sure that human beings were not meant to work in mazes and in tiny spaces that were smaller than your average prison cell.

He had wanted to write since he sat down at his mother’s electric typewriter way back in the third grade.  He pounded out a story that was all of three pages, just one long paragraph, and horribly plotted.  However, it had given him a kind of rush that he still felt every time he sat down to write.  Even when he was writing non-fiction he still felt the rush of telling a story.  Sometimes it was the only time he truly felt in control of things.

College came and he took his father’s advice and studied something he thought would lead to a job.  Or, at least, that was what he told his father he was doing.  He studied radio and worked on the campus radio station and graduated expecting to take the radio world by storm.  Somehow, instead, he stumbled into the world of human resources.

Warren spent eight years in HR hell before his two creative worlds came calling to him again.  He got a part-time gig in radio and he wrote his first novel.  He eventually gave up the radio work, but he soon had enough clients as a freelancer to write full time.  Eventually, he squirreled enough money away to start writing books again.

The air outside was warm and the sky was bright.  He took a deep breath.  The air smelled differently than it did when he stepped outside of his apartment in Chicago.  Most he smelled plants.  In Chicago, he smelled engine exhaust.  He decided to wander down to Glen’s house, which was not far away, to see if the guy wanted to have lunch with him.  So far, Glen was the only local he had really met and befriended.

Glen’s house was about three football fields away from where Warren was currently holed up.  He had made the walk several times.  The most intense time was when he would walk back after dark.  Warren was, inherently, a city person.  Walking in the woods in the pitch blackness was something he was not used to.  The sounds of wildlife around him was enough to make him nearly wet himself.  He was used to the sounds of traffic which could keep other people awake all night.  He actually could sleep through a series of fire engines screaming down the street, but the sound of thousands of crickets chirping outside his cabin was enough to keep him awake until the wee hours.

Right now, however, the sun was out and the sky was blue.  When Warren looked up he could see wispy clouds moving lazily across the sky.  He could also see the contrails of what appeared to be dozens of airplanes.  Warren was also used to living near O’Hare International airport where you could almost see the windows and wave to the pilots in the planes.  Out here, he was far enough away from the airport that the planes were tiny dots in the sky and the only sign of their passage was the thick white cloud that they left behind.

The gravel of the driveway and gravel road crunched beneath his feet.  He could hear insects buzzing in the high grass on either side of the road.  He could also hear something that he assumed was farming equipment out in a field in some indeterminate distance.  Sounds were funny out here in the country, he discovered.  When the wind shifted he could hear the highway which was about ten miles distance, and when it blew the other way he could hear the farm equipment from a large farm about five miles in the other direction.

He could see the roof of Glen’s house as he began to round  a bend and down a slight incline.  He loved Glen’s house.  He could easily fit about three or four of the cabins that Warren was currently renting inside of Glen’s house.  The house was three stories tall and had a basement.  It also had three bedrooms, two of the upstairs, and two and a half baths.  It had a huge front porch that extended across the front of the house and there was a bench on chains that allowed the person sitting to swing pleasantly.  There were also chairs and it was the perfect place to sit and drink a beer or an iced tea or some other beverage.  It was the kind of place that made Warren think he could get used to living in the country.

He could smell something delicious wafting from Glen’s house.  The man was always cooking something.  He could also hear something mechanical going inside the home.  Warren paused, his brow wrinkled, and realized it was some kind of circular saw or something like that.  He had never thought of Glen as being particularly handy or crafty, but he wondered if maybe the guy did carpentry work in his spare time.  Someone had to do the repairs on the cabin that Warren was in and the whole thing was made of wood.

Warren kicked at a stone, sending it tumbling into the high grass.  He was smiling.  Then, he paused.  There was something dangling from the blades of the high grass right in font of him.  He furrowed his brow again.  It was white, fluttering in the breeze like a kind of flag.  It wasn’t a flag, however, that much he could tell.  It was some piece of clothing.

The Dead Phone, by Bryan Alaspa
Available at:
Amazon

When Darkness Falls, by R.G. Porter

Posted: January 21, 2012 by Shaina in Ghosts, R.G. Porter
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When Darkness Falls, by R.G. Porter

When Darkness Falls, by R.G. Porter

When Darkness Falls, by R.G. Porter
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble

Description: A desire to be reunited with her dead twin is about to become very real….

Gwen’s had a tough year. With the anniversary of her sister’s murder approaching, she finds she isn’t ready for the real world. Her friends have another plan in mind. A visit to the mountains, and a weekend of fun, is what they promise. None of them expect it to be the trip to somewhere they didn’t plan and one that may cost them more than they could have imagined.

On a deserted road, they collide head on with another vehicle. Certain she is about to die, Gwen never expected to wake up in a strange hotel. With the presence of hotel’s caretaker, and a vague request to follow the rules, she begins to wonder just where they ended up. As her friends begin to vanish, Gwen knows her time is running out.

With danger around every corner Gwen searches for a way to escape—

before one wrong choice is made and she loses her soul forever.

Excerpt

Chapter One

You’ve got nowhere to run.

Screams, cries and a loud crash of doors slamming shut echoed behind her. Death was on her heels and she wasn’t about to stop and ask questions. Everything around Lisa kept changing. Rooms were gone, friends had vanished and hallways were longer than before. No matter where she turned, she couldn’t get out. She had been dropped into a labyrinth that didn’t end.

“There’s got to be a way out!” she cried.

Not stopping to listen, she kept going, running further and further down the hall. Her feet were going as fast as possible, but it didn’t feel like enough. She was moving in slow motion or so it felt, stuck in a movie that was drawing to a close. Lisa slammed her fist against the nearest wall. She wanted out.

A sharp turn to the left, and she found another long hallway sprawled out ahead of her. This wasn’t right. She had been running for hours but hadn’t made any progress. She had been careful to not run in circles, but the place had morphed into a maze that didn’t end. Every turn she made led into another, none of them leading anywhere useful. Stopping to catch her breath, she tried to calm her mind.

“Where did we end up?” Thunder cracked from outside, the walls shuddering in response. The place had turned into a warped version of a fun house. “House of horrors is more like it,” she muttered.

You won’t get out.

The voice continued to haunt her, its bone-chilling monotone ripping straight through to her soul. The voice wasn’t coming from around her; of that much she was sure. No, it was sent directly into her mind. People would say she was going crazy. Right now, she would prefer that than the hell she now found herself in. If this thing hunting her wanted to drive her over the edge, it was doing one hell of a good job.

Stop and accept your fate.

“Go away!” Lisa shouted, her breath coming in gasps. “Leave me alone! I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Her cries fell on deaf ears. Over and over the voice kept hounding her. She wanted to scream, to give in and make it go away, but she couldn’t. Deep down she knew she had to find a way home. Stubbornness ran thick in her blood, and she wasn’t about to stop now. Adrenaline pushed through her body in response. She had survived this long; she would find a way out.

Biting the inside of her lip, Lisa drew a deep breath. “No, I won’t let you win,” she cried out. “You can’t have me.”

Her eyes raked left and right, looking for her tormentor, searching for something she might have missed. The hallway was vacant, except for her. At least, that’s what it wanted her to think. She had learned quickly that nothing was as it seemed in this place. In the distance she heard a growl, the same sound that had hunted her for the last twenty-four hours. Every time she looked for the source she found nothing. Now, in the distance, she sensed movement that hadn’t been there before. Shadows began to crouch closer but never more than that.

“Go away,” she whispered. “Let me go home.”

Silence was her only reply. She was beginning to hate the quiet creek of the old place. She had come with her traveling companions, now they were missing. The screams she had heard over the last few hours had been more than enough to make her want to get out. Getting out had proved to be much more difficult than she had first expected. This place was determined to keep her put.

Another growl made her turn. She felt a cold wind rush across her and shuddered at the touch.

“It’s not real,” Lisa called out. “It can’t be.”

Many doors led from the hall but none had helped her. Her body pressed against one after another. None budged.

“Come on, please,” she begged, every part of her body feeling weak. “You can’t all be locked.” One of them had to be unlocked. Still each one held fast, the thick wood rebuffing her. As she came to the end of the hall, a window faced her with one door on either side. It was like a mirror image of the rest of place. She peered through the dusty glass only to find the same view as all the rest. As with the other windows, shutters were secured against the window pane. From the small slits, she caught sight of faint grey fog outside. It was all she could see through the tiny cracks.

“Dammit.” It was the same thing she had seen since coming to this place. “I swear I never want to see fog again.”

Another stomp and she turned to find something approaching from the far end of the hallway. Darkness and shadows cowered in the corners. She tried to focus on what was approaching but found she couldn’t. Her stomach knotted at the small glimpses she caught. It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be real.

Deep growls filled the air, louder than before.  If she screamed she wasn’t certain. Her heart pounded in time with the knocking of the wind outside. She had to find somewhere to hide and quickly. The thing that faced her wasn’t something she could fight and win. Given the chance, it would rip the flesh from her skin if she remained; that was a death she didn’t want.

Her arms pushed against one of the doors. It didn’t budge. Turning, she held her breath as she pressed with all her remaining strength against the opposite one, the wood softly creaking beneath her weight. She felt hope spring within her. “Please God, let it open.”

It would give, she knew it, she had to believe it or else all was lost. Another push or two and it creaked even more. Backing up a step, she closed her eyes and kicked out with her leg with every bit of strength she had left. The door gave just enough for her pry it open and squeeze through the crack. Rushing inside, she could still hear the sounds of hell approaching. Slamming the door behind her, she bolted the lock and placed a chair in front of it, leaning her body against the dark wood.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. A hard slam against the door made her jump. Whatever had followed her wasn’t happy. She prayed with everything in her that it would go away.

“Hey there, what are you hiding from?”

A deep voice startled her. Turning she found her guide, Drax, staring back.

“What are you doing here?” From what she had heard, he had been one of the first that had gone missing.  Her head felt clouded the closer he got – a buzzing that had come and gone many times before that she had learned to ignore. “Where were you hiding?”

His face held no emotions. “I’m fine. Can’t you see that? I just took off for a bit.” He moved closer. “You seem scared. Relax. Everything is going to be fine. Here, come with me. I’ve found a great place to hide. Nothing can get us there.” He motioned to her to follow. Part of her wanted to run, but the pounding on the wood was a stark reminder of what waited for her outside the door. Glancing about the room, she tried to find another alternative but there was none. Two doors were available. One in the direction that lead away from this room, the other back the way she had come. The latter wasn’t an option. She turned back. “Fine then,” she whispered. “Lead the way.”

He was gone as soon as she spoke. How he had moved so fast was unsettling. Nevertheless, she could still hear him in the adjacent room. She could hear him speaking, but she couldn’t understand his words. From what she could tell, the area he had gone into looked brighter than the rest of the rooms she had been in. Torn as to whether to follow or not, she found her feet taking her forward of their own accord. Lisa tried to stop but found she couldn’t. There was a compulsion she couldn’t find the strength to resist.

As she entered the room, she looked up to find Drax facing her. “You’re fine, now come on.” His hand reached out to her, but she hesitated. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“You seem different,” she answered without thought.

“Now stop it. Everything will be fine. I promise.” His thick accent hadn’t lessened since she had met him before the tour.

“How can you be sure?” she asked.

His smile faded. “I know more than you know. You are right where you need to be.”

“What do you mean, right where I need to be?”

“Trust me. The answers are perfect.”

Curiosity as well as concern pushed her forward. She didn’t stop, didn’t try to this time. He might have the answers to where everyone had gone. She was tired of trying to find out for herself.

“Hey,” she began, “do you know where the rest went?”

“They are where they need to be as well,” he answered, not once turning to face her. “Now let’s go.”

Through the doorway and into another room, she could feel her skin grow cold even with the warmth that the room appeared to hold. Turning to look back into the room she had just left, her body shook. Darkness crouched and waited for her.  Never in her life had the shadows taken on a life of their own as they had in this place. A flicker of something in the darkness caught Lisa’s eye. There was a familiarity to it she couldn’t place.

“There is something very wrong with this place,” she whispered. “Why were we brought here? It doesn’t make sense.” Confusion filled her mind with unanswered questions. More than that, she just wanted to go home. Gwen would make sense of it all, she always could.

Turning, Lisa found Drax was back in front of her. She noticed that his skin was torn around his neck, stretched with strange patterns. Biting her lip, she was too scared to ask what they were. As she tried to recall where she had seen it, he drew his arms around her and pulled her close. The coldness of his skin felt odd in the warmth of the room. Nothing seemed right, but she couldn’t pull away; his embrace was too strong. Leaning back to ask him a question, her words died before they were formed.

Soulless eyes stared back at her, his skin no longer a healthy tone but pale blue and lifeless. The spark of humanity she had seen previously had been replaced by something else, a vision more sinister that now held her in its grips. She tried to turn away, to get out, but found she couldn’t. His strength was greater than hers. In the seconds that followed, the cold and darkness began to wrap around her, sucking the life from her soul.

“Your turn has come.” She recognized the monotone voice she had been hearing in the hallway. “All comes in time.”

The memory of all that had happened before came rushing back. How had she forgotten?

Drax had killed himself, or so they had thought. Hung from the rafters from what the others had said. Why hadn’t she remembered? Around her, the room began to darken, shadows taking what remained of the flickering light.

Reap what you sow.

“Oh God, Gwen, I’m so sorry.” Her whimpers barely escaped the darkness. “Forgive me.”

The doors opened and slammed back shut, her screams lifted high into the air only to be silenced by the wind.

When Darkness Falls, by R.G. Porter
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble

The Punished, by Peter Meredith

Posted: January 21, 2012 by Shaina in Ghosts, Occult, Peter Meredith
0
The Punished, by Peter Meredith

The Punished, by Peter Meredith

The Punished, by Peter Meredith
Available at:
Amazon

Description:   12-year-old Curt Regis lives the carefree life of a beggar and a thief. Homeless since the age of six, he uses his guile and street smarts, as well as a glib, smooth lying tongue to reign as king of the street rats. So when he is caught breaking into a school and is sent back into foster care for the ninth time, he is quite confident that not only will it be a short stay, he will also be gone again in a day or two with a new set of clothes on his back and his bag filled with silverware, jewelry and maybe if he is really lucky, a Play station to pawn.

However, his luck has run out. This time he is sent to what many in the corrupt foster-care system consider the perfect home. It is a home from which no one has ever runaway from. A beautiful home where not a word of complaint is ever heard, where in fact, very few words are ever spoken and where the only real sounds that disturb the stagnant air are the screams of the punished.

Excerpt:

Blessedly, Curt was yanked around then and the sight of those awful teeth digging into the soft flesh of Darla’s face was lost to him. Her screams on the other hand were not, they were clear and exact, loud with the agony of slow death.

They pierced his mind and he had trouble thinking past them. He blinked stupidly at the person in front of him. It was Paul, who had turned him around, and his face was a warzone. A battlefield where rational fear and insane panic fought for control of his features, but Curt caught only a flash of this before Paul shoved him into his room and threw him bodily onto his now familiar bed.

Curt struggled up thinking what a tremendously stupid thing to be doing just then. He should be running for his life, but Paul pushed him back down again and covered him over with his blanket.

“No matter what, don’t come out.”

