Hey everyone! I really hope you will take a moment to check out my Patreon page. I have revised my Membership Benefits. I will be making one or two blog posts on there a month along with my author website here.
I’ve always been interested in writing and telling stories, but LIFE HAPPENS to us all. I didn’t pursue my calling until after I was 40 and buried in a corporate job. Currently, I work a graveyard shift job and have a very lively family of five that I want to give all the best that life can offer.
What your patronage will provide for me is funding for any marketing campaigns (Amazon ads, Facebook ads, Youtube Book Trailers, or professional book cover artwork). While I do this for the love of storytelling, I also would love to reach more readers. OVER 2000+ NEW BOOKS ARE PUBLISHED EVERY DAY!! The only way to stand out from the avalanche is through ads and videos.
Recently on my monthly newsletter, I created a survey of what you guys wanted and what you are looking to see from me. You guys spoke up, and I took note! You want MORE: more writing, more updates on works-in-progress, and more unique prizes!
I love this idea of having this personal connection with you, my core fans. And with this direct connection, we can literally provide for one another.
Besides my utmost gratitude, subscription memberships will benefit you too!
Starting at Tier 1 @ $1 per month, you can engage in surveys and votes to influence content decisions (like names, titles, cover art, etc), exclusive insights to my work and sneak peeks at content, plus you are recognized and named on my website!
Tier 2 @ $3 per month, you gain the same as Tier 1 BUT also you can make suggestions for blogs or short stories you’d like to see from me, see monthly updates on WIPs, a special Thank You Credit in my novels!
Tier 3 @ $10 per month gives you the previously listed along with Ebook copies of new novels, the patron’s site link(if available) listed on my website, and a choice of a signed custom-designed metal bookmarker!
SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO JOE GIBBS FOR HIS MEMBERSHIP.
Tier 4 @ $20 per month, gives you the previously listed as well as paperback copies of any new novels released (US only) mailed directly to you.
SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO LONG-STANDING MEMBERS SUSANNA WILLEY AND LYNN NEITH!
The las Tier 5 @ $35 per month gives you the previously listed and a unique COLLECTIBE book cover of new release custom-designed by the author just for the Patron member (US only). PLUS an ongoing chapter-by-chapter submission of a new novel sent to you before it even goes to publication!
With Patreon, I can realize my goals with marketing, doing book signings, offering contests and giveaways at the same time bringing you great exclusive content and special signed prizes!
With Patreon, I can focus on my ultimate goal to be a full-time writer.
With Patreon, together we can really create something magical (or horrific depending on the genre!) and make a true difference!
Kris woke with a start. Bright lights above him stung his eyes. His mouth was sand dry and his throat felt swollen. As his vision adapted, he looked about him. He was behind the steering wheel in his dark blue Thunderbird. It was smoothly running idle.
He checked the rearview mirror. His short-cropped platinum blonde hair was still well-groomed and nothing seemed out of place. However, his slate-gray eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He looked down at his light blue suit. It was relatively fresh and he didn’t note any wrinkles. He decided he hadn’t been asleep long.
Outside the car, he could see a long empty stretch of road.
Oh, it’s the tunnel! The I-21, Kris realized. It was what the locals in Clear Lake, Texas, called The Long Stretch. The tunnel was on his normal drive to work. He had recently been promoted to Operations Manager of a Healthcare Plan Center. The commute normally took about thirty-five minutes, most of it in this tunnel.
God! I fell asleep. How the hell did I manage to do that? he wondered.
He also found it odd that he couldn’t recall the night before. Was he drinking? He hadn’t had a black-out session in sometime but it wasn’t off the table. His love of Bourbon was infamous. Sherry, his wife despised his “only vice” and gave him a shit storm routinely over it.
He shrugged and put the car in Drive. There was no other traffic in front or behind him in the tunnel. His watch was missing, but he guessed it was near 5:00 AM. He found himself quite hungry and thirsty. The BP Gas Station near the office would likely have some hot coffee and maybe a few donuts.
Kris patted his suit pants pockets, but they were empty. Shitty time to lose his wallet and cell phone. He sighed getting disgusted with himself. It must’ve been a real party for him to walk out without his items.
Did I party? Or did Sherry and I fight again and I drank away my anger? Why the hell was this drive taking so long? Where’s the exit? His thoughts began to focus on the tunnel.
