Unless you've been living under a rock for the past year you may have noticed a bubbling discontent with Amazon by a number of better known indie authors out there. J. A Konrath has recently stated, in the comments for his December 19 post, that he was stepping away from Amazon's KPD Select program, once his ninety days were up in late January. Holly Ward, who writes romances under the name H.M. Ward recently revealed that in KU her earnings have plummeted by as much as 75% as a result of borrows instead of sales.
For an indie author, enrollment in Amazon's Select program allowed them
to offer the enrolled title free for five days for every ninety day
term. Aside from price matching making a title permanently free it was the
only way an author could offer their work for free to the massive
audience Amazon has nurtured. The Select program, in its infancy, was
directly responsible for a number of indie authors becoming bestsellers.
Earlier this year Amazon rolled out its subscription service, Kindle Unlimited, that allowed members to borrow an unlimited number of kindle titles for one low monthly fee. It was Amazon's response to Oyster and Scrib'd, two stand alone subscription services that have done for e-books what Netflix has done for movies.
If the member read the borrowed title beyond ten percent it triggered a payment to the author. Some authors, those with titles priced from $0.99 to $2.98 actually benefited from the program as the payment was averaging about $1.30 per borrow. On titles priced between a $0.99 and $2.98 the author makes 35%, of the purchase price for each sale. So for a book priced at say $2.98, the author would make approximately $1.05, or $0.35 for each dollar.
Authors with higher priced books such as $2.99, who were used to earning 70%, or $2.06 for each sale, were taking a beating due to Kindle Unlimited. To add insult to injury it was learned that Amazon was also offering two payment tiers for its lending program. Trad published titles were being reimbursed at their agreed upon rate, while Indie authors were being paid from a pool, with payments ranging from $1.30 to $1.60 per borrow.
When I began this journey at the end of 2011, the possibilities seemed unlimited. But the times they are a changing, much has been said about the Amazon lending program both for and against it. Some heavy names have weighed in with their discontent.
But you know what?
Does anyone really have any control over what Amazon does?
No.
The only thing I have any control over is my own writing, whether it gets done or not in a reasonable amount of time. So while everyone's gnashing their teeth, and spouting off about what evil Amazon has once again foisted upon the world of Indie publishing, I'll be over here writing.
After all that's the only thing I have any control over.
Performance Anxiety?
That got your attention didn't it?
When one spots a title like that surely the content that follows is going to be focused on sex, right?
Wrong.
I'm sorry to disappoint you. Outside of the bedroom performance anxiety is a pretty common occurrence among those who perform before a live audience. Stage fright is the more common name for performance anxiety. Musicians, athletes, stage actors, public speakers all experience performance anxiety at one time or another.
It's that butterflies in the stomach feeling, the fear that once you step out onto that stage you're going to do something memorable in a stupid sort of way, or worse yet, you're mind will go blank, and everything you've rehearsed will be forgotten.
Writers experience that same sensation but usually for a different set of reasons. What normally goes through the writers mind as they embark upon a new endeavor is the fear that this time out will not be as good as the last time. That what they produce will be well beneath the standard they have established for themselves with their last release. That the words will not flow as well as they once did.
For the writer performance anxiety leads directly to writers block. In most cases writers block arises not from a lack of ideas, but from a lack of excitement for the writers current project, or an overwhelming avalanche of ideas the writers is having a hard time choosing from. The latter is what is currently holding me up.
My intent had been to write a coming of age story for release early next year, one I had written a screenplay for several years ago. Unfortunately the muse has other ideas as it keeps teasing me with snippets of a tale that is on my to do list, but not as close to the top as others projects I wanted to finish. Then of course there's the first draft of a novel that has been sitting on my desk for nearly six months now waiting for me to put aside these other tasks so we can spend some time together. To top it off there are a number of really neat ideas swirling around in my mind as we speak.
What I really need is a daily planner to get my limited writing time in order so I can finish some projects. I work a full time job, and while some might assume my writing is nothing more than a hobby, for me it's serious work. I worry over the placement of every word, did this sound right? will the reader understand what is really happening? am I explaining too much? too little? Striking that balance is a full time job. I could fill reams of paper explaining why something happened, but would anybody read it, it's doubtful.
My goal of course is to be able to support myself with my writing. I'm standing upon the threshold of three years as an indie writer. I've learned a lot in that time. And I've yet to make any serious money at it, but I remain optimistic that my time is yet to come. It is that optimism that compels me to sit at my desk every morning, to push through my own performance anxiety, and create what I hope will be considered a good read.
When one spots a title like that surely the content that follows is going to be focused on sex, right?
Wrong.
I'm sorry to disappoint you. Outside of the bedroom performance anxiety is a pretty common occurrence among those who perform before a live audience. Stage fright is the more common name for performance anxiety. Musicians, athletes, stage actors, public speakers all experience performance anxiety at one time or another.
It's that butterflies in the stomach feeling, the fear that once you step out onto that stage you're going to do something memorable in a stupid sort of way, or worse yet, you're mind will go blank, and everything you've rehearsed will be forgotten.
Writers experience that same sensation but usually for a different set of reasons. What normally goes through the writers mind as they embark upon a new endeavor is the fear that this time out will not be as good as the last time. That what they produce will be well beneath the standard they have established for themselves with their last release. That the words will not flow as well as they once did.
For the writer performance anxiety leads directly to writers block. In most cases writers block arises not from a lack of ideas, but from a lack of excitement for the writers current project, or an overwhelming avalanche of ideas the writers is having a hard time choosing from. The latter is what is currently holding me up.
My intent had been to write a coming of age story for release early next year, one I had written a screenplay for several years ago. Unfortunately the muse has other ideas as it keeps teasing me with snippets of a tale that is on my to do list, but not as close to the top as others projects I wanted to finish. Then of course there's the first draft of a novel that has been sitting on my desk for nearly six months now waiting for me to put aside these other tasks so we can spend some time together. To top it off there are a number of really neat ideas swirling around in my mind as we speak.
What I really need is a daily planner to get my limited writing time in order so I can finish some projects. I work a full time job, and while some might assume my writing is nothing more than a hobby, for me it's serious work. I worry over the placement of every word, did this sound right? will the reader understand what is really happening? am I explaining too much? too little? Striking that balance is a full time job. I could fill reams of paper explaining why something happened, but would anybody read it, it's doubtful.
My goal of course is to be able to support myself with my writing. I'm standing upon the threshold of three years as an indie writer. I've learned a lot in that time. And I've yet to make any serious money at it, but I remain optimistic that my time is yet to come. It is that optimism that compels me to sit at my desk every morning, to push through my own performance anxiety, and create what I hope will be considered a good read.
A New Beginning
I finished my last project, Parasite around mid-October after spending over five months in the belly of the beast, so to speak, as I wrote, and rewrote the story to create the finished product. I was at that point many writers speak of, that lull between projects that for most writers, especially myself, left me feeling aimless as I cast about for the next thing to do. Not for a lack of ideas as there are currently several different stories vying for my attention.
I had spent over five months fully invested in the story and the characters, their individual hopes and dreams, theirs fears had become my own. I rode the emotional roller coaster that was my assorted characters lives. Not once, twice, or even three times, but many times as I strove to bring them to life. I believe I succeeded, but truthfully that remains for the reader to decide.
You see once I hit the publish button, and released my creation into the world, the characters I had created were no longer my own. They now belong to anyone who picks up a copy and opens the story to take a peek inside. They now wait for the reader to give them life, and I worry incessantly that maybe I wasn't honest enough to the tale. Only time will tell.
Now I find myself upon the brink of embarking on another adventure. You see when you write in the long form, such as novels and novellas, these are not things you nibble at a little here and there while you work towards completion. No, for me at least, writing a novel requires me to dive headlong into the story, to fully immerse myself in the characters, the place, the reason for the story's whole existence.To become one with the story and the characters, to feel what they feel, to experience, if only in my mind, what they have experienced. To live as they live.
While it may sound exciting, there is a downside, and that is the loss of self during the process of creation, I'm still there, physically, as I go through the motions of daily life as a model husband and dedicated worker (don't let my boss see this, he might loose it laughing at the idea), but then again I'm not really there. I'm in the story, and though I'm not sitting at my desk pounding on the keyboard, I'm still writing even if it's only in my mind. Thankfully I have an understanding wife for those moments when it seems I'm a million miles away, I'd do anything for her, short of giving up writing, but she'd never ask me to do that.
I had spent over five months fully invested in the story and the characters, their individual hopes and dreams, theirs fears had become my own. I rode the emotional roller coaster that was my assorted characters lives. Not once, twice, or even three times, but many times as I strove to bring them to life. I believe I succeeded, but truthfully that remains for the reader to decide.
You see once I hit the publish button, and released my creation into the world, the characters I had created were no longer my own. They now belong to anyone who picks up a copy and opens the story to take a peek inside. They now wait for the reader to give them life, and I worry incessantly that maybe I wasn't honest enough to the tale. Only time will tell.
Now I find myself upon the brink of embarking on another adventure. You see when you write in the long form, such as novels and novellas, these are not things you nibble at a little here and there while you work towards completion. No, for me at least, writing a novel requires me to dive headlong into the story, to fully immerse myself in the characters, the place, the reason for the story's whole existence.To become one with the story and the characters, to feel what they feel, to experience, if only in my mind, what they have experienced. To live as they live.
While it may sound exciting, there is a downside, and that is the loss of self during the process of creation, I'm still there, physically, as I go through the motions of daily life as a model husband and dedicated worker (don't let my boss see this, he might loose it laughing at the idea), but then again I'm not really there. I'm in the story, and though I'm not sitting at my desk pounding on the keyboard, I'm still writing even if it's only in my mind. Thankfully I have an understanding wife for those moments when it seems I'm a million miles away, I'd do anything for her, short of giving up writing, but she'd never ask me to do that.
Honesty
I've recently come to a realization in my writing, one that has been staring me in the face all along.
Call it an epiphany if you will.
Everything I've ever written I've sub-consciously compared to other writers whose work I respect, and enjoy. Usually with a deepening sense of despair at the realization that it comes nowhere close to the likes of Stephen King, Douglas Clegg, or Neil Gaiman.
My wife summed it up perfectly for me the other night as we were talking. I was telling her about my recent purchase of Stephen King's novel 11/22/63, I had recently finished Neverland by Douglas Clegg and was looking for my next read when I ran across 11/22/63 on sale for just 2.99, so I snatched it up. I would rather have gotten King's latest, Revival, but it was priced beyond my budget at $12.74 for the kindle version.
I made a comment along the lines that I'd like to be able to sell my work for that kind of money. She looked at me with an understanding smile and said "but you're not Stephen King."
My wife supports me in this crazy endeavor we call writing, though she refuses to read anything I've written with the exception of Forget Me Not, my short story that appeared in the 2013 Backbone Mountain Review and can be read here on my blog for free if you check out the link bar above this post.
It's obvious that I'm not Stephen King but her comment got me to thinking about how writers should be honest with themselves, accepting of the fact that we are each a unique voice, alone, yet a part of something so much bigger, like snowflakes with no two ever the same. How boring would this world be if everyone wrote like Stephen King, Douglas Clegg, Neil Gaiman, or Joe Slosinger down the street.
I've used these three writers because I'm a fan of their work and they each have something unique to say about honesty in your writing that I want to share here.
In his book On Writing Stephen King returns to the necessity for writers to be honest with themselves and their interests: "Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships, sex, and work." In a variation of "write what you know" he encourages writers to write what they feel to be true. Using what you know and what is unique will bring an honesty to the character and dialogue.