The words were hissed in his ear through his covers and the desperation in Paul’s voice made him stop struggling at least physically. Mentally he felt besieged. The endless screams echoing in the otherwise silent hallways, the vision of the larger than life teeth and the near certainty that the house was alive washed relentlessly over his mind, making him feel as though his brain was being squeezed into nothingness.

He could sense his ability to think clearly diminishing. All that came to him were an annoying series of questions but hardly any answers.

Was he really going to hide from that creature, that thing, beneath his blankets as his five year old self would have? Where were the others? Were they hiding like a bunch of retarded children as well? Shouldn’t they all be hightailing it out of there while the thing ate Darla? Was that thing an actual ghost or perhaps something worse?

His own failing logic could only answer one of those questions and that was the first one. Yes, he would lie under his blankets and keep absolutely still. He realized he had been doing this, hiding from this creature, every night since he arrived, every night but the first that is. All along, he had thought it had been Miss Feanor, who came at night but in reality, it was this thing and she was afraid of it as much as he was.

How hiding under a blanket kept the creature at bay, he didn’t know, or how sound played any part in this, he didn’t know that either. Nor the fastidious cleaning. Nothing made sense.

And nothing would as long as Darla’s shrieks continued.

At first, her misery struck him so keenly that he cried beneath his covers, sobbing in empathetic fear for her. But her screams went on for so long that ultimately, his tears dried up and he could only clamp his hands over his ears and hope that they would end before he went mad.

They did end eventually and then his fear was no longer empathetic, but personal, selfish and he became afraid only for himself.

Crreik.

He should’ve expected this. The creature crept up the stairs quietly and as it did, he began to shake beneath his covers. By the long fifth step, he was nearly in a panic, because his muscles wouldn’t stop shimmying about. In desperation, he curled into a ball and grabbed his knees with all of his remaining strength. This helped, but oddly seemed to forced the shaking into his chest, where it felt as though his heart were about to explode.

Suddenly he remembered the note he had left in his pocket and his horror-stricken mind recalled every incriminating detail of it. He was sure just having it on his person was likely cause for a punishment and after what he had seen and heard, he knew he’d do anything to keep that from

happening to himself. Grabbing the note, he stuffed it quickly into his mouth and only barely began to chew when the creature entered his room.

Saliva flooded around the note, but he refused to swallow just in case it would make noise. The creature moved about his bed, slowly as always, so that soon Curt was drooling like a baby. He didn’t care. Somehow, enough light came through his window that the thing was able to cast a feeble shadow through his blankets. It turned him cold knowing the creature was only inches from him.

But then it moved away.

As the thing went about the house on its usual rounds, he slowly swallowed his forbidden note and the pool of saliva. Curt lay there sweating freely, petrified by fear, and he stayed this way long after the last sly sound of the thing had disappeared. Eventually, his brain became disconnected and he didn’t think, or question or remember, but instead slipped into a waking trance. And judging by how dry the pool of blood would later feel, he laid there for hours.

2

What brought him around was a sharp jab of fingers through the blanket, directly into his cheek. His mind switched back on and his brain started thinking exactly where he had left off and he sucked his breath in sharply with fright. A second later, the fingers jabbed him again, harder. He waited hoping to be left alone, but then suddenly his covers were ripped off of him and he saw Matt standing there. The boy wore unreadable expression. It was certainly not a happy one, nor was it the usual sneering superiority.

With a quick hand gesture, he motioned for Curt to follow him. They went down stairs and immediately he could see the body of Darla. It lay contorted and crushed looking, sprawled in a hellishly unnatural position by the front door, surrounded by an undisturbed pool of dried blood.

Before he saw the body, Curt had wished in his heart that Darla would be alive and hoped that she would only have the terrible bruises and sharp pains as he did on his first morning, but she was very much dead. Very, very dead. He had seen dead bodies before, four of them, nothing could compare to this.

The creature’s large teeth had shredded her clothing and had bitten through her skin in hundreds of places and even where the skin hadn’t been ripped open, he could see that the bones beneath had been broken. In many spots, splinters of bone erupted up out of her flesh and these appeared sharp and bloody. It looked as though she had fallen into a trash compactor on the back of a garbage truck or into some piece of heavy machinery. He grew light headed and felt sick at the sight.

He wasn’t the only one. Miss Feanor had a green complexion under an expression of worry and Matt, who had followed him down, couldn’t stop staring at the body and swallowed loudly repeatedly as he did. Only Paul, the only other person there, didn’t seem like he was going to vomit. He had other problems. His twitch had returned with a vengeance and no part of his face wasn’t effected. He was as difficult to look upon as the body. But they weren’t there to look.

Miss Feanor laid out a heavy blanket and directed Curt and Matt to put the body of Darla Heines onto it. Curt was terribly afraid to touch it, but Paul, who was practically blind from his twitch was clearly useless and so the youngest boy there went to the women’s feet. Along with Matt, he made to pick her up, but her legs bent inward, that is to say the wrong way and feeling the strength in his arms disappear at the sight, he had to drop her.

“Oh God,” he mumbled and knew there was no stopping the vomit shooting up his throat.

Turning toward the staircase, he heaved and retched loudly, but since breakfast had been hours before, only a nasty watery spew came up. The others waited for him in the dead silence, looking greener if that were possible. Finally, shaking and sweating as if he were in a fever, he bent to his horrid

task and with a face twisted and ugly, he helped Matt move the body onto the blanket. They moved her to the garage then, and that was much easier since they could hold the blanket instead of her. Darla was small, like a child herself. And lighter than he expected. Her body went into the trunk of Miss Feanor’s car, which was very tiny, but since she was so horribly bendable, she fit with ease.

Matt shut the trunk with a dull thump and just then, Curt’s knees gave out and he fell heavily to the cement floor of the garage. He couldn’t get up. There was no strength left in his mind or body and his head swam making the room spin and his stomach waver. Matt didn’t help him, yet he didn’t hurt him either, he simply turned his face, dead white and shining with sweat, to the door and left.

With a slack jaw and vacant eyes, Curt watched him walk through the mudroom and then the older boy was gone and he was all alone. The horror of the day had left him dazed and apathetic. He gazed around and saw the garage just as it looked the other two times he had been there. Save for a car, it sat empty. No tools, no bikes, no boxes, no nothing. Nothing but the cold. The cement beneath him was like ice, yet his body was numb and had been since he had watched Darla’s knees bend backwards, and therefore he only felt the cold cement vaguely.

Now he turned his lifeless gaze back to the door and looked into the mudroom and only then did he see what sat catty-corner to the garage door. It was the door that lead into the black pit of the basement, that lead to the creature, the thing. He felt the cold then. It raced up through the hard floor shooting up the sweat of his back.

He was trapped.

If the creature came then he would have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. In the space of time it took for his heart to boom once mightily in his chest, he was up off the floor and flying out of the garage and he didn’t check his speed until he was all the way down the long hall, standing with the others breathing noisily and staring back at the mudroom door. The creature didn’t come up from where it lurked in the basement.

A few minutes later, Miss Feanor left, presumably to dispose of the body of Darla the Caseworker; however, before she did, she ordered them to clean up the blood and of course his vomit.

Compared to handling the mangled body this was simple; nothing in his life would be difficult after that. They were done quickly, Matt going on his hands and knees to inspect. When they were finished, and despite not having had dinner, Matt ordered all of them, the girls included to start on their chores. This was fine with Curt because he needed something to do, something physical, something to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t think about how easily they rolled Darla’s broken body up to get her into the trunk, and besides, he didn’t imagine he would be able to eat anytime soon.

The Punished, by Peter Meredith
Available at:
Amazon

The Horror Of The Shade, by Peter Meredith

Posted: January 10, 2012 by Shaina in Ghosts, Peter Meredith, Science fiction
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The Horror Of The Shade, by Peter Meredith

The Horror Of The Shade, by Peter Meredith

The Horror Of The Shade, by Peter Meredith
Available at:
Amazon

Description:   In all the deepest pits and in all the rank, vile dungeons that make up the illusion of Hell, no fiend is more feared than the dread demon, and for good reason. These pitiless monsters feed on bile and blood, they lap up the screams of the damned, they corrupt and destroy and they hate with an unrelenting fury.

And to release one upon the world is the ultimate in black sin.

When Commander William Jern and his wife Gayle are given an opportunity to move into one of the spacious Colonial homes on the Village Green, they jump at the chance. But the Jern’s new dream home quickly becomes an icy nightmare, as death stalks them relentlessly. It comes unheralded out of the night, and like all of us, they are fearfully unprepared. Yet regardless of his state of readiness, William Jern must face terrors beyond imagination in order to save his daughter whose body had become a frozen vessel for a horror summoned out of the great Void.

With the help of his son Will, a boy struggling to find the courage to be a man, and an old woman, who has foreseen the terrifying manner in which she will die, William undergoes the ultimate test to see how far a father will go, to save his child.

Excerpt:

Adrina was forced to stare into the black pit of the demon’s face. She would stare and stare until she was used up and what happened after that, she was deathly afraid to find out. She hoped she would die before that could happen, but she was certain the demon would not allow it.

She could only stand there and see what the demon wanted her to see, and think what the demon wanted her to think. For the moment, it wanted her to see the surprise it had for her. She was allowed to see the smoke of its body flowing up and around it, and nearer to the interior, she saw it came together to form a streaming liquid gruel. In the foul gruel, there were shapes and it hurt Adrina, deep in her chest to see these. An arm, a face, part of a torso. These would form out of the vile fluid and then sink back in.

The face was the worst.

She knew the face. Pain would grip her heart when she saw the face, screaming in silent agony. It was the face of her granddaughter Emily. The demon had Emily’s soul and was letting it surface so that Adrina could feel her pain too. The demon was enjoying this, but it was a malicious evil joy and it was horrible to feel that sort of joy.

The demon drew them slowly toward it. Everything was being gently pulled into that black pit. Even the smoke and gruel that made the demon’s body flowed continuously up and into the black void.

The air around them coursed into the thing and it was like a wind at her back. It was gently pushing her, so that she leaned back away from the demon. Adrina could feel the heat from her body running off her, streaming into the voracious pit. She could see her breath flow to the demon.

The pit was feasting. Feasting on Tomas, feasting on the priest, but right now it was gorging itself on Adrina. Not just the heat of her life, the demon had opened her mind like a can of peaches and was savoring each morsel of pain, of fear, and especially of sin.

Because the demon wished it, Adrina suddenly remembered the first time, her mother sent her to kill a chicken for their evening meal. She had been seven years old and a little scared, but wanted to prove herself. Adrina had gone to the coop and grabbed up the largest bird and had carried it to the old tree stump. The small axe lay in the grass. The head of it was stained with rust and blood and there were little pieces of old flesh on it. The axe looked like a dead thing itself. Adrina grew afraid to touch it, worried it would move, worried it was not quite dead, and that if she reached for it, it would bite her.

On the stump, the bird squawked in irritation and Adrina jumped. She screwed up her courage and bent to grab the axe.

It was warm.

Her hand drew back and she cast a look over her shoulder at their tiny shanty, but her mom wasn’t about. The axe had felt warm, as if it were alive.

No. It was just a thing, a thing lying in the sun. But it felt like an evil hungry thing that enjoyed the death it caused. What else would it enjoy? Fear gripped her and Adrina nearly ran inside with the chicken. However, she knew her mother would be angry. She would just do it and not think about it.

Swallowing hard, Adrina grabbed up the little hand axe, and discovered not only that it was warm, but it also had a nasty smell about it. Ignoring the smell as best she could, she laid the chicken down, as she had seen countless times and brought the axe down hard.

The ungainly axe turned in her hand and hacked into the chickens back and shoulder. Blood exploded out of the bird and it bounced about in her grip, squawking in terrific pain. Adrina was confused at what had happened and felt unexpected pity at the pain she caused. But pity or not, she had to finish, and she stepped down lightly on the bird to hold it still. The axe was hot, drenched in blood now and as she raised it a second time, she saw it was smiling a gory, blood-dripping smile. There had been no notch in the axe before, but now, one was plainly visible and it looked to be a wicked, hungry, toothy grin.

Horrified, Adrina swung the axe down a second time, but again the axe, slippery with blood, turned to the side. This time she struck its back dead center and she had to pry the axe out of the bird that still squawked terrifically, drenching Adrina with its blood. The axe did not want to let go of the bird, it seemed to have a hold of it and Adrina had to work it back in forth in the frenzied bird before it would come out.

The wide grin was larger and bloodier.

Adrina knew what else the axe liked more than death, and that was pain. Death could happen in an instant but pain lasted longer. Seven-year-old Adrina threw the axe from her, terrified. She let go of the chicken and it tried to run, but it veered off sideways, falling over. The axe lay grinning in the sun enjoying the spectacle, while the chicken took a long time to die, flopping about in delectable agony. Adrina stood drenched in blood and crying…

Adrina gasped.

She was back in the almost silent room with the mumbling priest and the demon. Her stomach rolled over, she was going to be sick. Still she stared at the silent black nothingness in the demon’s face, while her throat started to work up and down. Yes, this was good…the demon wanted her to throw up, but not just yet. It enjoyed the gorge coming up in her throat and the heaving of her stomach.

It was like chamber music playing in the background at its cruel banquet. Adrina tried to fight it, but it was no use, next she then tried to force herself to vomit. However, the demon enjoyed this too much; vomiting was like death.

It ended things.

Not only that, there was always a moment after getting sick, where she would feel just a little bit better, even if for a second. Kind of like the feeling, she had at the end of being raped. Maybe sometimes it is more than just a feeling of relief.

“Wasn’t there just a bit of pleasure in it?” The thought that came to her, unbidden couldn’t have been hers; it had to be the demon’s.

“No, you liked it!” It had to be the demon. It had to be.

“No, no, I didn’t like it, it was…” Adrina cried aloud.

She wanted not to remember the rape. However, the demon wanted it from her, and as she stared, she was powerless to stop it. The demon could force itself into her mind, so that she felt wide open, like an open book… open as her legs had been the first time with Claudio Butolask.

“No!” she screamed. However, the fiend sucked the sound directly from her throat, and she barely even heard herself.

Her legs had been pried open brutality with a harshness that seemed unnecessarily sadistic. The nails of his right hand dug deep and cruelly into her flesh making her bleed. Her mind screamed but she was afraid to make even the slightest noise, she had been warned. And she believed he would keep his promise.

Butolask had held the long knife between her legs and had asked which she wanted in her, him, or the knife? He told her if she chose him, she would have to ask nicely…

“Mother! Mother!” There was someone calling to her from a great distance. It sounded like she was at the beach and the wind whipped away the shout, before it could reach her ears. A hand grabbed her roughly and tried to pull her around, but the demon’s gaze from across the room was like a magnet and there was no denying it. Her body turned, but her head and neck didn’t, they twisted horribly as she was forced to stare.

A hand came down in front of her vision, mercifully blocking the sight of that foul unending void. Her mind was suddenly closed to the void, but the demon was still all about her demanding more, hammering at her. It had just been enjoying the time she had killed her first son, Stephan. Oh yes, that was a long, slow agonizing memory. Adrina was being forced to remember every terrible detail of it and the demon wanted to make sure she wouldn’t forget Stephan’s wife, yes she was dead too.

“Mother! Look at me!” She felt slow and stupid and old. Every one of her sixty-eight years pressed down on her as if they were bricks. She had no strength to turn around, to face away from the demon. It was almost too much even to stand and her legs began to shake.