While he had driven inside it nearly twenty times this month alone, there were no details he could really recall. It was constructed with a plain, black tar road, three wide lanes, yellow painted stripes to mark the sides, a bike lane, and high gray concrete walls with white hanging LED lamps every thirty feet.
The tunnel went on and on.
Something’s wrong. The tunnel portion of the drive is only twenty minutes or so tops. I’ve been over a half hour already I think.
He looked at the odometer. Christ! It was way more than he remembered. 56312. Maybe a good four or five hundred more miles than he would have guessed.
Was it a road trip and an end-all be-all drinkfest? What the fuck? Sherry is going to tear me a new one when I get home tonight. He shook his head. Then he realized he wasn’t hung over either. He didn’t even have a headache. His thoughts though were a bit foggy.
After driving for an hour, he pulled to the side and parked in the bike lane. He punched the Hazard lights on.
He then opened the glove compartment looking for his phone. In it, stuffed in the left side was a silver flip phone, maybe one of the old Motorola ones. It was not his IPhone 13. There was nothing else in the compartment. His registration paperwork and insurance papers were all missing.
He retrieved the phone and examined it. It was fully charged, had the current time of 3:52 AM on it as well as the date 9/18/2029, but nothing else on the display. There were no contacts listed. He checked the history and only one listed number that had been called. It wasn’t familiar,but he dialed it anyway.
It rang three times before am automated robotic voice answered. “Kristopher Anthony Todd. Pending. 23 days.”
It disconnected without even prompting him to leave a voicemail message.
Pending what? And what did it mean by 23 days?
Starting to feel anxious and his temper beginning to boil, he again put the car in Drive. It was time to find the freaking exit!
Another hour passed in The Long Stretch. Kris swore the ceiling was lowering and the lanes were getting narrower. His world was crushing in on him. When the odometer hit 56412 — another hundred miles since he first checked, he hit the brakes and screamed in helplessness. He pounded his fists on the dash so hard a crack suddenly formed and split the smooth rubbery surface.
“Goddamn it! Where am —“
A flash of memory cut his thoughts off. Sherry was next to the dresser in their master bedroom. She was standing in a pink and purple pajama top and panties. He was coming out of the bathroom, shouting and stumbling. He was very drunk. His shirt was unbuttoned and had fresh drink stains. She was screaming, “I am sick of your lies!”
He had screamed, “Shut that bitch mouth!” right before he swung wildly and punched her. She flew back sprawled across the bed.
Guilt and shame washed over his features. So they did fight. He did get drunk and that’s why he could not remember.
Yet something nagged at him. The memory seemed distant. Wasn’t that months ago, he questioned himself.
Kris pressed hard on the gas pedal. No one was around so he got close to 110 on the speedometer. He was going to get to the damn exit and he was going to get there now!
An hour and a half passed. Nothing of the tunnel had changed. No other cars appeared. He was starting to question whether he even woke that morning. Started to question his sanity.
Eventually, the Thunderbird sputtered then stalled as it ran out of battery power. He opened the door and walked in front of the car with his hands on his hips as he tried to figure what to do next.
The dent is gone! His inner voice shouted at him. This wasn’t his car after all! Just the same make and model. He looked at the key fob and popped the trunk. Inside was an interesting trove of items. There was a package of bottled water next to a rolled up sleeping bag. A camouflaged backpack had food stuffs and a copy of The Green Mile by Stephen King which happened to be one of his favorite novels.
“Well we have everything we need, Dorothy. Let’s follow that yellow brick road after all!”
Kris took the items and as many of the water bottles he could cram in the sleeping bag and backpack.
Another instant vision exploded inside his mind. Sherry was in the backyard running. The side of her face and neck were bleeding profusely from deep slashes. He was also running, covered in blood.
The blood was not his.
He stood there shaking. The nightmare memory hitting him hard at his core. “What did I do, babe? Oh God…”
He started walking again trying to clear his thoughts of the vision.
Kris struck his palm against his temple. He could call for help with the flip phone!
He dialed their house, praying she was alright and could answer the phone. Another robotic voice answered instead.
“The phone number you have dialed is invalid. Please check—“
Kris hung up, cursing and muttering under his breath. He dialed his work.
“The phone number you have dialed—“
Dialed his mother.
“The—“
How about this? He punched in 9 1 1.
“The phone number you have dialed is invalid. Please check your number and try again.”
Sighing loudly, he called the only number that seemed to work. The robotic message came back on again.