The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you're allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it's definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
Neil Gaiman
One of the tasks of writing is to be honest in your creation, bring that person to life, to breathe in the air, to exist not as a plot device or pushed-and-pulled tool in service to a scene, but as a person who is as rational and irrational as we all are, but from this person’s own unique perspective.
Douglas Clegg
And this all has led to my realization. I am not Stephen King, nor am I Neil Gaiman, or Douglas Clegg. I am who I am, and it's time I was honest with myself, and my writing.
Call it an epiphany if you will.
Everything I've ever written I've sub-consciously compared to other writers whose work I respect, and enjoy. Usually with a deepening sense of despair at the realization that it comes nowhere close to the likes of Stephen King, Douglas Clegg, or Neil Gaiman.
My wife summed it up perfectly for me the other night as we were talking. I was telling her about my recent purchase of Stephen King's novel 11/22/63, I had recently finished Neverland by Douglas Clegg and was looking for my next read when I ran across 11/22/63 on sale for just 2.99, so I snatched it up. I would rather have gotten King's latest, Revival, but it was priced beyond my budget at $12.74 for the kindle version.
I made a comment along the lines that I'd like to be able to sell my work for that kind of money. She looked at me with an understanding smile and said "but you're not Stephen King."
My wife supports me in this crazy endeavor we call writing, though she refuses to read anything I've written with the exception of Forget Me Not, my short story that appeared in the 2013 Backbone Mountain Review and can be read here on my blog for free if you check out the link bar above this post.
It's obvious that I'm not Stephen King but her comment got me to thinking about how writers should be honest with themselves, accepting of the fact that we are each a unique voice, alone, yet a part of something so much bigger, like snowflakes with no two ever the same. How boring would this world be if everyone wrote like Stephen King, Douglas Clegg, Neil Gaiman, or Joe Slosinger down the street.
I've used these three writers because I'm a fan of their work and they each have something unique to say about honesty in your writing that I want to share here.
In his book On Writing Stephen King returns to the necessity for writers to be honest with themselves and their interests: "Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships, sex, and work." In a variation of "write what you know" he encourages writers to write what they feel to be true. Using what you know and what is unique will bring an honesty to the character and dialogue.
The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you're allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it's definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
Neil Gaiman
One of the tasks of writing is to be honest in your creation, bring that person to life, to breathe in the air, to exist not as a plot device or pushed-and-pulled tool in service to a scene, but as a person who is as rational and irrational as we all are, but from this person’s own unique perspective.
Douglas Clegg
And this all has led to my realization. I am not Stephen King, nor am I Neil Gaiman, or Douglas Clegg. I am who I am, and it's time I was honest with myself, and my writing.
Winter of Zombie blog tour: Armand Rosamilia
Armand Rosamilia
Why zombies?
Why the hell not? Zombies are cool. They represent the idealogical and emotional psyche of... nah, zombies are just really cool...
What is your latest zombie release?
Dying Days: Origins 2
Quick description of it:
Dying Days: Origins 2
The prequel tale to David Monsour, featured in Dying Days 2 zombie novella as well as short stories set in the Dying Days world.
Includes two bonus short stories as well! Plus author's notes
Something unique about it:
The character itself is based on an actual person, a huge fan of the series who is a prepper and is ready for the zombie apocalypse when it comes.
Links for people to buy it.
Promo links.
http://armandrosamilia.com
http://dyingdayszombie.com
Your short Bio.
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping.
He's written over 100 stories that are currently available, including a few different series:
"Dying Days" extreme zombie series
"Keyport Cthulhu" horror series
"Flagler Beach Fiction Series" contemporary fiction
"Metal Queens" non-fiction music series
he also loves to talk in third person... because he's really that cool.
He's a proud Active member of HWA as well.
You can find him at http://armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes!
e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal:
armandrosamilia@gmail.com
Happy Veterans Day
A veteran - whether active duty, retired,
or national guard or reserve -
is someone who, at one point in their
life, wrote a blank check made payable to
"The United States of
America," for an amount of "up to and including
THEIR LIFE."
From all walks of life they came to take an oath.
Young men and women with their entire lives ahead of them
All gave some
Some gave all.
United States Uniformed Services Oath of Office
I, [name], do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.
Take a moment today to thank someone for his or her service.
Nanowrimo, not for me.
And they're off.
Halloween decorations have come down as many peoples thoughts turn to the coming Holiday season, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and of course New Years, ripe with the promise of a new beginning.
November is also known as National Novel Writing Month, more commonly referred to as NaNoWriMo. Participants sign up to write a new 50,000 word novel between November 1st and 31st, a feat that requires one to put out at least 1667 words per day to hit the 50,000 word goal. Last year over 310,000 writers participated.
If you're not familiar with NanoWriMo you're not alone. Based on the participation rate it would be safe to say that anywhere from one to two million people know about NaNoWriMo, this is just a guess on my part so please don't ask for my source. When compared to the world's population of 7.12 billion those who know about the November madness is a mere drop in the bucket.
The goal of NaNoWriMo is to get people writing and keep them motivated throughout the process. To ensure this, the website provides participants with tips for writer's block, local places writers participating in NaNoWriMo are meeting, and an online community of support. The idea is to focus on completion instead of perfection. NaNoWriMo focuses on the length of a work rather than the quality, encouraging writers to finish their first draft so that it can later be edited at the author's discretion.
I tried NaNoWriMo in 2009 and quickly learned it does not mesh well with my writing style. While I'm quite capable of hitting the daily goal of 1667 words, I do it now when I'm in creation mode, I'm the breed of writer that can't blow by a glaring mistake with the intent to come back and fix it later. I agonize over every word, and its placement, and misspellings must be corrected on the spot.
The biggest thing that turns me off about NaNoWriMo is the participation. When I did it in 2009 my inbox was filled with emails daily from NaNo central, as I came to call them. On top of that were the emails from the state and local groups I had been assigned to when I signed up.
Yeah, I know I could turn off the notifications, but isn't that part of the allure of NaNoWriMo? To hang out with other writers to celebrate your successes and commiserate over your failures?
For me writing is a solitary task, the ultimate form of communication between a writer and the reader. When someone sits down with one of my books, or when I sit down with another writer's book, it's as if the reader and the writer were alone sharing a story that is slowly unfolding on the page.
Unlike a movie where the viewer shares the story with an audience. Reading, and the act of writing, is a one on one experience between two people. There is only the readers imagination, and the words on the page. There is no room for cheering sections, and daily goals, or certificates of completion.
There is only the story being told.
Halloween decorations have come down as many peoples thoughts turn to the coming Holiday season, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and of course New Years, ripe with the promise of a new beginning.
November is also known as National Novel Writing Month, more commonly referred to as NaNoWriMo. Participants sign up to write a new 50,000 word novel between November 1st and 31st, a feat that requires one to put out at least 1667 words per day to hit the 50,000 word goal. Last year over 310,000 writers participated.
If you're not familiar with NanoWriMo you're not alone. Based on the participation rate it would be safe to say that anywhere from one to two million people know about NaNoWriMo, this is just a guess on my part so please don't ask for my source. When compared to the world's population of 7.12 billion those who know about the November madness is a mere drop in the bucket.
The goal of NaNoWriMo is to get people writing and keep them motivated throughout the process. To ensure this, the website provides participants with tips for writer's block, local places writers participating in NaNoWriMo are meeting, and an online community of support. The idea is to focus on completion instead of perfection. NaNoWriMo focuses on the length of a work rather than the quality, encouraging writers to finish their first draft so that it can later be edited at the author's discretion.
I tried NaNoWriMo in 2009 and quickly learned it does not mesh well with my writing style. While I'm quite capable of hitting the daily goal of 1667 words, I do it now when I'm in creation mode, I'm the breed of writer that can't blow by a glaring mistake with the intent to come back and fix it later. I agonize over every word, and its placement, and misspellings must be corrected on the spot.
The biggest thing that turns me off about NaNoWriMo is the participation. When I did it in 2009 my inbox was filled with emails daily from NaNo central, as I came to call them. On top of that were the emails from the state and local groups I had been assigned to when I signed up.
Yeah, I know I could turn off the notifications, but isn't that part of the allure of NaNoWriMo? To hang out with other writers to celebrate your successes and commiserate over your failures?
For me writing is a solitary task, the ultimate form of communication between a writer and the reader. When someone sits down with one of my books, or when I sit down with another writer's book, it's as if the reader and the writer were alone sharing a story that is slowly unfolding on the page.
Unlike a movie where the viewer shares the story with an audience. Reading, and the act of writing, is a one on one experience between two people. There is only the readers imagination, and the words on the page. There is no room for cheering sections, and daily goals, or certificates of completion.
There is only the story being told.
Parasite (Shadows of the Past Book II) Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Frankie sat at the dining room table coloring, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on staying inside the lines. A shadow fell across the table and he looked up at Michelle, who stood over him, watching as he worked.
“We’re gonna need the table soon,” she said with a nod.
Frankie smiled as he nodded at her, then returned his attention to the coloring book. He was focused on the sky now, using the wide side of the crayon to create swaths of blue as he moved it back and forth.
As he worked, his mind wandered. Memories whispered from the past and he followed one back to that night in the garage. He saw Jack on a purely instinctive level, a powerful predatory force that was searching for him as he hid within the cocoon of white noise that was his world. While his father tried to start the car, Jack had thrown himself at the vehicle with an insane fury that flashed white-hot around Frankie’s sanctuary. Neither his father nor Michelle would have lasted very long against Jack, who had become so much more than just an ordinary man. The thin glass of the car windows would have easily failed against his onslaught.
It was then that he’d reached out for the first time with his mind. Venturing beyond the safety his confusion afforded him, he discovered he had a little trick of his own up his sleeve. He had touched Jack’s mind that night.
What he had seen as he gazed into Jack’s subconscious had terrified him. The thing that had taken control of Jack had no feelings whatsoever for man. It viewed him as nothing more than cattle in the field, which in essence they were, for their genes had been brought from the far reaches of space to this warm little planet circling the sun. They had been brought to feed these early explorers.
But as the continents broke apart, and that section they had inhabited drifted to the south, the food source found itself more adaptable than its masters. The tables had been turned as the hunter became the hunted, and this alien race had had to take drastic measures to adapt to the changes that were taking place around it. They were forced to evolve into a creature more suited to a snow-covered world, and in so doing they had surrendered their reign over their former slaves.
Frankie saw all of this in a flash of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He had touched Jack’s mind, transferring a small part of the confusion that was his own world, and in so doing had opened himself up to this creature’s influence. Accomplishing what he had set out to do, he had retreated, followed by this predatory thing that stalked him through the chambers of his own mind. It was only when the fever gripped him that he was able to exorcise this demon from the past.
From his left came a faint sound that he realized, upon becoming aware of it, had always been there. A soft whispering, like that of a multitude of voices in worshipful prayer. The sound stopped his hand and his coloring book lay forgotten as he turned to peer into the deeper shadows that were crowded in the corners of the room.
He sensed his mother’s presence nearby and was comforted by her warmth, which stood in sharp contrast to the chilly waves of cold air that whispered from the deeper shadows.
“They’ve awakened,” his mother whispered in his mind and he sighed with resignation. He’d known this day would come and was saddened by the fact that it had arrived so soon. He’d hoped he would have had more time to get to know his family, to make up for everything he had missed while growing up, but that was not to be.
With wisdom beyond his years, he understood the uncanny persistence of life. Where there was the slightest sliver of hope that it could emerge, it would, and alien life was no different.