Suddenly and mercifully, the presence of the demon, beating at the edges of her mind lifted. She was no longer its focus; it had looked away.

Adrina fell to the floor, on her hands and knees and vomited. She vomited again and then retched repeatedly. The vomit drew her eyes to it with ghastly fascination. The half-liquid runny mess drained toward the demon as if it was running down hill. It reached the base of the smoking fiend and started to drip upward into the smoke. Adrina began to gag uncontrollably at the sight, unable to breathe.

Tomas grabbed her up in his arms from behind and lifted her off the floor, turning her away from the demon. He held her briefly, but as she began to breathe easier, he spun her around and yelled into her ear.

“You are ok. Can you hear me?”

She looked into her son’s face. His eyes were so terrifically red and blood shot that they seemed almost inhuman.

She shook her head viciously back and forth, trying to clear it of the visions and the horrific feel of the demon rampaging through her mind. These slowly slipped away to haunt her just below the surface, but at least she began to think for herself.

It was then that the priest screamed, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Please! Please, I didn’t mean it!” His face wore a look of fearful desperation and his eyes seemed to spin madly in their sockets. “No! No! Please I didn’t mean it! Take her instead!” He got up from his knees and swaying like a drunk, he came at Adrina.

Tomas gave him a quick shove away from his mother and Father Menning fell to the floor still screaming and begging for forgiveness. As they watched in horror, he started tearing at his own eyes frantically and blood stained his fingers.

“Mother, what do we do?” Tomas was desperately afraid and his eyes stayed glued to the priest as he mutilated himself. She knew they had almost no time before there was nothing left of the priest. After that, it would be one of them. And Adrina knew that the demon would go for her again, she still had so much pain left to agonize over.

“I don’t…I…don’t” she said hesitantly. There was one thing she could do, but the consequence was too great, and in her mind, she saw again the gun in her hands and the blood spraying the wall. Deep down she had known that she could save herself by purposely looking into the future, but the penalty for that unnatural act would be the life of her son. Killed by her own hand.

There was always a penalty.

This was why she hesitated. Save herself or her son. There was no hope for the priest or poor Emily. She could look into the future or…

“Run,” she said to Tomas, but said it so quietly that she could barely hear her own voice. Adrina fought a losing battle against her fears. There was no way she could run; she would have trouble even making it to the door in the state she was in. He was the only one with any chance of getting out alive.

“What?” Tomas looked like he had shouted it, but this too she could barely hear. She looked at Father Menning and he was no longer clawing at his eyes, they were gone, but now he was turning a fantastic shade of deep red. There was almost no time left.

“Run!”

Again, she said it too quietly, barely above a whisper and he bent his head down so that his ear was next to her mouth. “Run please,” the words left her mouth without strength.

She knew what would happen if he left her. The demon would own her soul for all time and the very thought sapped her will.

“You need to speak up!” he shouted and Adrina knew that if he did not start running in the next couple of seconds, he wouldn’t make it, but she was so afraid to be left alone with the demon, that she hesitated and the seconds passed.

Her entire being shook with fear, but somehow she summoned the strength to yell.

But then there was no more time. She knew it.

Adrina had taken too long. Her eyes were drawn to the priest and he was now a repulsive purple color. Her son would never make it out of the house alive. She had killed him with her cowardice and there was nothing left to do but to save herself.

The Horror Of The Shade, by Peter Meredith
Available at:
Amazon

Bright Links Dark Links, by Su Yin Tan

Posted: December 28, 2011 by Shaina in Thriller and Suspense, Ghosts, Su Yin Tan
Tags:
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Bright Links Dark Links, by Su Yin Tan

Bright Links Dark Links, by Su Yin Tan

Bright Links Dark Links, by Su Yin Tan
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords

Description:   Jeanie Shen, a young woman with the unwanted ability to see and communicate with spirits, went on a blind date and met Sam Wu, who had just moved into a large, sprawling bungalow, not knowing that it was the venue of two strange deaths earlier in the year.

On her first visit to Sam’s home to meet his family, the spirit of a frightened young boy connected with Jeanie, pleading for help against an evil man. Not long after, Sam was violently attacked at his home after a mysterious bottle the thief was stealing smashed into a million pieces.

As they dig into the history of his place, a spate of missing boys hit the news, bizarre in that only twins were involved, always with one missing and one left behind alive. The same pattern was uncovered in similar incidents in other countries, confounding the police who, assisted by Jeanie and Sam, raced against time to stop a demonistic masterplan from taking place.

Excerpt:

AN OLD CHINESE SAYING

It was like looking into the mirror. The girl reminded Jeanie of herself when she first met Robert; young, untouched, curious about the world and ready to blossom. In no time, this waif of a girl would become a trendy, self-assured woman, more worldly under his hand. She might have a good chance of making the relationship work for she did not suffer the same blight as Jeanie.

For Jeanie Shen, twenty-eight years old, successful marketing director of Shosen Solutions, had what the Chinese called ‘kou yen’ or dog’s eyes.

There was an old Chinese saying that when dogs howled at night, it was because they saw things which were not of this world. People, young and old, get goose bumps when they hear their woeful cries. Those born in the year of the dog under the Chinese zodiac were believed to be able to see things from another realm. The affliction manifested itself to some when their health was poor. Others could feel any unearthly presence but saw only shadows. Yet a minority, for better or worse, could see these beings, be it night or day. There was a convention those who had this gift obeyed. Eyes had to be lowered so as not to warn the spirits that they had been sighted, otherwise, they would approach the humans for help.

Jeanie could see spirits. The old, white-haired lady with eyeless sockets who often sat beside Robert was not with him at the supermarket. It was at his house that the apparition often appeared. Jeanie knew better now not to disclose such things to anyone. Unlike her, the thought of the spiritual realm coexisting with the living unsettled most people. Robert was no exception.

Pushing away the bitter memory, she forced a smile on her face – once, twice – just as the self-help gurus had instructed. Hopefully, the smile would show in her voice. Taking a deep breath, she shot a prayer heavenward and picked up the phone.

LOVESTRUCK

Rolling up his sleeves, he went about the work. In no time, the damaged wheel was removed. He hauled the spare tire out from the boot, fitted it into place and, with his foot anchored against the wheel, secured each lug nut with a quick spin of the wrench. Satisfied, he released the jack and turned to Jeanie.

She had moved a few feet away from him, clutching her arms again with her hands, face blanched of all color.

“Jeanie?” Sam straightened, taken aback by her strange expression. “Is something wrong?” He reached out to take her hand but she backed away, matching step for step, keeping a distance. Her wide eyes seemed transfixed on something behind him.

Just as he was about to turn to check what it was that arrested her attention, she snapped out of her trance. “No, don’t look back!” she said in a breathless voice. “I mean … don’t bother with the car. I’ll get AA to handle it first thing tomorrow morning. Come, let’s go!”

Without waiting for him, she hurried down the lane, then stopped short at the fringe of the car headlights, as though afraid of plunging into the dark on her own. As she stood there, her large eyes pleading him to follow, hands wringing each other like sworn enemies, a primeval urge to protect her hit him like a shot of lightning, knocking him off-balance with its intensity. Never moved before by any girl in all his thirty-one years, in spite of the many friends his five sisters had introduced to him, there and then, Sam fell, for the very first time in his life, totally, absolutely and most hopelessly, in love, smitten by the skittish and most certainly, terrified girl standing on the penumbra, half of her cloaked in darkness and the other, washed in bright, white light.

Excerpts:

THE LINK

When the sound came, not around her, but in her head, she flinched but kept her cool. It was a whisper, a hiss, then more whispers. She cast her mind about for some clue as to where it emanated from, but there was no one in the kitchen. The cabinet was there, as before. So was the table. As though reliving the events of the day, Jeanie focused her eyes on that shaded corner next to the cabinet.

Prepared though she was, the army of shadows unfurling from that same spot startled her, driving her back with a physical force. As they darted towards her, she flung her hands up to ward them off. It was useless. They passed right through her as though she was thin air. Her senses rocked with the tornado of smell that assailed her. It was pungent, cloying, the stench of dead rats. A chill swept over her as though someone had opened the door to a giant freezer.

She whirled around to see where the apparitions went and this time, the resistance was gone. She was able to move fast. In the blink of an eye, she faced the opposite direction, stunned at a smooth white wall standing right in front of her, so close that her nose was just inches away. She stopped short, feeling disoriented. When did the kitchen shrink to this size?

The sound came again, a cacophony of whispers, sending a shock wave of goose bumps up her spine. She released a shuddering breath. As though her exhalation shifted the air around, particles of the wall, as fine as powder, blew away, bit by bit, unveiling ridges and bumps on its surface.

Rooted to the spot, Jeanie watched the ridges tremble ever so slightly. Two of them cracked open, showing white, glassy marbles underneath, each with a small grayish orb in the center. As she reared back, another two popped open, then another two. In front of her horrified eyes, they widened and … blinked. A yawning black hole gaped open below each pair, then another, and another and finally, a whole rash of them. And in unison, they wailed.

The scream froze in her throat as she came hurtling out of the nightmare, the wail echoing in her ears. She bolted up in her bed, staring wildly at the reeling darkness. Her chest heaved with the effort to breathe. As the familiar shapes came back into focus, she let out a shaky breath and tried to still her pounding heart. That was when she saw him.

She shrieked – it came out as nothing but a rasp – and backed into the far corner of her bed. It was a small boy, not much taller than the chair he was standing next to. His body was translucent, fading in and out of the shadows, so much so that she could make out the outline of the bookshelf behind him. If she had been less worked up earlier, the normal warning of goosebumps on her skin would have alerted her to his presence.

“Get away!” She forced the words out through stiff lips.

He flinched, cowering a little as though to ward off an imaginary blow.

“I said get away!” She gritted her teeth and enunciated the words more clearly, her voice low and angry. The shock was wearing off, replaced now by a growing sense of indignation. Her private sanctum had been invaded; her security breached. She knew her place to be free of all supernatural presence. She had checked thoroughly before she bought the apartment. How did this ghost get here?

The boy remained where he was, fixing a glazed stare on her. The light grey irises in his eyes made him look almost blind. He was thin, with a narrow face and a shock of hair on his head. The crumpled white shirt he wore looked baggy against his small frame, draping over his hunched shoulders like a poncho.

“In the name of Jesus, I —” She stopped as a scrawny arm arched upward to dash across his eyes. He looked so harmless and pathetic, only a small slip of a boy ghost, unlike the many ghoulish ones she had encountered before. If he had been a real boy, he would have been no more than ten. Surely he could not harm her in any way.

Jeanie took in a deep breath. “Who …” She tamped down her fear. “Who are you?”

He hesitated. Then, his mouth opened, its shape reminding her of the black gaping holes in her dream, but no sound emerged.

She leaned closer. “Who …”

“Lek Lek.” She almost missed it. It was a wispy sound, registering in her mind two seconds after his mouth closed.

“How did you get here?”

“Followed … you.” Again, a few seconds apart.

“Followed me?” she fairly shrieked. “From where?”

“From kitchen.”

Her goose bumps rose with a vengeance. The thought of being stalked from Sam’s house to the restaurant and then back to her home was creepy. If he could follow her, what about the others? And why did her internal warning system not work?

“How … how did you do that?” It came out more as a whine.

“There is…” The voice in her head paused, as though searching for the right word. “A link.”

“A link? But how?”

He bowed his head. “By … touching you.”

The shadows seemed to darken and crowd in on Jeanie. The thought chilled her. If any ghost could touch her without her knowing, and in so doing, create a link to haunt her, what an endless passage of fear her life would become. The ability to see paranormal occurrences was already an affliction. Now, the added revelation made it a hundred times, a million times worse.

“Why did you follow me?” She was almost too afraid to ask.

“Scared.” His plaintive cry hit a note in her heart. His glassy eyes glinted with what looked like tears. Do ghosts cry? She found the thought strange.

“Bad man,” he whimpered. “Scared of him. The others too.”

She groaned. This was all too much. She regretted visiting Sam and his family. If she had not gone to his place, she would not be conversing with a boy ghost now, right smack in her bedroom in the dead of night.

She had enough problems of her own. Her job was in the midst of change. Her boss had been pressing her to take an overseas assignment, confirming her suspicions about the future of the regional office in Singapore. She had just gotten over a painful breakup with Robert. Sam, while nice, had a whole clan of women in his family she had to contend with. And now, this. A likely flock of spirits who could infiltrate her sanctum.

Jeanie rubbed her eyes and hugged herself tighter, feeling her spirit plummet. She had vowed never again to reveal this secret of hers to anyone. Now what? Should she warn Sam? If she did, he could freak out, just like Robert, and that would mean the end of their fledgling relationship.

Closing her eyes, she dug her head in between her knees and heaved a sigh, feeling downright wretched. Perhaps Sam was not such a good idea after all. There must be other decent men around, with less family baggage and certainly less complications with spirits in their homes.

“Please,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Go back.” She shut her mind to the whispery protests, willing him to disappear. Five minutes later, she raised her head to check and he was still there.

“Just go, okay? And don’t come back.” Without another word, she turned away from the boy, pulled the blanket over her head and waited for day to come.

 Bright Links Dark Links, by Su Yin Tan
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords

Amador Lockdown, by Coral Russell

Posted: December 22, 2011 by Shaina in Coral Russell, Ghosts
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Amador Lockdown, by Coral Russell

Amador Lockdown, by Coral Russell

Amador Lockdown, by Coral Russell
Available at:
Amazon

Description:  Something has moved into the Amador Hotel. Hector, Marcos, Bev, and Tony of the Paranormal Posse are called in to either debunk the haunting or get rid of whatever is causing the problems. With the surprise arrival of Hector’s son, he tries to keep his professional and personal lives separate, but whatever is haunting the Amador Hotel has other plans.

Excerpt:

Three shadows glided down the alley between the Amador Hotel and an office complex. The sound of sneakers skidding to a halt reverberated between the walls of the buildings. At the back corner of the hotel, the shadows bunched up and paused.

“Okay, smart ass, the place is locked up. Now how do we get in?” Nelson whispered.

Julio’s plans weren’t that specific. He and Xavier had been two galans during Dalia’s quinceanera. She’d come to school a couple of weeks later waving around a picture of the Honor Court on the balcony, with a black shadow hovering behind her. That night, Julio started looking up information about the Amador Hotel, and ran across the news articles on the LC ComicCon and the Restore the Amador fundraiser. The news chalked it up to electrical problems in an old building, but Julio thought something else might be happening.

“The news said some windows were broken. Look,” he said, pointing down the back of the building. “It looks like two windows are boarded up. If we can get a corner loose, we’re in.”

A large, paved parking lot spread out behind the building. The closest lights were the streetlamps at the other end of the parking lot. Julio paused to make sure no cars were traveling around at three in the morning. “Go, go, go!”

They ran to the first window. “Xavier, you keep a lookout. Nelson, help me get the window open.” They both yanked at a corner of the plywood. It didn’t budge. “We should’ve brought a hammer,” Xavier whispered.

Nelson reared back and kicked at the board. The board didn’t budge, but the sound echoed out over the parking lot. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Xavier whispered.

“You can’t kick it in,” Julio said, as he grabbed Nelson’s arm and pulled him toward the next window. “This board looks warped. Try this corner.”

Xavier stood to the side as Julio and Nelson dug their fingers up under the corner of the board and yanked. A small squeal of metal answered their effort. “Otra vez…again. This time, brace your foot against the wall,” Julio instructed.