“Kristopher Anthony Todd. Pending. 39 days.”
Kris scoffed. He had no idea what it all meant. He continued his hike.
At one point, he stopped and camped in the bike lane. He slept five hours on the cold tarmac, but the sleep was filled with chaotic, frantic dreams.
The infinite road went on and on. His feet blistered from the dress shoes. He ditched his suit jacket and his blue tie.
Seven hours later he made another stop to sleep. The cell phone told him ““Kristopher Anthony Todd. Pending. 47 days.”
At 4:12 PM the next day, he spotted something new! It was at first only a dark and square object. When he walked closer he realized it was the same car he abandoned. The trunk was still wide open.
Kris sank to his knees, broken and exhausted. How was this happening? Why was this happening? What do—
A tall slender man opened the driver’s door and climbed out. He wore a blue jumpsuit with a black leather belt. Under a police officer’s hat, the light-skinned man had on large reflecting sunglasses. His face had almost no clear shapes or details. He was blocky, similar to one of those people his nephew would make in his Minecraft video games. However, in the man’s right hand, he carried a black pistol.
Kris lunged and bolted back down the roadway. He pulled out the cell again.
He dialed by reflex 9 1 1.
An actual human answered this time. A serious but pleasant female voice said, “State the nature of your emergency please.”
“Please! Please help me,” he shouted, panting from his exertion.
“State the nature of your emergency please.”
“I’m being chased. He has a gun! I don’t know why or where I am!”
“Prisoner 56312, Kristopher Anthony Todd. Sentenced into CRIOSYS 65 days ago. Final appeal DENIED. Your execution date has been approved and moved to today 9/18/2029. Please remain still.”
“FUCK YOU, LADY!” He screamed back and threw the phone hard to the ground.
The past year of arrest, court, press conferences, prison, images of Sherry’s corpse — all rushed back to him. He had been charged and sentenced to die for killing his wife, Sherry Diane Todd almost a year ago. On Death Row, he had been forced into a new experimental AI-generated prison called CRIOSYS.
Kris didn’t care about anything at that moment. He only ran. He knew he had to. His body may be lying in some cold storage, but his mind and soul were here in The Long Stretch! In order to live again, he couldn’t stop running. He wouldn’t!
The eruption of the gun, two blasts, the shock of the sounds, and the agonizing bloody holes opening in his chest struck him all at once.
Hey Everyone! I just wanted to reach out real quick and let you know I have these beauties right here, ready to sign and mail upon request!
These metal bookmarkers are personally designed by me, have a brilliant pearl finish, and have vivid colors that leap right out at you.
I will be setting these up on the website, but don’t miss your chance now for an early-bird special of $5. Each will be signed and mailed directly to you!
By May 15th, the price will go back to their normal costs of $7 each.
Also pictured below are older, alternative bookcover metal bookmarkers. These are $4.
To order any of these, please EMAIL ME AT RIVYENPHX@GMAIL.COM (and include the bookmarkers of your choice and quantity!)
I am also working hard to get “collector boxes” for fans, holiday surprise gifts or a pick-me-up present for someone who is sick and wants something amazing to read! These boxes will contain the epic fantasy novel series (Wyvernshield #1 through #4) or they will keep the terror within and house the Evade and Elude Horror-suspense novels! I will of course find extras to put in like T-shirts, these metal bookmarks and maybe even some signed metal prints of my bookcovers! Price and quantity for these have yet to be determined but keep an eye out!! They will be here around the corner!!
If you have any ideas or suggestions you would like to see included in the Collector Boxes, please comment or feel free to email me!
Today, I wanted to post a little behind-the-scenes work I am doing. It will give you some insight into the research work I do to develop my characters and my storylines.
I usually start with a vague idea or an impression in my mind then I build upon that spark by asking myself questions and finding information online.
For this story (which will be in the sequel anthology for Weatherly Lane), it will revolve around the true-life serial killer known as The Axeman of New Orleans.
Very little is known of the infamous murderer. He was rarely seen and few who survived his attacks to give any credible accounting to the investigators. His reign of terror focused on the city of New Orleans from May, 1918 to October, 1919. Overall, the Axeman is accredited with twelve victims of which six people died.