His father had suspected that he’d been unsuccessful in his attempt to destroy the thing that once lived as Jack Griffith. At the time, Frankie had known for a fact that he had failed, for the whispering that he recognized as coming from the collective consciousness of this creature had never fully ceased. It had grown quieter, true, but it had never stopped completely. And now it was growing stronger.
He glanced at the window, and the ridge beyond, aware that the fight would be joined once again. He felt their presence lurking at the edge of his consciousness, a faint whispering like the soft static of a radio tuned to a dead station. With his mind, he pushed them from his thoughts, driving them away from him, sending them reeling into the ether as they fled the confusion that threatened to consume them.
Michelle entered the room and found Frankie staring out the window. The coloring book on the table before him was covered by blood that was dripping from Frankie’s nose.
He was unaware of this fact, his entire being focused on locating the source of the whispering, and as he sought them out he felt the months of confusion he’d held successfully at bay washing back through him.
He heard Michelle scream and was about to tell her that everything was all right when he looked down and saw that the blue sky he’d worked so hard on was now a bright red due to the blood flowing from his nose.
“We’re gonna need the table soon,” she said with a nod.
Frankie smiled as he nodded at her, then returned his attention to the coloring book. He was focused on the sky now, using the wide side of the crayon to create swaths of blue as he moved it back and forth.
As he worked, his mind wandered. Memories whispered from the past and he followed one back to that night in the garage. He saw Jack on a purely instinctive level, a powerful predatory force that was searching for him as he hid within the cocoon of white noise that was his world. While his father tried to start the car, Jack had thrown himself at the vehicle with an insane fury that flashed white-hot around Frankie’s sanctuary. Neither his father nor Michelle would have lasted very long against Jack, who had become so much more than just an ordinary man. The thin glass of the car windows would have easily failed against his onslaught.
It was then that he’d reached out for the first time with his mind. Venturing beyond the safety his confusion afforded him, he discovered he had a little trick of his own up his sleeve. He had touched Jack’s mind that night.
What he had seen as he gazed into Jack’s subconscious had terrified him. The thing that had taken control of Jack had no feelings whatsoever for man. It viewed him as nothing more than cattle in the field, which in essence they were, for their genes had been brought from the far reaches of space to this warm little planet circling the sun. They had been brought to feed these early explorers.
But as the continents broke apart, and that section they had inhabited drifted to the south, the food source found itself more adaptable than its masters. The tables had been turned as the hunter became the hunted, and this alien race had had to take drastic measures to adapt to the changes that were taking place around it. They were forced to evolve into a creature more suited to a snow-covered world, and in so doing they had surrendered their reign over their former slaves.
Frankie saw all of this in a flash of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He had touched Jack’s mind, transferring a small part of the confusion that was his own world, and in so doing had opened himself up to this creature’s influence. Accomplishing what he had set out to do, he had retreated, followed by this predatory thing that stalked him through the chambers of his own mind. It was only when the fever gripped him that he was able to exorcise this demon from the past.
From his left came a faint sound that he realized, upon becoming aware of it, had always been there. A soft whispering, like that of a multitude of voices in worshipful prayer. The sound stopped his hand and his coloring book lay forgotten as he turned to peer into the deeper shadows that were crowded in the corners of the room.
He sensed his mother’s presence nearby and was comforted by her warmth, which stood in sharp contrast to the chilly waves of cold air that whispered from the deeper shadows.
“They’ve awakened,” his mother whispered in his mind and he sighed with resignation. He’d known this day would come and was saddened by the fact that it had arrived so soon. He’d hoped he would have had more time to get to know his family, to make up for everything he had missed while growing up, but that was not to be.
With wisdom beyond his years, he understood the uncanny persistence of life. Where there was the slightest sliver of hope that it could emerge, it would, and alien life was no different.
His father had suspected that he’d been unsuccessful in his attempt to destroy the thing that once lived as Jack Griffith. At the time, Frankie had known for a fact that he had failed, for the whispering that he recognized as coming from the collective consciousness of this creature had never fully ceased. It had grown quieter, true, but it had never stopped completely. And now it was growing stronger.
He glanced at the window, and the ridge beyond, aware that the fight would be joined once again. He felt their presence lurking at the edge of his consciousness, a faint whispering like the soft static of a radio tuned to a dead station. With his mind, he pushed them from his thoughts, driving them away from him, sending them reeling into the ether as they fled the confusion that threatened to consume them.
Michelle entered the room and found Frankie staring out the window. The coloring book on the table before him was covered by blood that was dripping from Frankie’s nose.
He was unaware of this fact, his entire being focused on locating the source of the whispering, and as he sought them out he felt the months of confusion he’d held successfully at bay washing back through him.
He heard Michelle scream and was about to tell her that everything was all right when he looked down and saw that the blue sky he’d worked so hard on was now a bright red due to the blood flowing from his nose.
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Parasite (Shadows of the Past Book II) Chapter 9
Chapter 9
The despair of the past few days was washed away by the exhilaration of racing headlong through the woods with no restrictions. This was his second pass on the circuit he and his father had cut from the forest behind their house. Reacquainted with the features of the path after his first go round, this time he decided to see just how fast he could run the route.
He was ripping around the second curve, dirt spewing from beneath all four tires as he leaned into the turn and cranked the throttle wide open. The four-wheeler leapt forward as the first long straightaway came into view. Suddenly a figure stepped out of the dense forest, right into the middle of the path, and Anthony’s mouth went dry with fear when he recognized Randy’s bulk blocking his way.
He whipped the handlebars to the right, cutting through the dense weeds, bouncing crazily over downed tree limbs as he skirted around Randy. He nearly lost control but he managed to get himself back onto the path and straightened out beyond Randy. He stopped, his hands shaking, his knees weak, as he looked back over his shoulder to find Randy casually sauntering towards him.
Anthony popped the clutch and twisted the throttle wide open just as Dave jumped out of the weeds and tried to grab the handlebars. Dave was sent sprawling into the weeds as Anthony sped away. He bounced over the path, the engine revving, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was chasing him. He failed to set himself for the next turn and instead of remaining on the path the four-wheeler spun out into the dense forest.
He pushed himself away from the four-wheeler as it rolled into the brush, tumbling through the trees, slamming into a bramble of fallen tree limbs. He lay there for a moment, pain coming from his left knee and lower back as the four-wheeler sputtered and died somewhere to his right.
Where did they come from? he wondered as he lay there listening to the voice of the forest around him. Like a curtain descending, all noise ceased as the sound of approaching footsteps filled the void.
They were coming for him.
Pushing himself back to his feet, he searched the forest for any sign of their approach. To his left he spotted movement and saw Randy calmly walking towards him with a strange animal at his heels. Dave joined him and together they approached him with a leisurely stride; it was as if they knew they had all the time in the world to do as they pleased, which frightened him more than anything else. Anthony turned and ran into the forest, following the trail he knew would lead back to his house.
Reaching his house, he raced through the kitchen door and crossed to the basement door, tracking mud across his mother’s clean floor, taking the steps two at a time, risking a headlong fall to the concrete floor below. He made his way to his father’s small workshop tucked away in the far corner. Above the workbench an assortment of tools hung from a pegboard; along the right side of the workbench was a row of drawers. Anthony opened the second one down and reached into the shadowy recesses at the back of the drawer. He pulled out a tin box and pried off the lid to reveal an object wrapped in an oily rag.
Hidden inside the rag lay a well-maintained Colt model 1911 45-caliber pistol. Unwrapping the weapon, he laid the rag on the surface of the workbench and pulled back the slide as his father had shown him just that spring. Locking the slide back, he slapped a full clip into the handle and released the lever holding the slide. It slid forward, ramming the blunt nose of a bullet into the chamber. Pushing the pass through safety button on the trigger guard from safe to fire, he crossed back to the steps and paused for a moment as he struggled to catch his breath.
He had a moment to consider what he was doing, to take stock of the situation, as it were. He only had two options open to him. Let Randy and Dave take him and do as they pleased, possibly resulting in his death. Or kill them both.
It wasn’t possible for Randy to still be alive. He’d seen him fall, had heard the sickening crunch of his body slamming into the stones at the bottom of the cliff. But here he was, coming after him again, and this time he knew there would be no turning back. Something had brought Randy back, be it for revenge, or worse. Anthony hadn’t matured to the point that such a notion would be considered impossible. His young mind was still wide open to any number of explanations for Randy’s return, most of them with sinister origins.
He had come back from the dead to get him, and that animal he’d seen with him, that strange creature that looked like a cross between a fox and a turtle was somehow involved.
His decision made, he pulled himself up the steps with the pistol heavy in his hand. His father had taught him earlier that year to shoot, while his mom had been away at her sister’s. She never would have agreed to such a thing had it been proposed so he and his father had kept it as a secret between them. Another of the many secrets fathers and sons normally kept from mothers and wives.
Stepping into the back yard, Anthony scanned the forest for any sign of Randy’s approach. He heard footsteps in the leaves covering the forest floor and he waited, watching that section of trees the sound seemed to be originating from.
Randy came into view, followed by Dave, and Anthony had a moment to take a closer look at the bully who’d made his life a living hell. On one side of his head, a bulge protruded from beneath his long hair, giving him a lopsided appearance. His clothes were covered with a black substance that took Anthony several moments to identify as dried blood. Dark trails traced lines from each of his ears, across his top lip, under his nose, and from each corner of his mouth.
That crunch he’d heard had to have been Randy’s skull shattering. That realization awakened a cold ball of fear in the pit of his stomach. If he could come back from such a fall what chance did bullets have against him?
“Don’t come any closer,” Anthony shouted as he took a shooter’s stance. His feet shoulder-width apart, toes aimed at the target with his knees slightly bent, leaning forward at the waist to ride out the recoil and keep his balance while firing. He held the pistol in both hands, his right wrapped around the handle with his trigger finger pointing straight out along the barrel.
Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire, his father’s voice whispered in his mind. His left hand cupped his right hand, adding stability, as the loaded gun weighed nearly eight pounds.
Randy stopped for a moment and looked at him. As their eyes locked, Anthony realized it was no longer Randy. He was there, yes, but something else inhabited his body as well, something associated with the strange animal that sat along the tree line watching the events unfold.
Randy shrugged and took another step forward.
Anthony wrapped his finger around the trigger and gently squeezed. The gun bucked in his hand as the sound of the shot shattered the stillness of the forest with a sharp report that rolled away like thunder.
He missed.
He fired again, riding the recoil like his father had shown him, letting the muzzle of the pistol rise up before bringing it back down on his target.
His third shot sent a plume of dirt into the air directly in front of Randy, who hesitated for a moment before taking another step.
The fourth shot found its mark.
At distances over fifty yards, the effectiveness of a forty-five slug is greatly diminished. Within that range, its stopping power is legendary. Randy was only thirty yards away.
The blunt-nosed slug slammed into Randy’s left knee, shattering it on impact with the bone, the resulting shrapnel slicing through tendon and muscle and flesh. The force of the impact nearly bent his leg backwards at an impossible angle, and Randy dropped to the ground as the animal that had been watching from the edge of the forest started running around in frenzied circles, acting as if it too had been hit.
Strangely, though, Randy never made a sound as he hit the ground. The only sound was that of the report vanishing into the distance like thunder rolling across the silent forest.
Under Anthony’s watchful eye, Dave pulled Randy back into the forest, followed by the animal that stopped for a moment and looked back at him with two mismatched eyes. He felt its presence, a tickle of primitive recognition at the base of his neck, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, a cold, emotionless sound that filled him with growing terror.