Nelson did what Julio asked. Julio nodded, and then both boys yanked again. The board gave a loud crack, but didn’t appear to move much. Julio knelt down to inspect the corner. It was loose, and when he pulled upward on the corner, a nice-sized gap appeared under his fingers. “We can squeeze in,” he said, standing up.

Nelson, the biggest of the three, turned around and knelt with his back to the wall under the window. He grunted as he squeezed first his head, and then his torso, up behind the board. He felt hands pushing his legs. “Hey,” he yelled, “cut it out!”

“There’s a car coming!” Xavier said.

“Oh, shit.” Nelson braced his palms against the top of the windowsill and shoved. When the backs of his knees cleared the windowsill, he let himself tumble backwards onto the floor.

Julio’s head appeared a second later and, as soon as Nelson could get a hold under his arms, he yanked him clear of the window.

Xavier stuck his head inside. “Pull me in!”

Nelson grabbed Xavier’s arms and pulled until his feet and knees went thunk on the carpet.

“Owwwww! God damn it!” Xavier rolled over and clutched his leg.

“What?”

“Something cut my leg.”

“Where?” Julio asked, flicking on his flashlight.

Xavier rolled his blue jeans halfway up his calf. “Here.” A red line, oozing pinpricks of blood, started at his ankle, and then disappeared further up his calf underneath his blue jeans.

Nelson thumped him on the back, and then grabbed him under his armpits and lifted him to his feet. “I’ve had worse cuts on my eyeball.”

“Shut up! That fucking hurt.”

“Quiet,” Julio hissed. They all froze, listening for sounds of an approaching car or the whoop-whoop of a siren. “I don’t think they saw us.”

There was a ‘click,’ and then a small beam of light shone out from the flashlight in Xavier’s hand.

“My leg hurts,” Xavier complained.

“Pussy,” Nelson said, as he poked Xavier in the ribs.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Seriously?” Julio motioned toward the doorway with his beam of light. “Let’s do this.”

“Hey, where’s my flashlight?” Nelson asked.

“I thought ??? told you to bring one,” Julio said.

“No,” Nelson said.

Julio and Xavier exchanged a look.

“Here, take mine.” Julio handed his flashlight to Nelson.

They made their way slowly through the back rooms to the main hall. They stopped, and bobbed their lights up and down on the staircase. “This is where we were when that picture was taken.”

“Okay,” Nelson said. “Now what?”

“Xavier, why don’t you sit down on the steps while we go upstairs and have a look around?” Julio suggested.

“We should stay together.” Xavier’s voice wavered in the gloom.

“I thought your leg hurt?” Nelson asked.

“It does, Nelson, but we should stay together…just in case.”

“In case of what? A strong breeze ruffles your hair?”

“Julio, why did you invite this pendejo?”

“Nelson,” Julio said. “Come on, I thought you wanted to check this out.”

“Check out what? This ghost crap? I don’t believe in it. I just thought breaking into this place would be cool.”

“Okay, fine. Nelson, you stay down here. Xavier, come on.”

“We should stay….”

“Xavier, just come on!”

Julio followed Xavier up the staircase, and turned left at the landing to walk up the small staircase leading to the hotel rooms. Xavier flicked the light back and forth. “There’s a room back here.”

As Xavier played his light around, Julio said, “There’s nothing here. Let’s check the other rooms.”

They walked down the hall, and paused before each wooden door. The doorknobs felt slick under Julio’s hand. They poked their head into room after room.

“It’s just a big, empty building,” Xavier said, disappointed, after Julio shut the door on the fourth room.

“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” Julio said, tugging something out of his pocket.

“What?”

“This.” Julio held up a slim, gray, plastic stick with a rainbow of small light bulbs at the top. “It’s a K2 meter. You know, like the one ghost hunters use on TV. They say ghosts give off an electromagnetic field. No lights, no ghosts. Lights, there may be ghosts.”

“Damn, bro, isn’t that expensive?”

“I bought it second-hand. It’s so old I have to stick a penny in here just to keep the thing on.” Julio pointed to a penny jammed a quarter of the way in at the top of the on/off button. He opened the door to a room. “I’m going to walk in the room, and you stay here. Hopefully this baby will light up.”

“What do the different lights mean?”

“It starts out green; then, as they get closer, the colors change to yellow and orange. If the ghost is right on top of you, it’s red. It will stay on red as long as the ghost is near.”

Julio walked around the perimeter of the small room, keeping the K2 meter pointed in front of himself. He reached Xavier. “Nothing. Let’s try the next room.”

“Hey, guys!” Nelson called out from below.

Julio and Xavier walked to the wooden railing and leaned over. “What?” answered Julio.

“This is boring. There’s nothing here except some old furniture.”

“Nelson, you can leave if you want. Thanks for helping us get in. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“Nah,” his voice faded as he walked out of sight underneath them. “I got nothing better to do… which is sad.”

“We’re almost done up here.” Julio opened the next door, and Xavier shone the light on another empty room. The rooms were not much bigger than a closet. He took slow, measured steps around the perimeter of the room, holding the K2 meter out slightly ahead of him. He was walking back toward the doorway when they heard a hard thud from downstairs.

The light left the room as Xavier lit up the railing. “What was that?”

Julio followed the wall the rest of the way to the door, and then stepped out into the hallway. “Nelson,” he called out. He watched Xavier’s beam of light flit back and forth along the main hall below. They heard another hard thud. Nelson’s flashlight rolled out into view from underneath the landing. A second later, Nelson fell hard on his backside to the right of the light. Xavier jogged toward the stairs, his leg apparently feeling much better.

Julio leaned over the railing. “Nelson, you all right?”

Amador Lockdown, by Coral Russell
Available at:
Amazon

Base Spirits, by Ruth Barrett

Posted: November 22, 2011 by Shaina in Ghosts, Ruth Barrett
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Base Spirits, by Ruth Barrett

Base Spirits, by Ruth Barrett

Base Spirits, by Ruth Barrett
Available at:
Smashwords, Amazon

Description:

‘Murder has took this chamber with full hands
And will ne’er out as long as the house stands.’
~A Yorkshire Tragedy, Act I, Sc. v

In 1605, Sir Walter Calverley’s murderous rampage leaves a family shattered. The killer suffers a torturous execution… but is it truly the end? A noble Yorkshire house stands forever tarnished by blood and possessed by anguished spirits.

Some crimes are so horrific, they reverberate through the centuries.

As an unhappy modern couple vacation in the guesthouse at Calverley Old Hall, playwright Clara, and her scholar husband, Scott, unwittingly awaken a dark history. Clara is trapped and forced back in time to bear witness to a family’s bloody saga. Overtaken by the malevolent echoes, Scott is pushed over the edge from possessive husband to wholly possessed…

Inspired by a true-life drama in Shakespeare’s day, this is itself a play within a play: a supernatural thriller with a historical core.

Only one player can survive.

Excerpt:

York, England- 1605

Sir Thomas Leventhorpe had failed the victims in life. He could not fail them now.

Though he longed to be anywhere else that August dawn, his choice was irrefutable. The noble family murders had left him as the village of Calverley’s highest-ranking citizen, and he bore a duty to witness the conclusion of its history’s most tragic chapter. It was his sacred charge to stand present for those innocent lives cruelly dispatched by the very man that should have loved them most.

He lingered in the stark main corridor of Clifford’s Tower, waiting to accompany the killer on his final procession. There seemed to be a delay. From what Leventhorpe could gather, the entourage was incomplete. He glanced about the small, silent group and caught the eye of the anxious man standing at his side—the only other soul afflicted with first-hand knowledge of the horrors that had led them to the Tower. Leventhorpe ventured an encouraging smile at the murderer’s former servant, but John’s pale, scarred face was stony. Sir Thomas touched the younger man on the shoulder and felt him quivering like a nervous beast, his arms tightly wrapped about himself in a desperate embrace. The brutal April morning at Calverley Hall had shattered John. Withdrawing his hand, Leventhorpe wondered why the lad had come to this dread place to be reunited with his nemesis. Perhaps in his own way John had no choice but to see the tragedy through to its conclusion. Leventhorpe could offer him no real solace but to share the burden of bearing witness.

In the Tower’s stairwell door, a grizzled magistrate stood lost in thought, tugging gently at his beard. The elderly head gaoler, Master Key, waited outside the prisoner’s cell door. A younger, assistant gaoler tapped his foot loudly against the flagstones and glowered toward the doorway at the opposite end of the corridor, a sneer playing on his lean face. Turning to his superior, he grumbled in a low voice: “That idiot boy is late again—and today of all days! I say we have tarried long enough.”

Master Key held up his hand. “Be thou patient, Jack. The magistrate is not yet concerned with the time. Hugh must be present to learn the proper order of how matters proceed.”

Leventhorpe’s skin prickled at the thought. He dreaded having to witness the ‘matter’ in question, and felt pity for the unseen boy who would today be taught the finer details of his trade.

Footsteps pounded up the outside stairs and—as if overhearing his cue—a scrawny lad of no more than twelve skidded into sight. White-faced and out of breath, Hugh blanched still further as the men turned as one and fixed him with expectant looks. Giving an awkward bow of his head by way of apology, he staggered as he took a halberd down from the wall hooks. Jack strode over to collect the apprentice and hauled him into place by the ear. Leventhorpe was close enough to hear the gaoler’s hissed threats.

“Yer in luck, boy. The magistrate himself was late to rise, else ye’d be wishin’ ye could trade places with our esteemed prisoner.”

Master Key shot his underlings a sharp glance from beneath his heavy grey brows and they ceased their disruption. Key unlocked the door, and he and Jack entered the cell.
Leventhorpe heard the muted clanking of chains and after a moment, Sir Walter Calverley was led out between the two men. Leventhorpe’s stomach twisted at the sight of his former friend and neighbour. He caught John by the arm, steadying him as the lad’s knees buckled. Neither had seen Calverley for months—not since his hellish rampage. Although Calverley was thin and drawn, he held himself with dignity. He wore a fine black doublet, and his lace cuffs and collar gleamed in contrast to the gloom of the corridor. Leventhorpe couldn’t help but think that Calverley was very well dressed for a dead man: he must have set this outfit aside in anticipation of the occasion. Calverley did not so much as glance in their direction.

Master Key cleared his throat and nodded to the magistrate. The procession began its descent into the bowels of the Tower, the close quarters of the stairwell making for an awkward single-file progress. The stately magistrate set a careful pace for those behind. Leventhorpe and John followed next, with Master Key leading Calverley. Jack and Hugh took up the rear to prevent any chance of the prisoner’s escape.

Time of day carried no meaning as they moved down into the still depths of the Tower. No one spoke: the only sound was the scuffling of heavy-booted feet. Flickering torches from the wall sconces lit the way, casting long, dancing shadows on the muted grey stones. Leventhorpe had the sensation of being buried in the earth as they moved ever deeper. He kept his eyes lowered, mindful of the uneven stairs, eroded by countless footsteps over several lifetimes. Suddenly, a rush of iridescent green-and-black beetles scattered out of the men’s path. Leventhorpe felt a brief flash of delight to see something so lively—these animated jewels—existing in such a bleak place.

At the foot of the tightly coiled stone staircase lay a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway. Leventhorpe glanced along a seemingly endless succession of closed doors and gaping antechambers. Today’s method of execution—‘peine forte et dure,’ less elegantly known as ‘pressing’— could take several hours. His throat constricted. Already he found the dank air putrid and hard to breathe. The clammy walls, coated with an orange mildew, gave off a pungent odour. Here and there between the cracks in the stones grew a strangely pretty fungus with pale yellow flowers. Leventhorpe touched a curious finger to a cluster of the petals as he passed by. They disintegrated instantly and left a lurid smear on his fine lace cuff.

Lord, I pray this ends quickly—

At last, the magistrate came to a halt and peered around to catch the eye of Master Key. Jack and Hugh stepped ahead to replace their Master’s hold on the prisoner. Hugh’s hand clearly shook as he tried to get a firm grip on Calverley’s arm, but he was met with no resistance: Calverley kept his manacled hands clasped before him in the manner of a clergyman and focused his dark eyes into the shadows at the far end of the passageway. Leventhorpe was again struck by the man’s poise. Of those present, he seemed the least moved by what was about to take place.

Fumbling at his belt for an oversized key, the old Master slipped to the front of the group to unlock the low, windowless portal. He heaved his stooped shoulder against the recalcitrant door and swung it inwards. The magistrate ducked his head as he entered the chamber, followed by the others. As Key lit the torches in the iron wall sconces, Leventhorpe blinked and looked about the room. A wide plank of coarsely hewn oak leaned against one wall. Beside it was a heap of stones, each roughly the same size—twelve to fourteen pounds in weight. Four iron rings were set into the flagstones in the centre of the floor. The room was otherwise barren. Once the condemned man was safely inside, the door was shut and bolted. Leventhorpe felt trapped.

“Make him ready,” said the magistrate.

As placidly as a docile horse, Calverley allowed himself to be taken by his chains and roughly stripped by Jack. The assistant gleefully assessed the clothing as he folded each item. Handing the garments over to Hugh, he winked at the boy’s dumbfounded expression.

“For safe-keepin’, lad. A boon for me. They’re about my size—and he won’t be needin’ ‘em in Hell now, will he?”

Leventhorpe was shocked by the outrageous theft but no one else seemed fazed. It must be routine in such matters, he thought. Perhaps it was considered part of the assistant’s payment.

Calverley was made to stretch out face up on the cold floor. A jagged stone was placed underneath the small of his back. His ribs standing out in sharp relief, he arched his body upward to accommodate the work of Master Key’s calloused hands. The prisoner’s long limbs were pulled into a cruciform position and shackled to the iron rings. At a quick count of three, the two gaolers heaved the plank from where it stood. With a grunt, they laid it over top of Calverley’s naked torso. The strain showed immediately in his breathing.

From where he stood, Leventhorpe had the clearest view. Only the doomed man’s face was visible at the top edge of the plank. Leventhorpe looked closely at his one-time friend. Calverley’s full lips were parted as he gasped from the burden already on his chest—and the anticipation of what was soon to come. Beads of perspiration dotted his moustache and beard, and sweat soaked the thick waves of his dark hair. Leventhorpe felt sick with pity. For all that Calverley had so brutally performed to visit this fate upon him, his serene determination from the outset to lighten the work of his own executioners gave him the aspect of a martyr.

Perhaps he hath repented. Will he at last speak his mind to the Law?

Leventhorpe could not catch his eyes to ask this silent question. Calverley had disconnected. He fixed his unblinking gaze on the grimy ceiling, entombing any emotion he may have felt deep within and unreachable.

The magistrate stepped forward from the corner, where he’d been absorbed in the examination of loose threads on the hem of his cloak. He had paid little attention to the tasks of the others. Master Key pulled his apprentice out of the way and made him drop the bundle of clothes he’d been hugging to his chest.

“Ye’ll need to keep yer hands free now, son.”
The nervous boy leaned his halberd against the wall, where it slipped along the moisture and clattered to the floor. Already skittish, Leventhorpe and John started at the racket, and John pressed up against his back as if to be shielded from the very Devil. The magistrate clenched his jaw and waited for the echo to subside. He spoke in a strong voice that belied his great age.

“You had your chance to speak before the Assizes. You chose silence. I therefore put it to you here and now for the Crown, and before these good men: Sir Walter Calverley, how do you plead?”