Like the modern-day serial killer, The Zodiac Killer, the Axeman grew notorious as he sent a taunting letter to the investigators and mocked their efforts at capturing him. He made an odd request: if everyone in the city on March 19th would play jazz music, he would spare them another murder. It was reported on that night, many bars and nightclubs only played jazz. There were no more murders until August of 1919. To this day, on March 19th, some establishments still play only jazz. His last murder was in October of 1919. And like the Zodiac, he disappeared into obscurity, no more attacks occurred, and he was never captured.
Here is a sample of the letter he wrote to the police:
Hell, March 13, 1919
Esteemed Mortal:
They have never caught me, and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether surrounding your earth. I am not a human being but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish, you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it was better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman...
Often I like to delve into the backstory of my main character to better get to know him or her. If I know the character well, then I can write their dialogue or their decisions with better clarity and authenticity. Sometimes I include some of the backstory in my main story, sometimes I leave it out maybe for future work.
My story is of course fictional. The information I provide here is completely conjecture and invented for story purposes. In other words, I have not done any real investigation work or propose that I know who he really was.
Here are some interview questions I pulled from Chatgpt:
1. What is the character’s name? Where was the character born?
Victor Daniel Perrone (his mother’s surname) was born in New Orleans, LA.
2. What is the character’s family background?
He’s half-black, half-Italian. He and his mother, Luanne, and half-sister, Sherry, lived in the squalor of the French Quarter. His father, Francis “Frank” Basso, owned a small grocery and was the landlord of the apartment building which they lived in. His mother worked for a dry cleaner shop.
3. What is the character’s earliest memory?
His earliest memory was of his father beating his mother and his sister over a broken glass picture frame. His father was a violent alcoholic.
4. What was the character’s childhood like?
Terrible and abusive. The nightmare abuse stopped finally after Francis drowned his sister in the bathtub while in a drunken rage. He escaped into the night and was never punished.
5. Did the character have any siblings? If so, what was their relationship like?
They were very close due to the severity of their situation. They were poor and their mother was too weak to stand up to the man. Due to his age, he was spared most of the beatings, but he witnessed the attacks.
6. What significant events shaped the character’s early years?
He grew up bitter and angry toward Italians like his father. When he was only fourteen, he left his mother to pursue his father. He managed to get a position on a Mississippi river ferry. There he learned about jazz and became a decent musician.
7. What was the character’s education like?
He was intelligent, talented as a trumpet player, but limited since he didn’t finish school. While he did obtain a modest career as a jazz player, he never got fame due to his quick temper and bitterness. He was still driven to get justice against his father and kept up his search in his free time.
8. What were the character’s hobbies and interests as a child?
He enjoyed music and had an interest in dark poetry. While he didn’t finish school, he did self-teach himself literature and read a lot of the classics. He was fairly well-spoken and could be eloquent. This sometimes made him seem condescending and pompous.
9. Did the character have any close friends growing up?
No. He didn’t make friends. He grew up poor, dirty, and standoffish. Plus, it was easier to hide bruises and injuries if you didn’t get close to people.
10. Did the character experience any traumatic events in childhood?
The day he learned he was a child of rape really impacted him. His sister’s father had just died at sea working on a fishing vessel. His father who was their landlord immediately attacked and raped his mother when he learned of the father’s death. Authorities didn’t put much effort in the case against him as Francis was a “creditable” white business man and she was a poor black woman.
11. What was the character’s relationship with their parents like?
Of course, he loved his mother but grew disgusted with her lack of strength to stand up for herself or the children. He hated his father. After Francis killed his sister and escaped justice, he began having fantasies about killing him. It led to his homicidal desires.
12. What are the character’s cultural and religious beliefs?
He has a shallow belief in God and Hell. He feels he is an avenging spirit for God, but doesn’t have any real morality. As an instrument of God, Victor targets Italian males especially ones he feels are irredeemable sinners.
13. How did the character’s upbringing influence their values and beliefs?
He hides behind his musician persona and religion in order to enact his murders. He still keeps aloof and doesn’t have any romantic relationships or lasting friendships.
14. What were the character’s dreams and aspirations as a child?
He had dreams of taking his mother and sister away. Living in the country on a simple farm. Anywhere really to keep his family safe from Francis.
15. Did the character face any challenges or obstacles in their youth?
He ran away at the age of fourteen after his sister’s death. First, he wanted to find his father, but then ended up on the street. Life turned around for him when he gained a post on the ferry. But his nagging need to find his father kept him tied to his tragic past. This broke his soul and eventually his mental status.