After they were gone, he fled back into the house and raced to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, and he’d have to keep a close watch on things. They would be back and the thought brought to mind the image of his mother in the kitchen alone, facing what lay in the forest just beyond the back door.
He had to tell someone.
But who?
Who would listen to a twelve-year-old kid with a crazy story of a bully coming back to life after he’d killed him?
He was ripping around the second curve, dirt spewing from beneath all four tires as he leaned into the turn and cranked the throttle wide open. The four-wheeler leapt forward as the first long straightaway came into view. Suddenly a figure stepped out of the dense forest, right into the middle of the path, and Anthony’s mouth went dry with fear when he recognized Randy’s bulk blocking his way.
He whipped the handlebars to the right, cutting through the dense weeds, bouncing crazily over downed tree limbs as he skirted around Randy. He nearly lost control but he managed to get himself back onto the path and straightened out beyond Randy. He stopped, his hands shaking, his knees weak, as he looked back over his shoulder to find Randy casually sauntering towards him.
Anthony popped the clutch and twisted the throttle wide open just as Dave jumped out of the weeds and tried to grab the handlebars. Dave was sent sprawling into the weeds as Anthony sped away. He bounced over the path, the engine revving, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was chasing him. He failed to set himself for the next turn and instead of remaining on the path the four-wheeler spun out into the dense forest.
He pushed himself away from the four-wheeler as it rolled into the brush, tumbling through the trees, slamming into a bramble of fallen tree limbs. He lay there for a moment, pain coming from his left knee and lower back as the four-wheeler sputtered and died somewhere to his right.
Where did they come from? he wondered as he lay there listening to the voice of the forest around him. Like a curtain descending, all noise ceased as the sound of approaching footsteps filled the void.
They were coming for him.
Pushing himself back to his feet, he searched the forest for any sign of their approach. To his left he spotted movement and saw Randy calmly walking towards him with a strange animal at his heels. Dave joined him and together they approached him with a leisurely stride; it was as if they knew they had all the time in the world to do as they pleased, which frightened him more than anything else. Anthony turned and ran into the forest, following the trail he knew would lead back to his house.
Reaching his house, he raced through the kitchen door and crossed to the basement door, tracking mud across his mother’s clean floor, taking the steps two at a time, risking a headlong fall to the concrete floor below. He made his way to his father’s small workshop tucked away in the far corner. Above the workbench an assortment of tools hung from a pegboard; along the right side of the workbench was a row of drawers. Anthony opened the second one down and reached into the shadowy recesses at the back of the drawer. He pulled out a tin box and pried off the lid to reveal an object wrapped in an oily rag.
Hidden inside the rag lay a well-maintained Colt model 1911 45-caliber pistol. Unwrapping the weapon, he laid the rag on the surface of the workbench and pulled back the slide as his father had shown him just that spring. Locking the slide back, he slapped a full clip into the handle and released the lever holding the slide. It slid forward, ramming the blunt nose of a bullet into the chamber. Pushing the pass through safety button on the trigger guard from safe to fire, he crossed back to the steps and paused for a moment as he struggled to catch his breath.
He had a moment to consider what he was doing, to take stock of the situation, as it were. He only had two options open to him. Let Randy and Dave take him and do as they pleased, possibly resulting in his death. Or kill them both.
It wasn’t possible for Randy to still be alive. He’d seen him fall, had heard the sickening crunch of his body slamming into the stones at the bottom of the cliff. But here he was, coming after him again, and this time he knew there would be no turning back. Something had brought Randy back, be it for revenge, or worse. Anthony hadn’t matured to the point that such a notion would be considered impossible. His young mind was still wide open to any number of explanations for Randy’s return, most of them with sinister origins.
He had come back from the dead to get him, and that animal he’d seen with him, that strange creature that looked like a cross between a fox and a turtle was somehow involved.
His decision made, he pulled himself up the steps with the pistol heavy in his hand. His father had taught him earlier that year to shoot, while his mom had been away at her sister’s. She never would have agreed to such a thing had it been proposed so he and his father had kept it as a secret between them. Another of the many secrets fathers and sons normally kept from mothers and wives.
Stepping into the back yard, Anthony scanned the forest for any sign of Randy’s approach. He heard footsteps in the leaves covering the forest floor and he waited, watching that section of trees the sound seemed to be originating from.
Randy came into view, followed by Dave, and Anthony had a moment to take a closer look at the bully who’d made his life a living hell. On one side of his head, a bulge protruded from beneath his long hair, giving him a lopsided appearance. His clothes were covered with a black substance that took Anthony several moments to identify as dried blood. Dark trails traced lines from each of his ears, across his top lip, under his nose, and from each corner of his mouth.
That crunch he’d heard had to have been Randy’s skull shattering. That realization awakened a cold ball of fear in the pit of his stomach. If he could come back from such a fall what chance did bullets have against him?
“Don’t come any closer,” Anthony shouted as he took a shooter’s stance. His feet shoulder-width apart, toes aimed at the target with his knees slightly bent, leaning forward at the waist to ride out the recoil and keep his balance while firing. He held the pistol in both hands, his right wrapped around the handle with his trigger finger pointing straight out along the barrel.
Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire, his father’s voice whispered in his mind. His left hand cupped his right hand, adding stability, as the loaded gun weighed nearly eight pounds.
Randy stopped for a moment and looked at him. As their eyes locked, Anthony realized it was no longer Randy. He was there, yes, but something else inhabited his body as well, something associated with the strange animal that sat along the tree line watching the events unfold.
Randy shrugged and took another step forward.
Anthony wrapped his finger around the trigger and gently squeezed. The gun bucked in his hand as the sound of the shot shattered the stillness of the forest with a sharp report that rolled away like thunder.
He missed.
He fired again, riding the recoil like his father had shown him, letting the muzzle of the pistol rise up before bringing it back down on his target.
His third shot sent a plume of dirt into the air directly in front of Randy, who hesitated for a moment before taking another step.
The fourth shot found its mark.
At distances over fifty yards, the effectiveness of a forty-five slug is greatly diminished. Within that range, its stopping power is legendary. Randy was only thirty yards away.
The blunt-nosed slug slammed into Randy’s left knee, shattering it on impact with the bone, the resulting shrapnel slicing through tendon and muscle and flesh. The force of the impact nearly bent his leg backwards at an impossible angle, and Randy dropped to the ground as the animal that had been watching from the edge of the forest started running around in frenzied circles, acting as if it too had been hit.
Strangely, though, Randy never made a sound as he hit the ground. The only sound was that of the report vanishing into the distance like thunder rolling across the silent forest.
Under Anthony’s watchful eye, Dave pulled Randy back into the forest, followed by the animal that stopped for a moment and looked back at him with two mismatched eyes. He felt its presence, a tickle of primitive recognition at the base of his neck, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, a cold, emotionless sound that filled him with growing terror.
After they were gone, he fled back into the house and raced to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, and he’d have to keep a close watch on things. They would be back and the thought brought to mind the image of his mother in the kitchen alone, facing what lay in the forest just beyond the back door.
He had to tell someone.
But who?
Who would listen to a twelve-year-old kid with a crazy story of a bully coming back to life after he’d killed him?
They’d lock him up for sure.
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Parasite: Shadows of the Past Book II: Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Anthony sat on the edge of his bed as he watched the sheriff’s patrol car pull into the driveway of Randy’s house. They’d be coming for him soon. It was just a matter of time before they figured out what had happened. What should have been a joyous week, the first full days of summer vacation, was shrouded by his fear of being discovered.
“Wanna toss the ball back and forth?” his father said at the door to his room and Anthony shook his head. His father stepped into the room and sat down on the bed next to him.
“You know you can’t hide in your room all summer. You’re gonna have to come out to eat, go to the bathroom, that sort of thing,” his dad said.
Anthony knew he was trying to be lighthearted about things but he had no idea how terrified he’d been over the past few days. He’d been waiting for the police to arrive, certain that they would appear the moment he relaxed and dared to believe that he had gotten away with what he’d done.
Then there was Dave. He was a witness to Anthony’s act. There was no reason for him to protect Anthony.
“What kind of trouble is that boy in now?” his dad said as he leaned closer to the window to watch the sheriff’s patrol car across the street. “Maybe they’ll send him away,” his dad said more to himself and Anthony experienced a moment of hope. His dad knew what kind of trouble he was having with Randy. He should tell him. Get it out in the open and be done with it.
“Hey, Dad,” Anthony said.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Nothing, just never mind.” He chickened out at the last moment. For a second he’d thought his dad would understand. But when he looked into his eyes he realized he was still a full-fledged member of the turn the other cheek crowd.
Kill em with kindness, he’d always said. He’d killed him all right. But he hadn’t been very kind about it and he recalled the sensation that had flooded him when Randy had confronted him. A rage fed by years of helplessness.
“I’ve gotta leave for work in a bit. Your Mom’s spending the day at her sister’s. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
Anthony nodded his head. “I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?” His father placed his hand against Anthony’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot, but you don’t look too well, either.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you get outside today, have some fun. Don’t tell your mom, but I filled up your four-wheeler.”
“You did?” He loved riding his four-wheeler on the trail he and his dad had cut through the woods behind the house. But his mom was always worried he’d get hurt so she’d only let him ride when his dad could go with him.
“You did pretty good in school this year, and you’re getting older. I believe you’re responsible enough to be trusted on your own. But you stay only on the trail, agreed?”
Anthony nodded his head vigorously. It was always fun riding his four-wheeler, even with his dad tagging along, but it would be so much better to ride alone. No one to tell him to slow down and no one to make him go home before he was ready.
“And remember, not a word of this to your mother.”
“I promise.”
“And you have to be back before she gets home. If she catches you riding alone, we’ll both be in deep trouble.”
Again Anthony nodded as he pushed himself up from his bed and crossed his room to retrieve his riding gear from the closet.
“I wonder what he wants?” his dad said. The sheriff’s patrol car had pulled into their driveway. His dad pushed himself away from the window and crossed to the door to Anthony’s room.
“Stay here,” his dad told him before vanishing down the hall. Anthony crossed to the door of his bedroom and listened as his father opened the front door
From below he heard his father’s voice as he spoke with the sheriff’s deputy and he cautiously crept into the hallway to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“I don’t care what they said,” his father’s voice came to him, strained with anger and just a hint of fear that kicked the tone up a note, “I’d rather you didn’t speak to him.”
“I understand your reluctance, Mr. Ferris. As a father myself, I’d be hesitant to let the police speak to my children. I was hoping maybe he’d seen or heard something that could clear this matter up quickly for everyone involved.” The Deputy’s voice was soft, reassuring, self-assured, in sharp contrast to his father’s response.
They knew. The thought blossomed in his mind. They knew what had happened. They knew what he had done. They were going to take him away. Send him downstate to the juvenile facility, to jail. He’d never survive jail. The thoughts trailed off in his mind as his father closed the door with an apology.
Anthony watched him through the slats of the banister as he stood with his back to the front door. He had denied them. His father had protected him, and he was suddenly filled with love for the man who was his father. He would keep them from sending him away. He was safe here in the house, under his father’s protection.
“Anthony,” his father called from the front door.
“What?”
“Come down here, please. I want to speak to you.”
With his helmet in his hand, he slowly walked down the steps. Reaching the first floor, he crossed to where his father stood with his back to the front door.
“Do you know anything about what happened to Randy?”
Anthony shook his head as he shrugged. “What happened to Randy?”
“The police say he’s been missing for several days. Are you sure you don’t know anything about what might have happened?”