Leventhorpe stood waiting by his friend’s head. John’s nervous breath was hot on his neck.

There came no reply from Calverley but laboured breathing.

“Very well—” The magistrate stepped aside and nodded to the gaolers. “Lay on the weights.”

With a mason’s ease, Jack handed the stones one by one to his superior, pausing to allow Master Key enough time to place each stone securely onto the plank. The harsh sound of the weights grating together set Leventhorpe’s teeth on edge. He watched as the face above the plank turned a hot red and twisted into a grimace. Gasping, Calverley groaned involuntarily.

“Stop—” Raising his hand, the magistrate stepped forward and leaned over the tortured figure. “We can proceed quickly, or we can draw this out. The choice is thine. I once saw a man linger under the press for three days. Again: how do you plead?”

Calverley said nothing.

The magistrate sighed and signalled to the executioners. Master Key, worn out by his efforts, doubled over in a fit of coughing. Hugh thumped him hard on the back. It only made matters worse. The old gaoler shook his head and gestured for the apprentice to take over as he retreated, leaning against the far wall and catching his breath. Hugh looked unsure of himself as Jack thrust a heavy stone into his arms. All eyes were upon him. The boy hesitated. His knees threatened to give out as he squatted down and placed the stone so gingerly upon the plank that it had no perceptible effect on Calverley. The next stone shoved into his sweaty hands was a good deal heavier and the boy lost his grip, dropping the weight with great force onto the plank. A strangled cry erupted from below. The boy leapt back. John gave a low groan—almost a growl—as Leventhorpe’s throat constricted with dry heaves.

“Hold!”

At the magistrate’s command, man and boy paused in their work, and Master Key clapped a steadying hand on Hugh’s shoulder. The magistrate stooped to assess the progress. Leventhorpe’s sight blurred with tears. The tendons on Calverley’s neck were so strained that surely they might snap at any moment. Veins protruded at his temples and his wild eyes bulged. Leventhorpe could no longer recognize his neighbour’s once-handsome features.

“So? How do you plead?”

Calverley made a liquid gasping sound, but no actual words came forth to admit either his obvious guilt or impossible innocence. The magistrate lost all patience. His voice rang sharply off the chamber’s walls.

“Do not be tedious, Calverley! Thy family’s blood was seen on thy very hands by this good gentleman!” Leventhorpe winced as the magistrate jabbed a finger in his direction. “This man—thy servant—bears the scars from the vile attack!” John ducked his head down on Leventhorpe’s shoulder, hiding his face. “Again. For these most foul of crimes, how do you plead?”

Calverley croaked out a few inaudible words. Leventhorpe felt a flutter of hope. Mercy in the form of a swift hanging would be shown if a plea—any plea—was made. The magistrate would then have the authority to seize the condemned’s remaining property for the Crown, and the executioners’ work would be made relatively simple. Leventhorpe could return home and leave this waking nightmare behind. Perhaps poor, broken John could come and work at his manor, and he made a mental note to put an offer to the lad… afterward. Leventhorpe bent down over the grotesque visage to better hear Calverley, whose lips were moving weakly and running thick with bloody spittle. The magistrate encouraged the prisoner in a gentler tone.

“Very good, Calverley. Speak again. Your plea?”

Calverley gave a terrible wet gurgle and repeated himself in a faint rasp. John gathered his nerve and peered over Leventhorpe’s shoulder. Calverley’s eyes rolled and came to rest on John’s face.

“They—that love Sir Walter… lay on—a pound—more weight…”

Leventhorpe felt John’s fingers dig into his arm at the sound of his former master’s voice, then the lad leaned in closer to the man who had caused such grief for so many. Calverley’s words were no more than a whisper. All held their breath.

“I swear they shall—have nothing—more—of me—but my skin—John.”

The two men exchanged a look of mutual understanding, and John’s manner transformed. All signs of fear were gone. Releasing the grip on Leventhorpe’s arm, John stepped away from the nobleman, drew himself up to his full height, and loomed over the dying man. Somehow, through his death’s-head grimace, Calverley smiled.

“Good man. Ever-loyal—to me.”

In the presence of the young man’s intent focus, no one was sure how to react. John raised his boot and calmly set it on the plank. With a huge final effort, Calverley nodded. John obeyed the silent call to duty and began to lean his full weight into the wood, never breaking his gaze from that of his master’s.

“No, John!” Leventhorpe grabbed the servant and tried to pull him away. John roughly shoved him aside, determined to perform this ultimate mad act of service.

“Will someone not control this cur?” the magistrate bellowed.

Leventhorpe desperately cast his eyes about for help, but both Hugh and the formerly brash Jack both seemed equally frozen by shock. Master Key stepped in. He could not hope to bodily remove the strong youth from his task, but perhaps words could sway him.

“Do not be a fool, lad. True, ’tis meet to see him dead for his crimes, but not by your doing. ’Tis my charge to fulfill—mine and my brethren’s. Heed me: fair or no, in the law’s eyes this deed is as much murder as those he hath committed, and thou shalt be made to pay the price. I beg thee—stop.”

Sweat dripped from John’s brow as he redoubled his efforts.

A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber. With a final surge of blood bubbling up between his cracked lips, Calverley’s rattling breath ceased. His eyes glazed and rolled back in his skull.

No one spoke. As Hugh threw up in a corner, the senior gaolers recovered themselves enough to step up, take John by the arms and pull him back from the press. John met Leventhorpe’s look of astonishment with a triumphant half-smile.

“Sir Thomas, do not judge me.” John’s lip curled as he turned his reddened eyes back to Calverley. “Tis blood for blood. Now, I am content.”

Base Spirits, by Ruth Barrett
Available at:
Smashwords, Amazon

Where Darkness Dwells, by Glen Krisch

Posted: October 11, 2011 by Shaina in Ghosts, Glen Krisch
Tags: ,
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Where Darkness Dwells, by Glen Krisch

Where Darkness Dwells, by Glen Krisch

Where Darkness Dwells, by Glen Krisch
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:  Summer, 1934. Two boys, searching for a local legend, stumble upon the Underground, a network of uncharted caverns. Time holds no sway there; people no longer age and their wounds heal as if by magic. By morning, one boy is murdered, while the other never returns. Below a town ravaged by the Great Depression, an immortal society thrives, built on the backs of slavery and pervasive immorality.

Prologue

Knowing he wouldn’t comprehend the weight of her words, Greta spoke to her son.  ”Terrible things will happen to people I love.”

Kneeling near the kitchen table, Arlen worked a mound of clay against the wooden floor.  Face taut with concentration, he rolled the gray slab into thin bands.  He pulled off smaller pieces and worked these as well, setting aside finished pieces to a larger whole.

She wanted him to more than hear her voice; she wanted him to understand.  She was desperate to share her burden.  But it was her burden and hers alone to bear.  Involving others would ruin any prospect of ending decades of pain and degradation of human life.  If people had to die to reach this end, it had to play out through its natural course.  Otherwise, nothing would change.

So she voiced her worries to the only person she could.

“Mama, we still gonna be together?” Arlen asked.  He looked up from the floor where his claywork took shape.  Seemingly disparate puzzle pieces, melding together to form a singular vision of something far more grand.

Her son was no longer a boy.  He hadn’t been a boy in so long, yet he still had a child’s mind.  His tangled beard was graying, his scraggly pate thinning.  While he lived with childlike exuberance, time weighed on her heavily, slowing her movements and shrinking her bones.  She was an old woman, near her end.

Innocence shined in Arlen’s eyes.  He minded adults and would never purposely cause anyone grief.  He had such a kind soul.  Given the choice, she wouldn’t want him to change.  She wouldn’t risk losing who he was for anything.

“We’ll always be together,” she answered him.  ”I will always be in your heart.”

Placated by her words, his mind flitted to other matters.  He picked up a small gray blob, rolled it in his palm.  ”I miss picking with the others.  I don’t mind my gopher hole, but it ain’t the same as the old mine.”

Arlen had worked for years as a pile sorter for the Grendal Coal Company.  Picking coal was a job fit for a child, sitting atop a tipple pile all day, sorting valuable ore from waste rock.  When the company left Summerset seven years ago, Arlen was twenty years older than the other pile sorters.  They’d given him the job, aware he could never advance beyond it.

“You’re doing a good thing for your mom, digging that gopher hole.”

Arlen grinned.  The best part of his smile was an aged, yellow ivory.  The rest, empty gaps and decay.

It had been Arlen’s idea to open the gopher hole at their property’s edge overlooking Tipple Road.  Townsfolk would stop off the main north-south road through Summerset, buying coal Arlen had dug from the shallow mine.  High-grade ore ran in twisting veins just below the topsoil, all he had to do was scratch the surface.  People would procure enough fuel to warm their homes, allowing Arlen to help support his mom.  There were other places to buy fuel–stores and other gopher holes aplenty–but people went out of their way to buy from Arlen.

Arlen pieced together the finished pieces of clay, realizing the image from his muse.

She could tell his thoughts were skittering off to the starry skyscape of his mind.  She continued: “Good people will suffer, oh God in heaven, will they suffer.  If I walked the streets of Summerset, I could point to certain people, say, ‘You will be dead by the first frost.’”

Arlen looked up from his claywork, staring out the window as the moon rose above the trees, a beacon cutting softly through the nighttime sky.

“But it has to be.  Has to be, or nothing will change.”

Arlen smiled.  Her voice had always soothed him.

“Sometimes death leads to life.  Sometimes there’s a greater good.”  She thought back to the visit from the two boys earlier today.  They’d come to her, as all the town’s children did at one point or another, to hear her stories.  Looking those boys in the eye, she told her tales, setting them on the path to their end.  ”Until the day I die, I will damn my ancestors for cursing me with this supposed gift.”

Arlen scooped up his artwork, offering it to her.

She held it in shaking hands.  A gray flower more delicate than the clay of its origin.  Finely articulated petals, a thin, twisting stem.  Beauty rendered from a slab of shapeless gray earth.

She smiled and it was all the thanks Arlen needed, all the approval he so desperately sought.  He looked away, staring once again at the rising moon.

No, she would never wish her son to be different, to be normal.  To be whole.  He was more than the sum of his parts, more than whole.  And he was a better person than her.  Better than those who came before her.

Part I:

1.

July 8, 1934

George Banyon climbed into bed, shucking the covers to the floor.  He was exhausted from rising at dawn and hastily working through his chores around the farm, from meeting up with his friends later on, and as the sun set, attempting to impress Betty Harris by swinging from a tattered rope into the Illinois River’s shallow, murky water.  Just one day in what seemed like an endless string, but regrettably, it would soon end.  Soon he would have to behave like a man.  After all, a month shy of seventeen, he would be graduating the following spring.

On the cusp of sleep moments after hitting the pillow, a tapping at the window nudged him fully awake.

Sitting up, sluggish sweat dripped from his sunburned skin.  He looked across the darkened one-room farmhouse to Ellie’s bed.  His younger sister hadn’t stirred.  It amazed George that she could sleep so soundly with a blanket tucked over her shoulder.  Their father, leaned back in his handmade rocker, had passed out hours ago.  He wouldn’t stir, either.  George would guarantee it.  He could smell his old man’s booze-piss, his pants drenched.

George swung his legs to the floor and stood, hoping the floorboards wouldn’t reveal to Ellie his late night creeping.  He knew who was tapping and so he took his time.  Jimmy Fowler, his best friend since either boy could walk.  Whenever anything caught Jimmy’s interest long enough that he couldn’t keep it to himself until morning, he would come tapping on George’s window.  But right now, all George wanted was to stop sweating, and to fall into a deep and welcomed sleep.  He went to the open window, not a hint of breeze to bring a moment’s relief, and saw Jimmy’s scruffy blond head.  His blue eyes caught the moonlight, revealing his excitement.  He gave it off like a pig’s stinking breath.

“Get your fishing tackle,” Jimmy whispered.

“Are you nuts?  I got to get up at five a.m.”

“Forget your chores.  Won’t matter after what we’re gonna do.”

“You’re still thinking about old Greta’s story?”

“I say we find out if it’s true or not.  If it’s all made up, all that’s lost is some sleep, but if we do track down the beast…”

“Come on, Jimmy.  I’m tired.”

“Just think what Betty Harris will think when we catch him.”

George’s heart fluttered.  He tried not to show it.  He’d had trouble speaking to Betty ever since the sixth grade when he discovered she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.  But something had changed since school let out this summer.  Her friends became friendly with his, mostly because Jimmy’s girl, Louise Bradshaw, was friends with Betty.  It took him halfway through June to strike up the nerve to talk to her.

Feeling confident after surviving a lunatic’s dive into the shallow river, he walked to where she sat on a boulder overlooking the shore.  Acting coy, the sun kissed her tan cheeks.  She closed the sketchpad resting on her lap, but didn’t say a word, just gave him a bemused smirk.  She was always drawing–he didn’t know what exactly–but he found her more appealing for it, more mysterious.  She said hi in her soft melodic voice, which gave him the courage to drum up a conversation.

In the few weeks since their first real conversation, he’d been acting a fool, doing crazier and crazier stunts–acting more like Jimmy than himself–trying to keep her attention.  ”You think Betty would be impressed?” he asked, remembering Jimmy standing outside his window.

“Sure she would.  Maybe she’d even let you take her to see a movie.”

George immediately started planning a first date with Betty.  Borrowing a car, getting gas to drive to Peoria, ticking off a list of stuff to talk about during the drive.  George pushed it all aside, not wanting the dizzying possibility of being alone with Betty to muddle his thoughts.

He would sneak out with Jimmy; he knew it as soon as Jimmy mentioned her name.  George sighed in defeat.  ”Let me get my things.”  He looked at Ellie to make sure she was still asleep.

Then, as quietly as possible, George gathered a lantern, his fishing pole and tackle, and a stale hunk of bread for bait.  He lowered everything down through the window to Jimmy.

“You won’t regret this.”

“Yeah I will.  Like a dog chasing its tail,” he said in a hushed voice.  ”We’ll just spin ourselves dizzy with nothing to show for it.  If we do catch it, I bet we’ll wish we hadn’t.”  He looked in on his meager house.  His little sister, who was for the most part more joy than trouble, and then his dad.  He would be out for a good while yet and wouldn’t notice a thing.  George’s stomach soured as he headed out the window.

Jimmy stopped him with a raised hand.  ”I got an idea.”

“I hate when you say that.”

“How about we bring along your dad’s gun?”

“You really want me to get a whooping, don’t you?”

“I see him over there in his rocker.  He won’t miss it a second.”

George was about to ask why he thought it necessary to haul around such a weapon on a late night fishing trip.  But he already knew the answer.

“Shit.”  His dad’s cherished over/under was a true killing machine, twin shotgun barrels mounted over a still-deadly .30 chamber.  ”Fine.  But he’ll notice it’s gone before he sees my bed’s empty.”

Hearing multiple meanings to his own words, he grabbed the gun from the rack on the nearby wall.

Of all their possessions, only the gun seemed to shine.  Everything else was worn and tired.  The years since The Crash had been rough on everyone, but around the Banyon place, it’d been a sorry sight long before ’29.  Ever since their mom died giving birth to Ellie, and their father’s heavy drinking became commonplace.  Yeah, things had been rough, much worse than he let on, even to his best friend, Jimmy Fowler.  George held the gun protectively as he climbed out the window.