“He’s not my friend, why would I know?” The lie came so easily that Anthony experienced a moment of remorse. What had become of him that he could stoop so low, and lie so easily to his own father? But all children lied, adults too, everyone told little white lies during the course of a normal day.
But this was no little white lie.
“You understand that if something has happened, if we come out with the truth, they will understand.”
“I don’t know anything,” Anthony said. Did his father already know what had happened and he was just waiting for Anthony to come clean? Dave could have told him. He could have told everyone and Anthony wouldn’t know it. Were they just waiting for him to tell the truth?
“Are you sure?”
Anthony nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, afraid that if he did, if he opened his mouth to further the lie the truth would come spilling out. Then they would know he was a murderer, a killer, a wild beast that had to be caged for everyone’s own good.
“I believe you,’ his father said, visibly relaxing as he pushed himself away from the door and crossed to where Anthony stood. “I better get going. Have a good day and remember what I said about your mother and the four- wheeler.”
“I will, Dad.” Anthony watched as his father vanished into the kitchen. He had done it but he wasn’t proud of it. He’d lied to his father. If he could keep the lie going, if he repeated it enough to those around him and to himself maybe he would actually start to believe it and then he could pretend it had all been a bad dream from the start.
He heard his father’s car start in the driveway and pull out. Anthony remained where he was for a moment, alone, listening to the silence of the house around him, then he turned and ran upstairs to finish getting ready. There was a trail waiting for him and he wanted to spend some quality time with it.
“Wanna toss the ball back and forth?” his father said at the door to his room and Anthony shook his head. His father stepped into the room and sat down on the bed next to him.
“You know you can’t hide in your room all summer. You’re gonna have to come out to eat, go to the bathroom, that sort of thing,” his dad said.
Anthony knew he was trying to be lighthearted about things but he had no idea how terrified he’d been over the past few days. He’d been waiting for the police to arrive, certain that they would appear the moment he relaxed and dared to believe that he had gotten away with what he’d done.
Then there was Dave. He was a witness to Anthony’s act. There was no reason for him to protect Anthony.
“What kind of trouble is that boy in now?” his dad said as he leaned closer to the window to watch the sheriff’s patrol car across the street. “Maybe they’ll send him away,” his dad said more to himself and Anthony experienced a moment of hope. His dad knew what kind of trouble he was having with Randy. He should tell him. Get it out in the open and be done with it.
“Hey, Dad,” Anthony said.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Nothing, just never mind.” He chickened out at the last moment. For a second he’d thought his dad would understand. But when he looked into his eyes he realized he was still a full-fledged member of the turn the other cheek crowd.
Kill em with kindness, he’d always said. He’d killed him all right. But he hadn’t been very kind about it and he recalled the sensation that had flooded him when Randy had confronted him. A rage fed by years of helplessness.
“I’ve gotta leave for work in a bit. Your Mom’s spending the day at her sister’s. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
Anthony nodded his head. “I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?” His father placed his hand against Anthony’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot, but you don’t look too well, either.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you get outside today, have some fun. Don’t tell your mom, but I filled up your four-wheeler.”
“You did?” He loved riding his four-wheeler on the trail he and his dad had cut through the woods behind the house. But his mom was always worried he’d get hurt so she’d only let him ride when his dad could go with him.
“You did pretty good in school this year, and you’re getting older. I believe you’re responsible enough to be trusted on your own. But you stay only on the trail, agreed?”
Anthony nodded his head vigorously. It was always fun riding his four-wheeler, even with his dad tagging along, but it would be so much better to ride alone. No one to tell him to slow down and no one to make him go home before he was ready.
“And remember, not a word of this to your mother.”
“I promise.”
“And you have to be back before she gets home. If she catches you riding alone, we’ll both be in deep trouble.”
Again Anthony nodded as he pushed himself up from his bed and crossed his room to retrieve his riding gear from the closet.
“I wonder what he wants?” his dad said. The sheriff’s patrol car had pulled into their driveway. His dad pushed himself away from the window and crossed to the door to Anthony’s room.
“Stay here,” his dad told him before vanishing down the hall. Anthony crossed to the door of his bedroom and listened as his father opened the front door
From below he heard his father’s voice as he spoke with the sheriff’s deputy and he cautiously crept into the hallway to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“I don’t care what they said,” his father’s voice came to him, strained with anger and just a hint of fear that kicked the tone up a note, “I’d rather you didn’t speak to him.”
“I understand your reluctance, Mr. Ferris. As a father myself, I’d be hesitant to let the police speak to my children. I was hoping maybe he’d seen or heard something that could clear this matter up quickly for everyone involved.” The Deputy’s voice was soft, reassuring, self-assured, in sharp contrast to his father’s response.
They knew. The thought blossomed in his mind. They knew what had happened. They knew what he had done. They were going to take him away. Send him downstate to the juvenile facility, to jail. He’d never survive jail. The thoughts trailed off in his mind as his father closed the door with an apology.
Anthony watched him through the slats of the banister as he stood with his back to the front door. He had denied them. His father had protected him, and he was suddenly filled with love for the man who was his father. He would keep them from sending him away. He was safe here in the house, under his father’s protection.
“Anthony,” his father called from the front door.
“What?”
“Come down here, please. I want to speak to you.”
With his helmet in his hand, he slowly walked down the steps. Reaching the first floor, he crossed to where his father stood with his back to the front door.
“Do you know anything about what happened to Randy?”
Anthony shook his head as he shrugged. “What happened to Randy?”
“The police say he’s been missing for several days. Are you sure you don’t know anything about what might have happened?”
“He’s not my friend, why would I know?” The lie came so easily that Anthony experienced a moment of remorse. What had become of him that he could stoop so low, and lie so easily to his own father? But all children lied, adults too, everyone told little white lies during the course of a normal day.
But this was no little white lie.
“You understand that if something has happened, if we come out with the truth, they will understand.”
“I don’t know anything,” Anthony said. Did his father already know what had happened and he was just waiting for Anthony to come clean? Dave could have told him. He could have told everyone and Anthony wouldn’t know it. Were they just waiting for him to tell the truth?
“Are you sure?”
Anthony nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, afraid that if he did, if he opened his mouth to further the lie the truth would come spilling out. Then they would know he was a murderer, a killer, a wild beast that had to be caged for everyone’s own good.
“I believe you,’ his father said, visibly relaxing as he pushed himself away from the door and crossed to where Anthony stood. “I better get going. Have a good day and remember what I said about your mother and the four- wheeler.”
“I will, Dad.” Anthony watched as his father vanished into the kitchen. He had done it but he wasn’t proud of it. He’d lied to his father. If he could keep the lie going, if he repeated it enough to those around him and to himself maybe he would actually start to believe it and then he could pretend it had all been a bad dream from the start.
He heard his father’s car start in the driveway and pull out. Anthony remained where he was for a moment, alone, listening to the silence of the house around him, then he turned and ran upstairs to finish getting ready. There was a trail waiting for him and he wanted to spend some quality time with it.
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Parasite: Shadows of the Past Book II: Chapter 7
Chapter 7
I’m getting too damned old for this shit, Sam thought as he sat in his cruiser behind the yellow Camaro that had pulled to the side of the road. In the tinted rear window of the Camaro he watched the reflection of the light bar on top of his car, flashing red and blue. He’d clocked the sports car at nearly a hundred miles per hour in a fifty mile per hour zone and now he sat, waiting for a response to his call for wants.
Being a small county sheriff’s office, there was no room in the budget for computerized upgrades to their patrol cars, so they still relied on dispatch as a link to information readily available to their brethren with the state police.
Traffic stops were the number one killer of cops in the country. He didn’t know if the person in the car in front of him had recently been involved in a crime. Or if they were emotionally distraught over a recent argument with a love interest. He was coming in cold, but he couldn’t very well justify approaching the driver’s window with his weapon drawn. What if it was some little old lady who was reliving her childhood?
He didn’t know for sure, and it was the not knowing that kept him in his seat.
It was the first real week of summer vacation and soon the tourists would be crawling all over the area. Deep Creek Lake, a man-made reservoir that offered boating and fishing opportunities, had become a prime tourist destination over the years. Land had become so valuable around the lake that a number of farmers had become instant millionaires when they opted to sell out to the developers.
“There are no wants, Sam,” the dispatcher’s voice came from the radio mounted on the dash.
When he opened the door of his cruiser, the heat hit him like a wet blanket. The bulletproof vest he wore beneath his khaki shirt added to his discomfort. The heat reminded him of summers in D.C when he walked the beat, before he made the grade and got his gold shield. Happier times that teased with the promise of what could have been.
Putting on his Smokey Bear hat, he approached the driver side window of the Camaro with his hand resting easily on the butt of his revolver. He had unfastened the strap that held it in place in the event he needed to draw his weapon quickly. From the car came the heavy bass beat of music turned up too loud.
The tinted driver’s side window slid down into the door, allowing the music to escape, filling the day with a wild medley of crashing guitars and pounding drums. A young woman sat behind the wheel, her blonde head nodding in time with the music, tapping on the steering wheel with well-manicured fingers.
“Please turn the music down,” Sam shouted to be heard.
The young woman complied and the resulting silence was a welcomed relief.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
She shook her head as she glanced up at him with an elfin expression.
“You were doing a hundred in a fifty mile per hour zone. I could impound this car. I’ll need your license and registration please.”
“When was the last time you had your radar gun calibrated?” the young woman said. Her demeanor told Sam everything he needed to know about her. A tourist obviously spoiled by parents who probably paved her way through life with a bottomless checking account.
“I’m not going to argue the merits of my radar gun. Driver’s license and registration please.” Sam held out his hand.
“Do you know who my Daddy is?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Driver’s license and registration please.”
“Bullshit backwater hick town, you have no idea who you’re messing with.”
“Nor do you, young lady. Now unless you want me to impound your car and place you under arrest, I will need your driver’s license and registration, please.”
“Oh my fucking God,” she screamed as she opened her purse and searched through its contents.
Sam stood up, amused by the woman’s reaction, when a call came over his radio clipped to his belt.
“Unit S-twelve see the occupants at nineteen one twenty three East Wilson drive. They have reported a missing child.”
“Roger, dispatch, I’m on my way.”
The woman held her license and registration out the window. Sam glanced at them briefly then handed them back. He knelt down to bring the woman’s face level with his own.
“I’ve got another call I have to take so I’m letting you go with this warning. I catch you speeding on my roads again, I’m not even going to ask for your license or registration. I’m going to impound your car and arrest you for endangering the public.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Try me.” The tone of his voice left little room for argument, so the woman nodded and Sam returned to his cruiser.
Being a small county sheriff’s office, there was no room in the budget for computerized upgrades to their patrol cars, so they still relied on dispatch as a link to information readily available to their brethren with the state police.
Traffic stops were the number one killer of cops in the country. He didn’t know if the person in the car in front of him had recently been involved in a crime. Or if they were emotionally distraught over a recent argument with a love interest. He was coming in cold, but he couldn’t very well justify approaching the driver’s window with his weapon drawn. What if it was some little old lady who was reliving her childhood?
He didn’t know for sure, and it was the not knowing that kept him in his seat.
It was the first real week of summer vacation and soon the tourists would be crawling all over the area. Deep Creek Lake, a man-made reservoir that offered boating and fishing opportunities, had become a prime tourist destination over the years. Land had become so valuable around the lake that a number of farmers had become instant millionaires when they opted to sell out to the developers.
“There are no wants, Sam,” the dispatcher’s voice came from the radio mounted on the dash.
When he opened the door of his cruiser, the heat hit him like a wet blanket. The bulletproof vest he wore beneath his khaki shirt added to his discomfort. The heat reminded him of summers in D.C when he walked the beat, before he made the grade and got his gold shield. Happier times that teased with the promise of what could have been.
Putting on his Smokey Bear hat, he approached the driver side window of the Camaro with his hand resting easily on the butt of his revolver. He had unfastened the strap that held it in place in the event he needed to draw his weapon quickly. From the car came the heavy bass beat of music turned up too loud.
The tinted driver’s side window slid down into the door, allowing the music to escape, filling the day with a wild medley of crashing guitars and pounding drums. A young woman sat behind the wheel, her blonde head nodding in time with the music, tapping on the steering wheel with well-manicured fingers.
“Please turn the music down,” Sam shouted to be heard.
The young woman complied and the resulting silence was a welcomed relief.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
She shook her head as she glanced up at him with an elfin expression.
“You were doing a hundred in a fifty mile per hour zone. I could impound this car. I’ll need your license and registration please.”
“When was the last time you had your radar gun calibrated?” the young woman said. Her demeanor told Sam everything he needed to know about her. A tourist obviously spoiled by parents who probably paved her way through life with a bottomless checking account.
“I’m not going to argue the merits of my radar gun. Driver’s license and registration please.” Sam held out his hand.
“Do you know who my Daddy is?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Driver’s license and registration please.”
“Bullshit backwater hick town, you have no idea who you’re messing with.”
“Nor do you, young lady. Now unless you want me to impound your car and place you under arrest, I will need your driver’s license and registration, please.”
“Oh my fucking God,” she screamed as she opened her purse and searched through its contents.
Sam stood up, amused by the woman’s reaction, when a call came over his radio clipped to his belt.
“Unit S-twelve see the occupants at nineteen one twenty three East Wilson drive. They have reported a missing child.”
“Roger, dispatch, I’m on my way.”
The woman held her license and registration out the window. Sam glanced at them briefly then handed them back. He knelt down to bring the woman’s face level with his own.
“I’ve got another call I have to take so I’m letting you go with this warning. I catch you speeding on my roads again, I’m not even going to ask for your license or registration. I’m going to impound your car and arrest you for endangering the public.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Try me.” The tone of his voice left little room for argument, so the woman nodded and Sam returned to his cruiser.
***
East Wilson Drive was a narrow blacktop ribbon of asphalt that meandered through the dense woods bordering the state forest. Barely wide enough for two cars to pass one another, there were wider sections every thirty yards or so where a place to pull off the road had been created along the shoulder. During deer season, the last two weeks of November, every one of these wider sections would be occupied by a car or truck from down state as hunters ventured into the forest in search of white tail deer.
There had been some big ones taken from this wilderness, but in most cases the lucky hunter was fortunate if he managed to take a spike. It was almost like the deer knew to avoid this section of the forest for those two weeks. The week before the season started they were all over the place, watching from the forest as cars went back and forth, sometimes crossing in front of a vehicle, forcing the less alert drivers to slam on their brakes.
Here and there even wider areas had been cut out of the forest where houses had been built and people had come to live. Many would be grouped in clusters of three to five, surrounded on all sides by a seemingly endless forest, and in many a deer stand stood in the back yard. During the summer they would spread corn and apples to bring in the deer. Most of these people were on fixed incomes and while the baits they used to lure in the deer would be considered unsportsmanlike, it was a necessity to keep the freezer full of meat.
It was one such wide spot that Sam pulled into in response to his call. To his left two houses sat side by side, while on his right a dilapidated trailer stood in the center of a large field filled with an assortment of junk that was slowly turning into rust. The trailer was his destination and Sam remained in his cruiser for several minutes, watching the trailer for any signs of life. He had learned early that when venturing to one of these places it was best to see how many dogs lived there before you stepped out from behind the wheel.
Crossing to the small porch, he climbed the three steps and rapped on the wooden screen door that had replaced the original aluminum one, parts of which still lay on the small front porch. An easy chair sat next to the front door, the fabric moldy from exposure to the elements, and next to it stood a small table upon which an overflowing ashtray resided.
From his pocket he removed a plastic vial and dipped his finger into its contents, rubbing the paste along his upper lip. It was a menthol rub, a trick he’d learned from his days with homicide. The menthol would mask any odors in the trailer, which, judging by its outer appearance, would be a dark and crowded space filled with the odors of unwashed bodies, cooking grease, and cigarette smoke.
An old man wearing a stained white tank top opened the front door. “Are you here about Randy?” he asked through the screen.
Sam nodded and the old man unlatched the screen door before he pushed it open for Sam to enter.
After removing his hat, Sam stepped inside and was surprised to find a neat and cozy place, far from what he had expected. The front door opened into a living room with a kitchen to the right. Everything was neat and tidy, no dishes were piled up in the sink, a couple of open windows allowed a cross breeze to cool the interior of the trailer and give it a fresh scent, if the smell of cow shit in the fields could be considered fresh. The walls were covered with an assortment of plaques, each with a rustic saying.
My house was clean last week sorry you missed it.
Our windows aren’t dirty, that’s our dog’s nose art.
In the corner of the living room a new flat panel television sat on top of an older floor model that probably had not been turned on in years. Opposite from the television, which was tuned to Judge Judy, filling the easy chair with her massive bulk, sat what Sam assumed to be the missing child’s mother, dressed in a floral housecoat. Her feet were propped up on an upholstered stool and the small table beside her was covered with empty diet soda cans, silent testament to an intent doomed to failure.
“Dee, someone’s here about Randy,” the old man said before stepping back into the kitchen and returning to the table where a disassembled shotgun lay on a towel.
“Well, show him in,” the woman said, muting the television with a remote she held in one meaty hand.
Sam stepped into the living room proper. “Good Morning Ma’am, I’m Sam Hardin with the Sheriff’s office.”
“Well, sit down, please. It hurts my neck to look up at you. My name’s Dee.”
Sam nodded and smiled as he settled into a small loveseat. He removed his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.
“When did you first realize your son was missing?”
“This morning, well last night really. He’s been missing for several days now.”
“You didn’t call sooner?”
Dee shook her head. “We figured he was out with his friends. He’s done that before but he’s never been gone this long. Please find my son. If anything’s happened to him I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I’ll do everything I can, ma’am. What about his friends? Have you spoken with any of them?”
“He only has one real friend I know of, David, who lives with his dad down the street.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“His Daddy won’t let him have a phone. Says they can’t afford it. If you ask me I think there’s something going on there. He’s always hungry when he’s around. I don’t think his parents are feeding him very well.”
“What about an address?”
“No,” she said shaking her head, “but he lives in the green house about two miles down the road, same side as us.”
“And what’s his name?”
Her face scrunched up as she tried to remember, her eyes vanishing into the folds of fat that surrounded them. “It’s a funny last name,” she said, “Zany, or something like it, I think.”
“What about the boy across the way?” the old man said from the kitchen, where he was oiling the trigger mechanism for the shotgun.
“What boy across the street?” she said, the tone of her voice rising several notches.
“You know, that Anthony kid that lives across the street.”
“They’re not friends, why do you think they’re friends? Randy picks on him. I’ve told that boy a thousand times to quit being like that but he never listens to me.”
“What do you mean he picked on him?” Sam said.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” she said, redirecting her anger at Sam. “He picks on the poor boy, they’re not friends, my son’s a big bully.” She stopped, her mouth working silently as realization dawned on her face. Her hand went to her mouth as her eyes widened in fear. “You don’t think?” she said then stopped, afraid to lend voice the suspicions that were obviously filling her mind.
“You say he lives across the street? And Randy picked on him?”
“As ashamed as I am to admit it, yes, my son was a bully to that boy. You don’t think? Oh my.”
“It could be nothing,” Sam said as he closed his notebook and pushed himself to his feet. “But I’ll look into it.”
Movement at the back of the room drew his attention and he watched as a young girl carrying a baby emerged from the shadowy hallway that led to the back of the trailer.
“Did he have a good nap, sweetie?” Dee said as she raised her arms to take the baby from the young girl.
“Who’s this?” the girl asked, nodding in Sam’s direction.
“He’s from the sheriff’s office, he’s going to help us find your brother.”
“I say let him stay lost,” the girl said.
“Now that’s no way to be. You know your brother loves you.”
The girl rolled her eyes at this but Sam wasn’t paying any attention. His gaze had been drawn to the baby Dee was cradling next to her ample breast. There was definitely something wrong with the child.
His head, if it was a he, was malformed with a very prominent nose that reminded Sam of the beak of a bird. The forward part of his head had a slant on either side of the nose with the eyes looking off to each side instead of straight ahead. He looked as if his skull had been squeezed in a vise when he was first born. Tearing his gaze from the child, he focused on Dee.
“I believe I’ve got everything I need. If there’s anything else, I’ll give you a call.”
“Please find my boy and bring him home to his mommy. No matter what he’s done, tell him I forgive him.”
Sam nodded as he made his way to the front door. He had a few things to go on, but the info about her son being a bully gave him his best lead. Most likely the bully’s victim had turned the tables on his tormentor or something had gotten out of hand and someone had been seriously hurt.
Either way he’d get to the bottom of it, that was his nature, the need to uncover the truth coupled with a persistence that knew no equal, and it was the persistence that always paid off.
2014 Halloween Horror Author Countdown: Al Barrera
The dawning of the 26th day finds us at the end of the author countdown. The last four days will be devoted to free chapters of Parasite, my upcoming release. So for day 26 let's welcome Al Barrera and his latest release, Darker Shadows Lie Below.
Al Barrera was born in Detroit, Michigan to a police officer and a soldier. Following in the family footsteps, he joined the military. After serving overseas Al moved to Tennessee and took up work in the medical field. Following more time working overseas, Al chose to write novels full time.
"I've wanted to do it since I was a kid. It's been a passion of mine as long as I can remember, and honestly, I can't see myself doing anything else."
Visit www.al-barrera.com to keep up on his blog or to get in contact.
Click on the cover for more info or to order.
Synopsis: Something ancient sleeps in the shadows of Umber Gardens. When Dr.
Benjamin Kent is extended an invitation to work at a prestigious mental
health facility, he thinks it’s too good to be true. Ben soon realizes
something is wrong at the Home. The darkness has eyes, and it’s hungry.
The line between reality and fantasy begins to blur, and soon Umber
Gardens’ dark secrets force Ben to question his family’s safety–and his
own sanity.
About the Author:
Al Barrera was born in Detroit, Michigan to a police officer and a soldier. Following in the family footsteps, he joined the military. After serving overseas Al moved to Tennessee and took up work in the medical field. Following more time working overseas, Al chose to write novels full time.
"I've wanted to do it since I was a kid. It's been a passion of mine as long as I can remember, and honestly, I can't see myself doing anything else."
Visit www.al-barrera.com to keep up on his blog or to get in contact.
2014 Halloween Horror Author Countdown: C. Michael Powers
As day twenty five dawns, with only five days to go in our countdown, we uncover new author C. Michael Powers and his latest release, Confinement.
Click on the cover for more info or to order a copy.
Synopsis:
He tried to cut off his own face with a razor blade. Now, he's there,
sleeping in his confinement room, and seen only through the small
rectangular window in the wall. For an unarmed Air Force cop stuck
guarding this sick and twisted prisoner, this will be the longest night
of his life.
About the Author:
C.