“Turn out your lantern,” Jimmy called out over his shoulder.  They’d left the Banyon place behind, had left Summerset behind as well.  They were cutting across the untended fields north of town, tromping through endless acres of knee-high witchgrass.

“Can’t see for shit,” George said, for some reason no louder than a whisper.

“Don’t you think I know that?  When we get to the caves, we can’t exactly go after White Bane with our lantern all blazing.  No way we’d catch him then.  We gotta let our eyes adjust.” He used his fishing pole like a walking stick, occasionally pushing away the brush.

George couldn’t see his feet, let alone anything up ahead.  Twisting the valve, the golden light seeped away to nothing.  Greta Hildaberg said they’d find the cavern’s hidden entryway after passing the untended acreage a mile outside Summerset.  Just over the last ripple of the last hillock, George could remember her saying.  Before the land turned rocky and no longer tillable, through dense brambles and tangled cockleburs.  They’d all heard about the caverns, all of Summerset’s children had at one point or another, and while they’d listen to Greta’s stories, most everyone thought that’s all they were.  Stories.  But Jimmy, crazy Jimmy Fowler.  If he wasn’t his best friend and if he didn’t look up to him so much, George’d still be in bed.

Jimmy gained some ground on him, snapping twigs and cussing at the tearing undergrowth.  As George’s mind drifted to his morning chores–making Ellie’s breakfast, making sure she cleaned up and brushed her teeth, and the cord of wood needing splitting–the sounds ahead disappeared.  George suddenly felt alone, as if a rift in the earth had opened up and swallowed Jimmy, leaving him in the middle of God knows, not knowing the way home from his own elbow.  He quickened his pace, still careful to avoid the grasping branches, the twisting roots.

When he broke through an opening in the undergrowth, he found Jimmy’s legs kicking out behind him, his top half buried in the ground.  If George weren’t so scared, he would’ve found the discovery quite comical, but now, humor was the last thing on his mind.  He ran to Jimmy, grabbed his thrashing feet, and pulled hard.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Jimmy cried out, his voice muffled by layers of earth.

“I thought you fell.  With your legs shaking, I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”  Thought something dragged you off, George wanted to say, but held his tongue.

Jimmy pushed away from the hole, field grass filling the entryway as he stood.  If George hadn’t watched Jimmy pull free from  hole, he wouldn’t have given the grassy berm a second look.

“I think this is it.”  Even in the dark, George could see his beaming smile.

“What, that hole there?”

“Yeah, it opens up after a few feet.  I tossed a rock down a ways, and it just kept going.  Sounds pretty deep.”

“Well, are we going in?” George asked, his confidence fleeting with the passing seconds.  He hoped Jimmy would change his mind.  Not even thinking about impressing Betty Harris lent him much courage.

“‘Course we are.  We’ve got a legend to slay.  We’ll be heroes.”

“Right.  Heroes.  The two of us.”

White Bane.  The two words prickled George’s spine.   The beast was a two hundred pound albino catfish trolling a vast underground lake.  The lake was real enough.  It had given the local miners constant fits before the Grendal Coal Company pulled stakes.  Decades ago, George’s distant cousin died in a flooded coalmine.  A handful of miners drowned when an ill-placed TNT bundle breached the wall of the underground lake.  The men died a half mile down, forced to inhale the floodwater into their coal-blackened lungs, no one near enough to hear their all-too-brief screams.

Greta would speak about White Bane in her quiet, raspy voice, warning about the beast that ate children who went wandering where they shouldn’t.  As old as the hills, the catfish had long white whiskers and pink, unwavering eyes.  White Bane could smell fear, would be brought to frenzy by it, leaping ashore to snatch at children with its jaws, or whipping them with its powerful tail.  Either way, the result was the same.  You weren’t going home.

George was about to put his foot down by suggesting they wait until it was light out to take on this particular adventure.  But crazy Jimmy Fowler had already thrown his tackle inside and was shimmying into hole’s mouth.  His torso disappeared, then his legs.  With a grunt, Jimmy kicked off with his heel against a jutting rock, then was gone.

“Hand me your tackle.”  Jimmy’s filthy hand snaked from the hole, his fingers grasping for George’s tackle box.

“Sure, hold on.”  George lowered his fishing tackle to Jimmy’s waiting hand.

“How about the gun?”

“I think I’ll hold on to it.”  They both had .22 rifles at home, having hunted small game since they could remember, but the over/under was a special weapon.  It could do a heck of a lot more damage than any old .22.  If he was going to get a whooping for taking the gun, then he was sure as hell going to carry it the whole time.  His dad had been drinking for a week straight and wouldn’t even notice he had snuck out, but if he did wake up to see his precious gun missing…

“Fine.”  Jimmy’s hand disappeared, mild disappointment in his voice.  ”Are you coming?”

“Yeah, right behind you.”  George strained getting inside while carrying the gun and the unlit lantern.  Crawling through the opening, he left behind the night’s gloaming, entering an entirely different darkness.  With his legs inside the hole, the damp, earthen walls felt like they were closing in to crush his body.  He hurried forward, hand over hand, struggling with the gun in the narrow tunnel.  Losing his balance, he fell over the edge, tumbling down a short slope.  After coming to an abrupt halt, he braced himself to stand, his hand pressing against Jimmy’s shoe.

“That sure was graceful.  You oughta be a ballerina.”

“Shut up.”  George looked back through the tunnel to the nighttime sky.  He couldn’t see much when he was outside, but inside the cave, he was as near to blind as he’d ever want to be.

Their voices were different.  As was the air.  It was impenetrable, consuming quiet sounds, while amplifying anything louder than their hushed voices.  Their breathing disappeared; their footsteps sounded like a Roman legion.  George, certain he would soon scream draped in the madness of the darkened cave, flicked a wooden match to light the lantern.  He turned the breathe valve until its glow washed over the far-reaching limestone walls.  He took it as a good sign that the lantern survived the fall.

The lamp pushed back the darkness, but didn’t reveal the entire cave.  He swung the light in a small arc near his knees.  Water had dripped away pockets, eating limestone layers one drip at a time.  Everything was damp, seeping with wetness, shining with cave slime and mud.

They were quiet.  Contemplative.  They shuffled their feet, trying to figure out what to do next.

There seemed to be a zigzagging trail, just wide enough to walk down, winding away from the opening.  The trail descended around a twist in the rock, but it sounded like water trickled in that direction.

“Jesus, you’re going to ruin everything with that damned lamp.”  Jimmy sounded angry, but his face showed relief.

“You want me to turn it out again?”

“No.  I suppose not.  Not since you got it lit and all.”

Jimmy, hesitant for one of the few times George could remember, tentatively headed down the trail.  ”Smells wet.  I bet the lake’s not far away.”  Jimmy made sure George was close by and following.

Spider webs broad as bed sheets blocked a niche off to the right.  After seeing a spider’s measured movements, George swung the lantern in front of him again.  A chill swept over him, and he hurried next to Jimmy.

“Looks like the walls are crying.”  Jimmy trailed a finger along the porous wall.  Mineral deposits stained the trickling water a reddish hue.  To George, it looked more like blood than tears.

“Dead end,” George said after they had walked for a time.  The area seemed to have suffered a cave in.  Boulders and rubble sealed the shaft.

“Can’t be.”  Jimmy, not willing to give up the adventure when it had only begun, hunted the shadows for another way.  George stood right where he was without moving, not wanting to touch or see anything unsavory.  At this point, he’d be happy enough just to turn around and go home.

“Hey, swing the light this way,” Jimmy said.

On his knees at the apparent dead end, Jimmy craned his head under a teetering rock.  Near the floor, concealed by tumbled-over debris, the cavern picked up again under the rubble, sloping at an even steeper grade into the earth.

“That doesn’t look right.”  Doesn’t look one bit safe, he thought.

“The shaft gets bigger.”  His earlier reluctance was gone.  He once again bustled with excitement.  ”Listen… that water is louder.  Sounds like a falls to me.”

Jimmy had a point.  It might not be a waterfall, but it sounded like a heavier flow than the trickle they’d seen so far.  ”All right.  You first.”

George crouched low, holding the lantern inside the opening, lighting the way as Jimmy crawled ahead.  ”Kinda slick.  The floor’s covered in moss.  And it stinks like cowshit.”  Jimmy didn’t seem fazed at all.

“Great.  Can’t wait.”  George followed his friend, followed him when he had a feeling he shouldn’t.  It was the story of their friendship.

The damp moss soaked their clothes.  With steepness of the shaft, it was a minor miracle they reached a plateau without slipping the whole way down.  Once again on level ground, the limestone ceiling was high enough to stand without hunching.  The shaft opened into an extensive alcove.  The twisting path led to a body of water with a surface so smooth and dark it could’ve been a pane of cobalt glass.

“Shit,” George whispered, his breath stolen by the sight.

Water fell from high up near the ceiling–so high the lantern’s light only hinted at the source–to a limestone slab spillway.  The slab, as big as a church altar, dispersed the falling water.  When it dribbled into the lake, it barely dimpled the surface.

“This has got to be it.  Shit is right.  Let’s drop our lines.”  Jimmy approached the water and set down his tackle.  He yanked the barbed hook from the pole’s cork handle, and with the line already carrying a tied-off bobber, flipped his wrist and the bobber went flying.

“You haven’t baited your hook.”  A distance away, George approached the water with caution.  While he didn’t truly believe Greta’s stories, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“I know.  Just want to see how deep it is.  You can tell by the sound when it hits the water.”  The hook and bobber had made a thick, thoomping splash.  The water was deep.  As he cranked the reel to pull in the line, the metal gears sounded incredibly loud.  ”Get me some bread.  I guess that’ll have to do.  Wish we’d had time to dig night crawlers.”

George took the hunk of bread from his tackle box and broke off two pieces.  They baited their hooks and cast their lines in opposite directions, not wanting to tangle in the near-dark.

They sat side by side, the lantern lit and warm between them.  They had no luck for quite a while, and the more time went by without any sign of White Bane, the more George felt at ease.  It was a foolish story, anyway.  A catfish lunging from the water in order to kill kids?  Just an old story to make sure kids didn’t explore the abandoned coalmines marring the Illinois prairie.  He imagined every coal town had a similar tale.

“Don’t matter if we catch him, I’m going to ask out Betty Harris regardless.”  George didn’t take his eyes from his line.  He dipped the pole, dancing the bobber on the cold black surface.  His voice softened, becoming sheepish, “Then I’m going to marry her.  Well, some day.”

“Really…?  Well good for you.  She’s a nice girl.  Tit’s are a little big, more like a cow’s than a girl’s, but hey, whatever you like you like, right?”

“Jackass.”

“I’m just kidding.  I’m happy for you.  Just think about what you’re doing before you do it,” Jimmy said.  The humor had left his voice.  ”That’s all I gotta say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I’m thinking about enlisting.  In the Army.  My mom might have to sign something, but I’m strong for my size.  They should take me, even though I ain’t eighteen.”

“What the hell’re you getting at?”  George was shocked, unable to figure why someone would enlist.  Especially someone whose dad had died not long after coming home from the European trenches, his lungs just about liquefied from mustard gas.

“I gotta be a man.  Make a living for myself.”

“That’s not what we planned.”  Their plans went back many years.  George would take over the farm from his dad and buy the vacant land next to their fallow plot.  Jimmy would work his acreage with his brother Jacob; together, with their mom, they’d make a go of it.

“Yeah.  Things change.”  Jimmy stared at his fishing line.  George hadn’t bothered casting again after pulling in his line.  This was serious news.  What about the picnics with their future wives and future kids?  Sitting on the porch as old men, sipping hard cider and swapping familiar stories?

“What about Louise?”

Jimmy opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then clamped it shut again.

“Jimmy?”

“That’s the problem.  I think I might be a father soon.”

“Christ… really?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, staring at the water.  Eyes widening, he pointed to something cutting through the water.  ”Shit, what’s that?”

George jumped to his feet and reached for his tackle box, ready to tear tail out of there.  Then the fish changed directions and he realized just how small it was.  It might’ve been a bluegill, a crappie at most.  Nothing dangerous.  Neither fantastic nor mythical.  ”That’s a pan fish, dingy.”

“I knew that.  Really I did.”  They both sighed with relief.  Both seemed to want the adventure of searching for White Bane, but nothing of the actual confrontation.  ”I thought you were going to push me in front of you, let that big, scary pan fish get me instead of you.”

“I would have, too.  Don’t you doubt it for a second.”  They laughed.

George swung his tackle box around as he reached to pick up his pole again.  In the process, he knocked the lantern over, sending it cracked and broken into the underground lake.

Instantly, they stood in utter darkness.  Their breath hitched in their throats, otherwise, all they took in from their senses was the cold air.

“Clumsy.  God damn, George.  Now what are we supposed to do?  We’re damn near a mile underground.”

“It ain’t that far.”

“Might as well be.  We’re blind.”

Not knowing what else to say, but needing to hear his own voice, George said, “Well, you said we should let our eyes adjust.”

“You got your matches, right?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got a couple left.  Let me check.”  He patted his pockets, found the smashed box.  He slid it open, felt inside.

“Okay, don’t panic,” Jimmy said.

“I’m not.  I still got three matches.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, just thinking out loud.”

“Hell, just find something to burn.  We can make a torch.”

They hunted around on the floor, their hands encountering mud and flaked rock.  Anything flammable had rotted and disintegrated in the damp atmosphere.

“How about in your tackle box?” Jimmy asked, his voice sounding far away.

“Didn’t think of that.  Let me check.  How about you?  Don’t you have a comic with you when you fish?”

“Let me see…  If I can find my box…  Here we go; Tarzan might have to burn to get us out of here.”  Jimmy tore open his tackle box.  Spoons and hooks rattled as he removed the top tray.   Turning toward Jimmy’s racket, George saw something, a glimmer, a phantom movement, something, in the distance hovering by the lake.

“Jimmy,” George whispered.

“Damn.  Nothing.  I bet Jacob snatched my last Tarzan.  I’m gonna whip his ass when I get home.”

“Jimmy!”

“What the hell are you yapping about?”

“I see something.  At least, I think I do.”  George did see movement.  A flickering light, maybe a reflection off the water, on the far side of the lake.

“Where?”

“Just the other side of the water.”

“Can’t see nothing.  I think you’re going loony.  Wait…  I think I know what you mean.  A wavery light.  It’s dim.”

They both edged to the shore, standing shoulder to shoulder, trying to pick up the slightest detail.  It was so quiet; the blood throbbed in George’s ears as he strained to hear.

They nearly leapt from their skins as heavy chains rattled from somewhere near the phantom light.

Chains? George thought.  ”Shit.  Let’s skinny out of here.”

“Wait, that could be someone.  Give me a second.”  He stepped into the water.  ”Damn cold.”

“What are you doing?  You crazy?”

“Yeah, I think I just might be.”  Jimmy’s splashing formed small waves as he waded deeper.  ”There it is, found the drop off.  It’s maybe eight, ten feet in.  Then it’s deep as hell.”  His splashing increased as he dog paddled away from shore.  ”It is a light, George.  There’s an overhang.  Might be a tunnel or something.  The light’s down the other side.”

“Come on now, Jimmy.  We should find our way back the way we came.”

“What fun is that?  Someone must’ve lit that fire, so there must be someone who can help us get the hell out’a here.”