Michael Powers loves bending imagination, twisting emotions, and
revving up mental motors to create dark, horrifying, and fantastical
stories sure to shock and surprise his readers. He enjoys juggling
novels, novellas, and screenplays, to keep the stories fresh and to keep
the shackles on that dreaded writer's block dragon that dwells
somewhere deep down in the basement. Check out C. Michael Powers' work
here on this site and go to http://www.cmichaelpowers.com for more info.
Oh, and when he's not busy trying to sound super cool and artistically impressive here in this virtual world, he hangs out with his wife and four kids in the country of Panama, where he also works on his website there, sharing his experiences with others thinking of making the move overseas at http://www.PanamaForReal.com.
Wait, a few more things, he also likes baked ziti, peanut butter and jelly, cold beer, horror movies, country music (when he's not writing), movie scores (when he is writing), girls who wear glasses (sorry honey, but your eyesight is just too good for me), and the new Looney Tunes show (that Daffy Duck is friggin' hilarious).
He hates bullies, green olives, room-temperature milk, V-neck T-shirts, and getting those messages on Facebook that want him to prove how good of a friend he is by copying and pasting and sharing the message (WTH, he's a great friend!).
Okay, enough about this egotistical bastard.
Oh, and when he's not busy trying to sound super cool and artistically impressive here in this virtual world, he hangs out with his wife and four kids in the country of Panama, where he also works on his website there, sharing his experiences with others thinking of making the move overseas at http://www.PanamaForReal.com.
Wait, a few more things, he also likes baked ziti, peanut butter and jelly, cold beer, horror movies, country music (when he's not writing), movie scores (when he is writing), girls who wear glasses (sorry honey, but your eyesight is just too good for me), and the new Looney Tunes show (that Daffy Duck is friggin' hilarious).
He hates bullies, green olives, room-temperature milk, V-neck T-shirts, and getting those messages on Facebook that want him to prove how good of a friend he is by copying and pasting and sharing the message (WTH, he's a great friend!).
Okay, enough about this egotistical bastard.
Parasite (Shadows of the Past Book II) Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Dressed in blue coveralls with CSU printed in yellow letters on the back, Andrea Mills and James Ball stood in Jenny and Mark’s kitchen. James placed the case he was carrying on the counter and opened it to reveal layers of compartments, each containing vials used for collecting samples. As members of the county’s crime scene unit, they were responsible for collecting the evidence that would eventually be used in court cases, or to determine the cause of a crime.
In the yard an ambulance and several patrol cars sat parked while the occupants of the vehicles gathered in the shade beneath an oak tree. They were waiting for the Crime Scene Unit to finish collecting samples before they could search for clues to what had happened. Originally they had been inside, but James, the senior investigator for the CSU, had ushered them outside so CSU could finish their jobs in a timely fashion.
Andrea was young, mid-twenties, slender in her coveralls, with an open and inquisitive expression. She knelt at the basement door and shined the beam of her flashlight into the darkened basement below. James, on the other hand, was ten years her senior and had seen more than his share of man’s inhumanity to man. As a former Secret Service agent he understood the darker nature of man and the greed that sometimes pushed him to commit acts he otherwise would not even contemplate.
“Are you ready for this?” James said. This was only her third crime scene so he knew she was still wet behind the ears, so to speak.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Andrea said as she gazed into the dark basement. “Why do they always keep it so dark?”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Of course not, it’s just…”
James smiled at that.
Andrea stood up and motioned for James to lead the way. “Age before beauty,” she said.
“Gee, thanks,” James said as he surveyed the inky well of the basement stairs before him. No sound came from below. He knew from the preliminary report he’d received that there were no living survivors lurking in the basement. But there were two dead bodies and they deserved a modicum of respect as they collected evidence that would be used to determine what had happened to push them over the edge.
“I’ll go down and set up the work lights before you come down,” James said as he picked up one of the rechargeable work lights and stepped onto the landing.
Carefully he worked his way down the steps, taking it slow and easy, checking each step before he placed all of his weight on it. While with the Secret Service, he’d been involved in an investigation of a man suspected of providing funding for terrorist organizations via several websites he owned. While searching his house, they’d learned the hard way that he had bobby trapped his basement stairs by sawing each step nearly in half from the underside. The first agent who went down the steps went right through them onto the concrete below, breaking his leg.
James had no idea what he was going to find in the basement. The last two people down there had been a pair of sheriff’s deputies fighting for their lives. Stopping at the bottom, he shined the beam of his flashlight around his position. Thick strands of what looked like spider webbing hung from the rafters, creating a jungle that filled the empty space. It was as if the basement had not been entered in years, yet the shelf to his right was neat and orderly, full of canned vegetables that were clearly marked and dated. Beyond that lay a workbench; its surface, too, was clear of debris and the hand tools hung from a pegboard attached the wall behind the bench. Neat and orderly with everything in its place, except for the strange threads hanging from the exposed rafters, and the excavation in the center of the basement floor.
The basement could have passed for any one of a million others occupied by a working couple struggling to make ends meet. Beyond the workbench, towards the middle of the room on the floor, lay a pile of dirt with several digging tools scattered about on top of it, next to an excavation in the concrete floor. From the center of the hole a single steel object rose up from the earth, slender, forming a curved line that vanished into the ground. It appeared to be metal yet reflected none of the light given off by the flashlight.
Turning his attention away from the excavation, he shined the light around the floor, noting the presence of a large number of dead insects lying scattered about.
What the hell? James wondered as he knelt down and picked up one of the insects with his gloved hand. It was familiar, yet unlike anything he had ever seen before. Its body was slender like that of a praying mantis, but instead of an upper torso topped by a head, it ended in a stubby appendage that resembled the head of an old-time executioner’s axe lying on its side.
“Is everything all right?” Andrea said from the top of the steps.
“Everything’s fine,” James said as he turned his attention to setting up the floodlight and turned it on. Light flooded the basement, the hanging strands casting long shadows that added to the disturbing nature of the basement.
“What the hell are those things?” Andrea said from the bottom of the stairs.
“No idea,” James said as he gathered one up and slipped it into an evidence bag, cutting it from the rafter with his knife. As soon as the strand was severed it dissolved into a sticky fluid at the bottom of the evidence bag.
“Whatever it is, it’s obviously still alive,” he said as he ran his gloved hand down the back of one of the strands, noting how it changed color when it came into contact with him. “We’ll have to create a path to the bodies for the pathology guys,” James continued as he severed several more, watching them collapse to the floor as a column of liquid.
Their presence made him uncomfortable and he debated stopping the collection at that point so they could don more protective gear. Reaching the first body, he opted to continue as it was. These people had lain down here long enough; they needed to gather up what they came for and let the others do what was needed for the dead.
Jenny was lying on her back staring up at the ceiling above, her short skirt hiked up around her waist, exposing white panties stained by the release of bodily fluids at the moment of her death. James photographed her, the flash of the camera throwing everything into sharp contrast; the entry wound under her chin was black against the dingy whiteness of her flesh.
“I’ve got the female,” James said as he knelt down and searched around her body. Nothing jumped out at him as an object for collection so he moved on. Pathology stood a better chance of determining what had driven them to attack the sheriff’s deputies; their job was to catalogue the crime scene, photograph it, and maintain the integrity of any evidence discovered at the scene.
He found several more of the bugs lying around Jenny.
“What do you make of the insects?” James said.
Andrea knelt down and picked up an insect, looking at it closely under the beam of her flashlight. “It’s like nothing I’m familiar with. I’ll have to check my database when I get back to the office.”
“Could they have come from Central America?”
“Possibly. I won’t know for sure until I get to a computer. What are you thinking?”
“Drug shipment gone bad. Maybe they were sampling the product, who knows.”
James stood up and approached the metal object sticking up from the center of the excavation.
“What’s that?” Andrea said as she joined him.
“Fifty-Five Chevy?” James said.
“I don’t think it’s a car.”
“Then what is it?” James said as he stepped into the excavation and knelt down to get a closer look. He tapped on the metal and it emitted a hollow sound. “It’s hollow.” Shining the beam of his flashlight along the surface, he noted that the metal, though silver in color, did not reflect the light, it absorbed it.
Placing his hand against the silver gray surface, he noted how cold it felt, as cold and lifeless as a grave.
“What do you think it is?” Andrea said, her attention focused on James and the object.
“Don’t know myself, but I know someone who might,” James said as he stepped back and snapped several pictures. Not even the camera flash was reflected from the surface.
After taking a few more shots, he knelt down and looked closely at the point where the metal met the ground. Here it was obvious the object spread out under the concrete floor flaring from the base of the fin. He wasn’t sure when he had recognized the object as a stabilizer fin; it had just come to him as he inspected the object that he was slowly beginning to suspect had otherworldly origins.
He came upon a tube in the slick surface, molded from the same piece of metal, as there were no mating lines. Cleaning out the rest of the dirt that clogged it, he leaned forward and shined his flashlight into the tube. The beam of his flashlight died a few feet into the aperture, the metal seeming to absorb the energy given off by the light. This realization heightened his earlier suspicions that what he was looking at had not come from this planet.
Standing up, he brushed off the knees of his coveralls and climbed out of the excavation.
“So what do you think it is?” Andrea said.
“I don’t want to say, you’ll laugh at me.”
“Me, I wouldn’t laugh at you, you’re my mentor.”
“Very funny. Have you finished with the male?”
“All done, samples taken and photos shot.”
“I guess we’re done, then. We can turn the scene over to the Medical Examiner’s office.”
“That’s good,” Andrea said as she looked around the basement, “this place gives me the creeps.”
“Me too,” James said as he crossed to the stairs with Andrea in tow.
“So what do you think it is?” she said at the bottom of the steps.
James stopped and looked back at the single fin sticking up in the center of the excavation. He imagined that somewhere nearby was the fin’s twin, buried for hundreds of thousands of years beneath the earth. In several places he saw insects lying dead. Could they have come from the craft? If so, how had they survived?
James shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said and turned up the steps. But he knew someone who might and he considered a visit to the University of Washington where one Professor Abramson taught physics. He would know.
In the yard an ambulance and several patrol cars sat parked while the occupants of the vehicles gathered in the shade beneath an oak tree. They were waiting for the Crime Scene Unit to finish collecting samples before they could search for clues to what had happened. Originally they had been inside, but James, the senior investigator for the CSU, had ushered them outside so CSU could finish their jobs in a timely fashion.
Andrea was young, mid-twenties, slender in her coveralls, with an open and inquisitive expression. She knelt at the basement door and shined the beam of her flashlight into the darkened basement below. James, on the other hand, was ten years her senior and had seen more than his share of man’s inhumanity to man. As a former Secret Service agent he understood the darker nature of man and the greed that sometimes pushed him to commit acts he otherwise would not even contemplate.
“Are you ready for this?” James said. This was only her third crime scene so he knew she was still wet behind the ears, so to speak.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Andrea said as she gazed into the dark basement. “Why do they always keep it so dark?”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Of course not, it’s just…”
James smiled at that.
Andrea stood up and motioned for James to lead the way. “Age before beauty,” she said.
“Gee, thanks,” James said as he surveyed the inky well of the basement stairs before him. No sound came from below. He knew from the preliminary report he’d received that there were no living survivors lurking in the basement. But there were two dead bodies and they deserved a modicum of respect as they collected evidence that would be used to determine what had happened to push them over the edge.
“I’ll go down and set up the work lights before you come down,” James said as he picked up one of the rechargeable work lights and stepped onto the landing.