“Shit, Jimmy,” George said, more to himself than anything.  Even trapped in darkness and without a light to guide their way, George couldn’t stop thinking: Crazy Jimmy Fowler’s gonna be a dad.  Who would’ve thought?  His friend risked everything swimming in water as cold as a witch’s tit, and with White Bane possibly nipping just under his feet.  ”Jimmy?”

Where Darkness Dwells, by Glen Krisch
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

The Black Witch, by Micheal Rivers

Posted: October 5, 2011 by Shaina in Thriller and Suspense, Ghosts, Mystery, Micheal Rivers
Tags: , , , , , , ,
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The Black Witch, by Micheal Rivers

The Black Witch, by Micheal Rivers

The Black Witch, by Micheal Rivers
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:   It was the adventure of a life time. In an obscure marina off the shores of Maryland a schooner unlike any other ever built was discovered. Dorian and Diana Coe purchased the schooner and sailed from the shores of tranquility into the bowels of hell itself.

Prurient tales of suicide, murder, and the disappearance of an entire crew were hand written within the ship’s logs.

On her decks sailed a well seasoned Captain and crew that never knew the schooner’s shadowed past. The new owners ignored the words of men with integrity and sailed the Black Witch in the Spring of 1935.

Into the realms of illusion and pure evil the ship and its compliment sailed never knowing the fate awaiting them!

Chapter One

The year of our Lord, 1935:

  Water rippled lazily, skirting the no wake sign standing stolidly close by the end of the pier. Custom yachts, sport-fishing boats, ski boats, and a wide assortment of both old and new vessels nestled in their berth as far as you could see. The mooring lines gently creaked and groaned from the smaller boats drifting out away to the ends of their lines, only to drift back again. The boats drifted slowly until their bumpers compressed themselves again against the faded wooden planks of the dock.

  Sea gulls rested themselves upon the wooden pilings supporting a weathered walkway leading to the boats moored at the far end of the marina. They glided silently overhead through the mid-day sky, crying out when a stranger approached them from below.

  Gene Avery had been a yacht salesman for nearly six years and had never had a client to arrive at the scheduled time for an appointment. At times this could be a very frustrating arrangement. He had missed his lunch again and his inner thoughts were starting to turn to sarcasm toward his potential clients.

  Mooring slip number thirty-four always seemed to have a run-down appearance. It was not that number thirty-four was different from any of the other slips at the marina. Still, since the arrival of the schooner the appearance of everything surrounding it had seem to lose its charm. Sales had begun to slowly decline. She was big, black, and ugly, yet it was difficult to not feel attracted to her. As you stood looking at her, there was an underlying beauty that was not to be denied.

  Gene stood and studied her from the dock. A great deal of money would have to be spent to restore this old tub. Gene knew he would be happy for a sale on this vessel, not only for the bonus he was promised, but also for the relief of knowing the old eyesore was gone for good.

  Gene turned away from the schooner and watched the young couple approach him. In his mind, he sized them up so he may make the proper approach and not destroy any chances he had of making a sale. He quickly stepped up to them flashing his big smile and shaking their hands in turn as introductions were made.

  “Well sir, as you can see, the schooner is as I described her to you. Come on aboard and we will examine her, so you can see she is still seaworthy. The necessary repairs will take some time, but her hull is as strong as the day her keel was laid. A better price on a vessel like this can’t be found anywhere.”

  Gene flashed his salesman’s smile again and ushered the young couple up the gangplank and onto the schooner’s deck. They inspected her decks fore and aft, both above and below decks, knocking on wood here and there looking for signs of rot, and if so how much damage it had caused. Dorian Coe knew ships and knew them well. By trade he was a ship builder and also helped in designing them. His wife, Diana, had spent most of her life on vessels of all sizes. Boats were of a second nature to the both of them. Dorian turned slightly in his tracks to face the salesman. “Mr. Avery, would you excuse us for a moment? We would like to go below once more before we make any kind of decision.”

  Avery smiled. “Please take all the time you need. If you wish, I could leave you two alone and meet you back at the office at your convenience.” Mr. Avery smiled and offered his hand.

  “That would be acceptable, thank you very much.” Dorian shook hands with Avery and watched him descend the gangplank and walk back up the pier.

  Diana stood leaning against a bulkhead below decks. Dorian stuck his head through the hatch and spotted her smiling face. She wriggled her finger and winked at him. “Follow me sailor, there is something I want to show you.”

  Dorian followed her back to the main salon and flopped himself down on a pair of ragged cushions. Diana stood by a cracked and tarnished porthole. Dorian waited patiently as she stood with her arms folded beneath her breast.

  Diana spoke softly. “You know it would cost us a minor fortune to refit this schooner, don’t you?”

  Dorian nodded. “But, once it is finished, it would be purely magnificent.”

  Diana took a stroll around the salon, lightly rubbing her fingertips across the fine-grained trim. “Do you see all this Mahogany and Teak wood? By the time we replace all of the wood that has rotted, and the metal that has rusted out, rework all the trim, we will have almost built an entirely new schooner for the money we spent refitting her. The addition of radio equipment and other necessities we’ll have to have will be enough to nearly bankrupt us.”

  It was a fact Diana knew her vessels well, but it really annoyed him that she was always calling a ship a boat and vice-versa. Dorian sat thoughtfully examining the interior of the salon. She was right! To refit this schooner was going to be very expensive. He wanted her, and wanted her more than anything he could ever remember wanting. He needed time to convince Diana that the schooner could be fixed up at a reasonable price and that may take more than just a little finesse. Dorian meant to have the schooner regardless! Rising to his feet, he approached Diana with a wistful look in his dark gray eyes.

  “I would suggest we go back to Mr. Avery’s office and get the ship’s log for this beauty. Then, we will put a small deposit down on it until we can check the schooner out thoroughly. If we like what we see and the price is right we’ll buy it. If not, we take our deposit and look for something else.”

   Diana’s thoughts were of a different nature. A “beauty” the schooner was not, but it had great potential. She was not easily fooled, and in her heart she knew Dorian would have this schooner or bust.

  Mr. Avery sat behind his desk calculating the profit he could possibly make from the sale of the schooner. He had known very little about the young couple inspecting, what he so often referred to as the floating shipwreck. They would be impressed with the shine of the brass and then the sale would be exceedingly simple from there. He had to resist the urge to laugh out loud just thinking about it. From the appearance of these people, they had never set foot on anything larger than their neighbor’s Ski boat.

  Hearing the tinkle of the bell above the door, Mr. Avery looked up to see the young couple entering his office. He came out from behind his cluttered desk and offered them a seat and some refreshments.

  Dorian and Diana accepted the proffered chairs and sat quietly as they waited for Mr. Avery to take his seat behind the desk.

  “Now, what did you think of her, Mr. Coe?” Mr. Avery asked anxiously.

  “The old girl needs a lot of work Mr. Avery. Before we can make any kind of decision, there are some things I need to go over before we can do business. Dorian noticed a sudden change in Avery’s facial expression. Mr. Avery quickly changed gears and went on the defensive. “What would you need to continue our discussion on the sale of such a fine vessel?”

  “I will be requiring the coast guard certificates of inspection for the past ten years, and also, any and all ship’s logs since the keel was first laid. We will also need a copy of the certificates of ownership from the previous owners, and current registry for the schooner to be legally in this port.”

  Dorian smiled and nodded at Mr. Avery as he sat behind his desk with a look of distaste dominating his heavily jowled face.

  “I suppose we could work something out on that, Mr. and Mrs. Coe. I feel like you already know that it would take some time to gather the documents you are requesting. To hold the schooner for that length of time would require a deposit of five thousand dollars. The deposit would then be forwarded toward the sale of the vessel, and therefore not refundable if you should decide not to purchase the vessel.” Mr. Avery sat on the edge of his chair, briefly studying their faces for any kind of reaction.

  Dorian felt Avery was playing him for a fool. He made his move and decided Avery could take it, or leave it. “If you wish to make a sale on this schooner Mr. Avery it will be done on my terms. I will give you the deposit you ask for, however, if the sale is not completed, the full amount of the deposit will be returned. We will expect that to be in the contract. Furthermore sir; if those documents are not on the premises, you sir, are in violation of maritime law. Now sir, if you will be so kind as to retrieve those documents I will write you a check and be on my way. Unless, you have decided the schooner is not for sale.”

Mr. Avery’s face reddened deeply as he rose from his chair and pulled the box of documents from his         safe. This customer had been grossly misjudged. He had never been embarrassed so thoroughly or politely by anyone in his entire career. Avery was sweating profusely and was very relieved when Mr. and Mrs. Coe had left his office.

  Dorian and Diana put the box of documents on the back seat of their car and drove home. A new adventure was about to begin for them, and the tales started in the ship’s logs. They could hardly wait to begin reading them. There was no doubt in Dorian’s mind the salesman thought he was a fool.

 Dinner that evening was filled with anticipation. The lure of the log books sitting in the box by the fireplace was to say the least, a test for their patience. They both failed! Dinner had to be postponed, and the rush was on to see, which of them would get to start reading the logs first.

  The logs had been dated on the outside of the bindings with gum labels. Reaching into the box, Dorian pulled out the first log, dated 1907. Opening the cover, he discovered the ink used to make the entries was

already fading. This would make it difficult to read, almost impossible on some of the pages. It had been written in old English long hand. A man named Jonas Z. Bookmeyer had been the schooner’s Captain on her maiden voyage.

  Captain Bookmeyer had come out of retirement to sail an unknown schooner, for people only interested in luxury sailing. This was a bit unusual for a Captain who had spent his life at sea aboard tea clippers.

His first entry in the new log had explained who he was, but not why he had taken this ship to command. It did not fall within the range of his character or his stern disposition. In the tradition of many older sea captains, he was by nature, a strict disciplinarian while commanding the graceful Clippers. You would stop and wonder how a man such as this would tolerate the life styles of the new owners.

  The schooner had been originally christened as “The Black Witch.” On May 2nd of 1908 they sailed from Baltimore, Maryland to the port of Wilmington, North Carolina and welcomed the new owners and their guests. Enough provisions were taken aboard to last for four months. Much to Captain Bookmeyer’s disapproval, many cases of wine, rum, and Scotch whiskey were also taken aboard. The Captain was immediately reprimanded for voicing his disapproval. To his dismay, the owners had admonished him in front of his crew. This served to destroy the respect for his orders when given to the crew to carry them out.

  Lack of respect for the ship’s Captain causes many problems on a voyage of any length. She set sail from Wilmington bound for the Florida Keys, and then on to the coast of Barbados. She was nearly capsized while sailing through the Bermuda Triangle.

  The incident occurred when Captain Bookmeyer ordered all hands to man their stations. A squall was starting to build and two waterspouts had been sighted about one league off of the starboard bow. The crew had taken too long to reef the sails in the gale force winds, causing the Black Witch to heel hard over. An eighteen-foot swell hit her on the port side sweeping the entire deck of anything that wasn’t battened down. Two crewmen were swept away during the sudden storm. The storm cleared more suddenly than it had started.

  The owners and passengers had been frightened out of their wits. Threats of charges being brought against the Captain, when and if they ever reach port became serious. The Captain advised the owners that the fault for the incident lay with them, for not letting him discipline his crew in proper fashion.

  He had no way of convincing them of the difference between the laws of the sea and the laws concerning the behavior of men who walked the streets of American cities. To the owners he was simply barbaric.

  Two weeks out of port and members of the crew were beginning to languish on deck as if it were a pleasure cruise for them. The Captain immediately issued punishment for the belligerent crewmembers. The new owners threatened to replace him with the schooner’s first officer. Captain Bookmeyer reminded them of the charter they had signed with him, and he could not be replaced until the voyage was over, unless, he had violated maritime law. At that point in time he had not violated any laws.

  The reports of foul weather, extensive damage to the ship, and last but not least, mutiny were detailed in the log. The crew had been jealous of the comfort and fine dining the passengers was enjoying. They lay in their bunks at night and listened to the drunken revelry, knowing they were only allowed a sailor’s meager fare and no alcohol. They had braved the weather to keep her afloat. They had repaired the damages when the winds threatened to rake her from stem to stern, even serving as laborers to bring the insolent passengers their food and whiskey.

  Any sign of appreciation for their services was not forthcoming. Then they had to contend with their Captain. A common cur was held in higher esteem than his crew.

  On June 22nd, 1908, the crew of The Black Witch committed the ultimate crime, MUTINY! While anchored off of the coast of Cuba, the owners and the passengers were taken as hostages while the crew set sail for places unknown.

  A telegram was received by the United States Consulate in England to be on the lookout for the schooner. It had been sent by a crewmember from origins unknown.

  The Black Witch was discovered under full sail off the coast of Brazil in October of 1909. She was boarded by officers and men of the H.M.S. Heritage and sailed back to the United States. The attached report also stated the only person found on board at the time of discovery was the ship’s Captain. He had committed suicide by hanging himself. There was no sign of any disturbance on, or below decks, nor was there any sign of loss in the ship’s provisions. The ship’s log had been completed within four hours of her being boarded.

  After the port authorities had finished their investigation the schooner was put up for sale and sold at auction for barely what it costs to construct it. She sat in port for nearly five years before she would sail again.

The original bill of sales and all other documents of ownership have never been recovered. Diana thumbed back through the pages of the ship’s log. 1907 was almost as far away for her as Greek Mythology. Trying to read the scrawl of an aging Captain Ahab was not a simple task by any means. Thinking of the maiden voyage, she pictured in her mind the tale in a gothic novel.

  “Dorian, the name of this schooner in the ship’s log indicated the original owners wanted something unique. The way they had it painted; it would have surely been the subject of many conversations whenever she sailed into any port around the world. She had to have been a spectacular sight!” Diana’s face beamed with delight as she pictured the schooner under full sail upon the open sea.

  Dorian picked up the next logbook lying inside the box and looked at the leather bound cover thoughtfully. “What do you think happened after the crew had taken over the ship? If you think about it, someone had to have seen this vessel during the time she was missing. Why didn’t somebody report seeing her? It was officially missing for about fourteen months. During that period of time, the world trade market had the seas crossed with ships of all kinds. How do you hide a ship as unique as this one?”

  Diana sipped on her glass of tea, still flipping the pages of the log. “We do know one of the members of the crew was dissatisfied with his fellow mutineers. If not, he would not have taken the chance of getting off a telegram to the authorities? I do find it hard to believe Bookmeyer killed himself. I believe it was murder. Men like the good Captain are too well disciplined, honor bound, to ever shame their family’s name by committing suicide.

  The crew probably had problems choosing a leader and sticking with him. I imagine there were quite a few fights over the women passengers, as far as who was going to whom and for how long. To even try to hide this schooner, she would have had to be repainted. Someone, somewhere, still had to have seen her before this could have been accomplished. There are a lot of questions about this schooner that will always be impossible to truly answer.

  Her reduction from, a three masted schooner to a two masted sailing vessel, is strange to me, and I don’t think mutineers usually make sure the ship’s log is kept up to date, as this one was. The difference in the two handwriting styles is quite evident also. The thing that strikes me as most peculiar was finding her under full sail that close to Brazil. It should have either run aground, or the crew should have been captured within the time frame the authorities talked about.”

  “There are a lot of differences in the description of this schooner and the one we were aboard today.” Dorian reached out for the ship’s log in Diana’s hand. She handed it back to him, and watched as he placed it back in the box with the others. He had put the next log on the carpeting next to him. The date noted on the label was, May 2nd, 1914. Dorian’s brow furrowed slightly as he handed the logbook to his wife.

  “Talk about coincidence, look at the date on this one.” Dorian said as she accepted the book.

  “They must have thought May was a good month for sailing back then, she laughed jokingly. “It is my turn to read this one, just sit back and relax, big boy.”

  Diana opened the cover and began to read aloud. The ship’s log was written in a manner much different from the first one. The writer of this log was obviously a well-educated and very refined younger man.

  Mr. Andrew Lafayette Davenport purchased The Black Witch at public auction on March 6, 1914.

Due to the condition of his newly purchased vessel, it would sit in dry dock being repaired until late in April.

  Davenport, like his father, was an industrialist. His love and passion in life was to sail around the world in a schooner befitting a man of his reputation and feel for the fine things in life. Although his net worth was more than the average man could imagine, he always hunted for the bargains. The Black Witch was a bargain to him at any price! Mr. Davenport contacted the very best maritime architects that money could buy.

  For several days they held meetings in his office trying to give him everything he was demanding for the schooner. Some of the changes could not possibly be done without upsetting the balance of the ship. He demanded them anyway. There are some things in life which money cannot buy. These changes could not be bought at any price. Andrew showed his disappointment by firing them all, and then hiring them back again the following day.

  Each day he would visit the docks and inspect the progress of the tradesmen. No one was allowed on board during his inspection tours. His last tour of inspection was two days before he was to set sail. Everything was in order and ready to sail on his command.

  Mr. Davenport had turned over all of his corporate control to his father for the duration of his absence. He had no doubts that his business interests were in capable hands.

  May 2nd, 1914, the voyage had begun, leaving New York harbor in the dawning hours of a new day. Mr. Davenport sailed with thirteen passengers and a skeleton crew. He had planned to pick up more crewmembers when they reached Biminis. His chest swelled with pride as he stood upon her deck, leaning on the taffrail looking toward the delicate curve of her bow. The brass and gold gilt glimmered in the sunlight. She had been painted a deep chocolate brown, with a gleaming white stripe painted amidships. Her rails had the sheen of fine furniture, quite unusual for a ship of the sea. But he always, almost always, got what he wanted. One does not tell Mr. Davenport no! Her pure white sails of the finest canvas were billowing in the wind, a vision of beauty for any man to behold. The Coup de gras’, she had been freshly christened the Angelique, a name he had filed away in his mind for just such a time as this. His guests were genuinely impressed with the schooner. They had sailed on luxury ships, but none to compare with the personal service and comfort they were being treated to now.

   Forty miles off of Cape Charles, sailing under fair winds on a southeasterly course; they were forced to make a change in their plans. The chef had been bitten by a spider and taken seriously ill. The nearest port with a doctor was Wilmington, North Carolina. Mr. Davenport ordered the immediate change of course and proceeded under full sail for Wilmington. The crewmember died four hours prior to docking. Port authorities detained Mr. Davenport, his crew, and his guests until a physician could determine a cause of death.

  The Angelique set sail again three days later with a course plotted for Nassau in the Bahamas. A temporary cook was hired in the port city until a proper chef could be found. A member of Davenport’s staff found a chef for him and his guests then met them off the coast of Florida. The transition took place exchanging the cook, for a chef from a well-known restaurant in Louisiana.

  The chef was Cajun, with particular notions as to how his galley should be complimented. He became adamant about the changes with Mr. Davenport, or he would refuse to cook dinner for his guests. Mr. Davenport finally gave in to his demands and agreed to have the changes made, along with the special spices and condiments he desired. These would be purchased at their next port of call. Meanwhile the chef would be expected to perform his duties to the absolute best of his abilities.

  While sailing through the Bermuda Triangle, they were stranded in a dead calm. For two weeks the schooner moved not an inch. Tempers flared in the broiling heat of the day. Staying in control of the situation was difficult, to say the very least. For a man of lesser intellect, it would have been impossible!  To add to the misery, the Angelique began to take on water. By noon of the eighth day, the bilge pumps were being manned around the clock by all hands. The exceptions being Mr. Davenport and the chef. The chef had refused to soil his hands, sinking or not.

  The breeze began to stiffen on the eve of the fourteenth day. It was reported to Mr. Davenport by midnight the schooner was no longer taking on water, and her bilges were bone dry! It was just as if she had never leaked at all.

  Mr. Davenport began to suspect the schooner had been sabotaged as they sat besieged by the dead calm. An investigation was held by the first officer to discover the person or persons responsible for the problems that had arisen.

  The first mate was found in his cabin nine days later, murdered. His head had been bashed in with a belaying pin as he slept in his bunk. Authorities in the islands did not show any concern for the crime. Therefore, did not interrogate, nor arrest anyone for the murder of Thomas Quinton. The deed was not uncommon for ships sailing in these waters. Mr. Davenport was told to administer his own justice for any crime committed aboard his ship. They were not allowed to interfere unless the crime was committed on the island itself.

  Fresh provisions were added to the ship’s stores and they set sail for open waters. Four new crewmen had been added to the ship’s compliment. They were comprised of three former British sailors and a native from the islands. His blackened skin stood in contrast to the rest of the people aboard the schooner. Mr. Davenport made him his personal attendant for the rest of the voyage.

  Diana looked up from the log, staring into the dancing fire in the hearth.

  “Dorian, the things we are reading in these logs remind me of the movies or books we have been reading. I really do find some of this hard to believe! Davenport wrote his log more like a journal than a ship’s log.”

  Dorian reached over into the box and picked up the rest of the ship’s logs with the intention of thumbing through them. He wanted to see if the rest of them had the same kind of horror tales being told as in the first two volumes.

  To his genuine amazement, the rest of the logs were empty! The pages had aged, but it was apparent nothing had ever been written on them. The covers had been dated just as the first two had been; still, the pages on the inside were blank. Dorian was angry at this obvious attempt to hide the past of this schooner.

  He threw the empty logbooks across the room, bouncing them off of the walls. Diana jumped from her sitting position and backed away from him.

  “What in the world is wrong with you?” She screamed.

  Dorian whirled on her. “The rest of the log books are blank! That salesman is trying to hide something from us. I guess the idiot didn’t think we would actually read them.” Dorian started making his way back toward the kitchen.

  Diana called to him from the den. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to call Gale Ritchie. He knows every ship ever built in these waters. He’ll have a record on it somewhere.”

  Dialing Gale’s number, Dorian listened to it ring about a dozen times before it was answered by a drunken voice on the other end of the line. “Hello damn it, who is this?”

The Black Witch, by Micheal Rivers
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

The Diviners, by Julian White

Posted: August 25, 2011 by Shaina in Dark fantasy, Ghosts, Julian White, Thriller and Suspense
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The Diviners, by Julian White

The Diviners, by Julian White

The Diviners, by Julian White
Available at:
Amazon

Description:   ”The woman swam closer. She twinkled as the light passed through her. Her fingernails had smoky tips. Her body was young but her eyes and mouth were pockets of crow’s feet …”

Four people in a small town find themselves persecuted in different ways by the same terrifying supernatural force.

Karen was happily married – until her husband became a religious maniac and set himself on fire. Since then, she has worked on her own to raise their daughter and establish an elegant seaside bistro – all by the age of 27. Now her husband’s back, madder than ever, and she sees her polite, chattering customers transformed into a raving monster bent on destroying everything she loves.

Sandra holds down a tough job as a district nurse, looking after the sick and elderly in her neighbourhood. She has money worries, guilt over the death of her abusive mother and disturbing memories about a mysterious event in her past. Her life slides into chaos when one of her patients turns up dead in the boot of her car and she can’t get rid of the rapidly decaying body.

Felix is a dull provincial solicitor – so dull, in fact, that his wife goes elsewhere in search of sexual fulfilment. When a perverse young couple hold her captive in a luxurious house, he comes to the rescue, only to find that something utterly evil and as ancient as civilisation itself lurks beneath the sparkling surface of their swimming pool.

Mick is still licking his wounds six months after being dumped by his girlfriend. In hopes of forgetting her, he goes to bed with an enigmatic lady whose hair smells of blackcurrants. As a result, he undergoes a transformation into a creature out of an insane nursery story.

And that’s only the beginning. When these four stories converge, the stage is set for an earth-shattering climax.

Welcome to the world of the Diviners’ Guild.

Who are they? The answer takes in cannibalism, deadly maggots, reincarnated cats, body horror, psychological chills, blood magic, black farce, breakneck action, a thousand-year-old secret, a silver coin and a supernatural threat to Creation itself.

The Diviners is the no-holds-barred fictional debut by writer and critic Julian White, full of surreal scares, adult imagery and laughter in the dark. Read it if you dare.

PROLOGUE

GLOSTEN FIELDS

1982

Thunderous music shook the little girl out of her sleep. That record she hated. Songs about scary stuff, bloodsuckers, dead people walking … Lilith had put it on at full volume, and now the wall between their rooms was angrily throbbing as though something was sandwiched in the plaster and trying to break out.

She opened her eyes a chink. Just to make sure the Magic Roundabout wallpaper didn’t suddenly rupture like a circus hoop. She could see every detail, for there were no curtains to filter out the moonlight, not since Lilith ripped them off their rings. If she really strained she could even read some of the speech balloons the child of a previous council tenant had scrawled over the heads of Dougal, Ermintrude and Zebedee: POO – WHOS FART – CIGGIE?

She stiffened under her bedclothes. There was something unfamiliar in the room, crouched on top of the little chest of drawers. Then she remembered. Her Tiny Tears. She raised her head off the pillow to admire it. Its saucer face caught the moonlight in a slightly off-putting way but it was amazing that it was there at all.

True, it was last season’s model with the floral dress, rather than the one with the blue gingham trim and true again it didn’t have a box but had come loosely bundled in old Christmas wrapping paper, but it was a genuine Tiny Tears … never mind that the seat of the frock had a couple of dirty smudges as though the doll had been sitting on some other girl’s front lawn …

What did it matter? It was hers now. She lay back, ignoring a niggling desire to pee, burrowing her face hard in her pillow and pulling the blanket tight over her ear so that it almost hurt. The scuffing bedclothes raised a cloak of static between her and what was happening next door.

Alvie had come back with Lilith from the pub and now they were making friends. When she was very tiny she had heard the noise Lilith and one of her friends were making and pictured them standing together, hand in hand, using the double bed as a trampoline. But when she’d crept out to investigate, she’d seen something very different, that didn’t look at all friendly. Yet appearances must have deceived, because Lilith continued to have ceaseless callers. The record, the one she hated, railed on.

Is it tomorrow now? she wondered. Or is it still my birthday? It had been a pretty decent one, all told. Lilith had made an unusual effort, what with the doll, and the pizza, and even a cake of sorts: a lemon drizzle from Asda, topped with a candle (black, but never mind) and with some Smarties squashed into the crust in the shape of a seven. And to round the day off, The Great Muppet Caper on video. Lilith had been encouraging throughout, despite mashing out countless cigarettes on the sole of her DM.

But while they were sitting there watching the antics of Kermit, Fozzie and the rest of the gang, there had come a single tap on the door and Lilith had bolted out of the settee.

With a sigh at the interruption, the girl froze the tape. She heard the front door open and close and nothing else. No one there, she thought triumphantly, but then a man padded in.

There was nothing especially startling about him, especially not compared to the company Lilith usually kept – big fellows in sweaty leather and ripped jeans. This man was young and pale in a long coat, with a grave manner as if he brought bad news.

Yet Lilith, for some reason, was put on edge by his presence. Black fringe lowered, eyes wide in their pools of powder, her thin chalky arms covered in snake tattoos tightly knotted.

“Heeey Alvie.” Lilith’s voice dropped into a soft cooing.

“And who’s this?” Alvie looked beyond her to the little girl.

“The birthday girl. Ain’t she?”

“Many happy returns,” said Alvie.

“It’s past her bedtime.” Lilith prodded the little girl with the toe of her DM. “Come on, let’s be having you..”

“But -”

Lilith had a way of skipping to the end of an argument before it had even begun. She did so now, eyes rattling in her head like wind-up beetles as she bawled:

“ARE YOU DEAF? I SAID GET ON OUT OF IT!”

Grabbing her doll, the little girl darted upstairs with Miss Piggy still in prison and the fate of the Baseball Diamond unresolved.

Her bladder was tickling away, demanding action. She sat up, head resting against the wall, nose catching the wet-rot taint of the peeling window-sill. She looked at the Tiny Tears doll. In her mind’s eye, she saw it being hoisted at lightning speed over a garden wall and deposited in the crochet shoulder-bag where Lilith kept her evil-smelling treasures.

Lazy cow didn’t even get me my own wrapping paper, she thought. Lazy cow. Get on out of it, you stupid lazy cow.

At least that sodding record had come to an end at last. Hooray! About time too! She listened for other sounds – friendly sounds – but there was nothing. Just wind under the roof-tiles, leaves in the guttering.

For a moment she basked in the quiet. Her bladder wouldn’t let off, though. She slipped out of bed. Her hand-me-down Snoopy pyjamas came down a good four inches over her toes. She grasped the Tiny Tears doll by one ankle. She was half in mind to dunk it head-first in the toilet. Only, now she had it in her hands … stuff it, it was hers now, that’s what counted.

Lugging it under her arm, she opened her bedroom door and ducked towards the adjoining bathroom.

“Where are you creeping off to?”

Alvie’s voice. A low whisper, yet somehow as plain as if he had shouted in her ear. She froze and looked towards the master bedroom. The door was ajar, but the bed was on the other side of it, so she couldn’t see him and he, she was reasonably sure, couldn’t see her. Clutching her doll tighter, she took another step in the direction of the bathroom.

“I know you’re there …”

That all-pervasive murmur. A rhythmical plucking had started in her privates, but she hesitated, wary of disobeying. If he turned nasty she could expect no protection from Lilith. Eight months ago one of Lilith’s boyfriends had picked her up, bounced her from arm to arm, and dropped her on her head. She’d been out cold on the kitchen floor, finally waking up on her bed with a dab of margarine on her temple and Lilith and the man making friends next door.

Rubbing her chin on the doll’s stiff blonde hair, she moved towards the master bedroom and peeked in. The wardrobe was open, and in its mirror she could see Alvie sitting up in bed. He was smoking, wide awake and apparently sober. Lilith was slumped face-down under the blankets.

“Tell you what …”

His voice dropped so it was little more than a tickling on her eardrums. Alvie leaned over to grope in his jacket. He held up something that even in the gloom had a winking allure.

“Shiiiiinnnyyyy, hmmm?”

He rose from the bed. She looked away, heard the rasp of denim on hairy legs and the snap of a belt buckle – both were loud after the whisper. Barefoot, he hobbled into view. His toes were hairy, the nails painted black.

She shuffled back three paces to make way for him. He switched on the landing light, pulled the bedroom door closed behind him, dropped down on one knee. It was the first time she’d seen him up close. His arms and chest were covered in pale down.

“Happy birthday.”

He held up the shiny thing. A coin on a fillet of leather. As it twirled, her eye chased its rich decoration. He eased the fillet over her head and dropped the cold metal into her waiting palm.

“Our little secret, yeah? Keep it out of sight of you-know-who.”

“Keep what out of sight?”

The Diviners, by Julian White
Available at:
Amazon

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