Carefully he worked his way down the steps, taking it slow and easy, checking each step before he placed all of his weight on it. While with the Secret Service, he’d been involved in an investigation of a man suspected of providing funding for terrorist organizations via several websites he owned. While searching his house, they’d learned the hard way that he had bobby trapped his basement stairs by sawing each step nearly in half from the underside. The first agent who went down the steps went right through them onto the concrete below, breaking his leg.
James had no idea what he was going to find in the basement. The last two people down there had been a pair of sheriff’s deputies fighting for their lives. Stopping at the bottom, he shined the beam of his flashlight around his position. Thick strands of what looked like spider webbing hung from the rafters, creating a jungle that filled the empty space. It was as if the basement had not been entered in years, yet the shelf to his right was neat and orderly, full of canned vegetables that were clearly marked and dated. Beyond that lay a workbench; its surface, too, was clear of debris and the hand tools hung from a pegboard attached the wall behind the bench. Neat and orderly with everything in its place, except for the strange threads hanging from the exposed rafters, and the excavation in the center of the basement floor.
The basement could have passed for any one of a million others occupied by a working couple struggling to make ends meet. Beyond the workbench, towards the middle of the room on the floor, lay a pile of dirt with several digging tools scattered about on top of it, next to an excavation in the concrete floor. From the center of the hole a single steel object rose up from the earth, slender, forming a curved line that vanished into the ground. It appeared to be metal yet reflected none of the light given off by the flashlight.
Turning his attention away from the excavation, he shined the light around the floor, noting the presence of a large number of dead insects lying scattered about.
What the hell? James wondered as he knelt down and picked up one of the insects with his gloved hand. It was familiar, yet unlike anything he had ever seen before. Its body was slender like that of a praying mantis, but instead of an upper torso topped by a head, it ended in a stubby appendage that resembled the head of an old-time executioner’s axe lying on its side.
“Is everything all right?” Andrea said from the top of the steps.
“Everything’s fine,” James said as he turned his attention to setting up the floodlight and turned it on. Light flooded the basement, the hanging strands casting long shadows that added to the disturbing nature of the basement.
“What the hell are those things?” Andrea said from the bottom of the stairs.
“No idea,” James said as he gathered one up and slipped it into an evidence bag, cutting it from the rafter with his knife. As soon as the strand was severed it dissolved into a sticky fluid at the bottom of the evidence bag.
“Whatever it is, it’s obviously still alive,” he said as he ran his gloved hand down the back of one of the strands, noting how it changed color when it came into contact with him. “We’ll have to create a path to the bodies for the pathology guys,” James continued as he severed several more, watching them collapse to the floor as a column of liquid.
Their presence made him uncomfortable and he debated stopping the collection at that point so they could don more protective gear. Reaching the first body, he opted to continue as it was. These people had lain down here long enough; they needed to gather up what they came for and let the others do what was needed for the dead.
Jenny was lying on her back staring up at the ceiling above, her short skirt hiked up around her waist, exposing white panties stained by the release of bodily fluids at the moment of her death. James photographed her, the flash of the camera throwing everything into sharp contrast; the entry wound under her chin was black against the dingy whiteness of her flesh.
“I’ve got the female,” James said as he knelt down and searched around her body. Nothing jumped out at him as an object for collection so he moved on. Pathology stood a better chance of determining what had driven them to attack the sheriff’s deputies; their job was to catalogue the crime scene, photograph it, and maintain the integrity of any evidence discovered at the scene.
He found several more of the bugs lying around Jenny.
“What do you make of the insects?” James said.
Andrea knelt down and picked up an insect, looking at it closely under the beam of her flashlight. “It’s like nothing I’m familiar with. I’ll have to check my database when I get back to the office.”
“Could they have come from Central America?”
“Possibly. I won’t know for sure until I get to a computer. What are you thinking?”
“Drug shipment gone bad. Maybe they were sampling the product, who knows.”
James stood up and approached the metal object sticking up from the center of the excavation.
“What’s that?” Andrea said as she joined him.
“Fifty-Five Chevy?” James said.
“I don’t think it’s a car.”
“Then what is it?” James said as he stepped into the excavation and knelt down to get a closer look. He tapped on the metal and it emitted a hollow sound. “It’s hollow.” Shining the beam of his flashlight along the surface, he noted that the metal, though silver in color, did not reflect the light, it absorbed it.
Placing his hand against the silver gray surface, he noted how cold it felt, as cold and lifeless as a grave.
“What do you think it is?” Andrea said, her attention focused on James and the object.
“Don’t know myself, but I know someone who might,” James said as he stepped back and snapped several pictures. Not even the camera flash was reflected from the surface.
After taking a few more shots, he knelt down and looked closely at the point where the metal met the ground. Here it was obvious the object spread out under the concrete floor flaring from the base of the fin. He wasn’t sure when he had recognized the object as a stabilizer fin; it had just come to him as he inspected the object that he was slowly beginning to suspect had otherworldly origins.
He came upon a tube in the slick surface, molded from the same piece of metal, as there were no mating lines. Cleaning out the rest of the dirt that clogged it, he leaned forward and shined his flashlight into the tube. The beam of his flashlight died a few feet into the aperture, the metal seeming to absorb the energy given off by the light. This realization heightened his earlier suspicions that what he was looking at had not come from this planet.
Standing up, he brushed off the knees of his coveralls and climbed out of the excavation.
“So what do you think it is?” Andrea said.
“I don’t want to say, you’ll laugh at me.”
“Me, I wouldn’t laugh at you, you’re my mentor.”
“Very funny. Have you finished with the male?”
“All done, samples taken and photos shot.”
“I guess we’re done, then. We can turn the scene over to the Medical Examiner’s office.”
“That’s good,” Andrea said as she looked around the basement, “this place gives me the creeps.”
“Me too,” James said as he crossed to the stairs with Andrea in tow.
“So what do you think it is?” she said at the bottom of the steps.
James stopped and looked back at the single fin sticking up in the center of the excavation. He imagined that somewhere nearby was the fin’s twin, buried for hundreds of thousands of years beneath the earth. In several places he saw insects lying dead. Could they have come from the craft? If so, how had they survived?
James shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said and turned up the steps. But he knew someone who might and he considered a visit to the University of Washington where one Professor Abramson taught physics. He would know.
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2014 Halloween Horror Author Countdown: John Everson
In a fitting tribute to Halloween John Everson and his latest release, The Pumpkin Man, joins us as our countdown nears the end.
John Everson is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of eight novels
of erotic horror and the macabre, including his latest, the Fountain of
Youth thriller THE FAMILY TREE, as well as the Bram Stoker
Award-nominated tour de force NIGHTWHERE, the Bram Stoker Award-winner
COVENANT, its sequel SACRIFICE and the standalone novels THE 13TH,
SIREN, THE PUMPKIN MAN, VIOLET EYES.
John shares a deep purple den in Naperville, Illinois with a cockatoo and cockatiel, a disparate collection of fake skulls, twisted skeletal fairies, Alan Clark illustrations and a large stuffed Eeyore. There's also a mounted Chinese fowling spider named Stoker, an ever-growing shelf of custom mix CDs and an acoustic guitar that he can't really play but that his son likes to hear him beat on anyway.
Sometimes his wife is surprised to find him shuffling through more public areas of the house, but it's usually only to brew another cup of coffee. In order to avoid the onerous task of writing, he occasionally records pop-rock songs in a hidden home studio, experiments with the insatiable culinary joys of the jalapeno, designs book covers for a variety of small presses, loses hours in expanding an array of gardens and chases frequent excursions into the bizarre visual headspace of '70s euro-horror DVDs with a shot of Makers Mark and a tall glass of Newcastle.
Learn more about John on his site, www.johneverson.com, where you can sign up for a direct-from-the-author monthly e-newsletter with information on new books, contests and occasionally, free fiction.
Want to connect? Follow John on Twitter @johneverson, or find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/johneverson.
Click on the cover for more info or to order
Synopsis:
After her father's gruesome murder, Jenn needed a place to get away from
it all with some friends, to take her mind off her sorrow. The empty
seaside cottage she inherited seemed perfect. Jenn didn't know that the
cottage held arcane secrets, mysteries long hidden and best left alone.
She didn't realize until it was too late that the old books and Ouija
board she found there really do hold great power. And it was only after
her friend's headless body was discovered that she knew the legend of
the local bogeyman was no mere legend at all. An evil has been
unleashed, a terrifying figure previously only spoken of in whispers.
But now the whispers will become screams. Beware...The Pumpkin Man.
About The Author:
John shares a deep purple den in Naperville, Illinois with a cockatoo and cockatiel, a disparate collection of fake skulls, twisted skeletal fairies, Alan Clark illustrations and a large stuffed Eeyore. There's also a mounted Chinese fowling spider named Stoker, an ever-growing shelf of custom mix CDs and an acoustic guitar that he can't really play but that his son likes to hear him beat on anyway.
Sometimes his wife is surprised to find him shuffling through more public areas of the house, but it's usually only to brew another cup of coffee. In order to avoid the onerous task of writing, he occasionally records pop-rock songs in a hidden home studio, experiments with the insatiable culinary joys of the jalapeno, designs book covers for a variety of small presses, loses hours in expanding an array of gardens and chases frequent excursions into the bizarre visual headspace of '70s euro-horror DVDs with a shot of Makers Mark and a tall glass of Newcastle.
Learn more about John on his site, www.johneverson.com, where you can sign up for a direct-from-the-author monthly e-newsletter with information on new books, contests and occasionally, free fiction.
Want to connect? Follow John on Twitter @johneverson, or find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/johneverson.
2014 Halloween Horror Author Countdown: Armand Rosamilia
Twenty two days have passed and only eight remain as we come upon Armand Rosamilia and his latest horror release, Chelsea Avenue.
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping.
He's written over 100 stories that are currently available, including a few different series:
"Dying Days" extreme zombie series
"Keyport Cthulhu" horror series
"Flagler Beach Fiction Series" contemporary fiction
"Metal Queens" non-fiction music series
He also loves to talk in third person... because he's really that cool. He's a proud Active member of HWA as well.
You can find him at http://armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes!
Or e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal:
armandrosamilia@gmail.com
Click on the cover for more info or to order.
Synopsis:
Some things never stop until the deed is done.
On July 8th 1987, in Long Branch, New Jersey, The Haunted House Pier and Murphy's Law club fires destroyed not only local landmarks, but everything Manny Santiago found dear.
And it isn't over.
The entity responsible for killing Manny's family and wreaking devastation in the small seaside community has reappeared. Again. And is growing in power.
Now every July 8th it returns, and this time survivors of the fires, including Manny, are being led back to the now-vacant lot on Chelsea Avenue, where the entity intends to finish what it started in 1987 once and for all.
On July 8th 1987, in Long Branch, New Jersey, The Haunted House Pier and Murphy's Law club fires destroyed not only local landmarks, but everything Manny Santiago found dear.
And it isn't over.
The entity responsible for killing Manny's family and wreaking devastation in the small seaside community has reappeared. Again. And is growing in power.
Now every July 8th it returns, and this time survivors of the fires, including Manny, are being led back to the now-vacant lot on Chelsea Avenue, where the entity intends to finish what it started in 1987 once and for all.
About The Author:
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping.
He's written over 100 stories that are currently available, including a few different series:
"Dying Days" extreme zombie series
"Keyport Cthulhu" horror series
"Flagler Beach Fiction Series" contemporary fiction
"Metal Queens" non-fiction music series
He also loves to talk in third person... because he's really that cool. He's a proud Active member of HWA as well.
You can find him at http://armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes!
Or e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal:
armandrosamilia@gmail.com
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