16. Has the character experienced loss or grief in their life?
Only his sister’s murder affected him. When his mother died alone ten years after he left, he didn’t even bother to attend her funeral.
17. What are the character’s strengths and weaknesses based on their past experiences?
He’s very critical of himself and others. Doesn’t always say his true thoughts, but he doesn’t hide his negativity well either.
18. How did the character’s past shape their personality?
His anger, his pursuit, and his homicidal rage him led down many dark paths. In the story, Victor will be an easy target for the evil of Hasthra. When the two meet in early 1918, Hasthra will easily manipulate and mold him into a killer.
19. What is the character’s relationship with authority figures like?
He is quick to mock or think ill of the police as they never caught his father or brought him justice. This also makes him more brazen and even reckless when he begins his own slaughters. His confidence in their ineptitude proves accurate.
20. Has the character experienced any discrimination or prejudice?
He has faced some due to his mixed heritage, but he has more Italian features than black. He is quite handsome and his career as a jazz musician has kept that limited to a degree.
21. What is the character’s relationship with money and material possessions?
He has modest needs. Most of his money has gone toward his goal of finding and killing his father. He will return from Kingston and live upon the river ferry and doesn’t have need for much else. The constant relocation of the Mariah Lee, the river ferry, gives him a perfect way to keep eluding the police.
22. Has the character experienced any form of addiction or mental health issues?
Other than his obsession with punishing Italian men, he has no other addictions. He will become mainly one of many weapons wielded by Hasthra from its lair in Kingston.
23. What are the character’s fears and insecurities based on their past?
He isn’t too worried about the police and being caught. He has honed his craft well and knows how to remain a step ahead. His arrogance will trip him up eventually. He is haunted by nightmares from his childhood. They spark his rage or send him into a delusional panic as his mental state breaks down further and further.
24. Has the character ever been in trouble with the law?
Caught a couple of times as a teen stealing but nothing around his darker deeds. He was never on their radar or been a person-of-interest in any case.
25. What is the character’s relationship with their hometown or place of origin?
He haunts New Orleans because he vows that his father is still out there somewhere. He will keep killing him over and over.
As you can see, these questions and others help me delve into the mind of the character, even the mind of one so sick and broken. It also helps me tie historical facts with my fictional content. I already have a strong sense of the evil entity, Hasthra, and now when the two intersect I will be able to have an in depth dialogue with the two. This meeting will alter many lives and set in motion a domino effect of death and mayhem.
Which is just what Hasthra feeds upon and gathers into its power…
I hope that this has been interesting for you and gives you a sneak peek into the upcoming sequel to my short story in the horror anthology, Weatherly Lane 2! (The inside word is that the sequel will be released sometime in the first half of 2025!)
So here is more of my origin short story for the Weatherly Lane Anthology. Thank you to those who gave me their feedback on the first part. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.
I am posting this next section which is a build up to the story’s climax and conclusion. THIS DOESN’T CONCLUDE ON HERE (…the anthology is set to print in the coming months! Don’t miss out! It’s an exciting ending!! And the beginning to a great collection of short stories from upcoming indie authors!!)
Pastor Matthew Albright hesitated before he knocked on the door of Mayor Little’s large white ranch house. In his late thirties, he was a tall man with a slender build, pale complexion and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He wore casual clothes but sported the small white collar at his neck as custom to his position.
It was late and well past supper time. Yet he couldn’t hold off talking with her.
His knock prompted several dogs to bark upon the property and more lanterns were lit inside. A tall black man, Jeffrey, unlocked and answered the door. He was even taller than Matthew and dressed in a black uniform jacket and cotton pants.
“Yes? What do you need, Pastor?” Jeffrey asked. He knew Matthew as he had been coming to hear sermons for a few weeks now.
“I need to speak with Madam Little. Is she available? It is important or I wouldn’t be bothering her.”
Jeffrey frowned but nodded. “It…it’s not the best time for a visit.”
“I know but it’s urgent and cannot wait for morning. Please?”
He sighed, stepped aside, and allowed the pastor step in.
“One moment.” He walked down a hallway on the right and then ascended some steps to the next floor.
Moments later, Matthew was led to a parlor office. It was elaborate and decorated befitting her role. Last summer, she had actually gained her position after her husband Mayor Shannon Little had been struck down by a heart attack. The morning after a terrible tornado had destroyed several buildings along the main streets of Kingston.
Her resilience and her ingenuity amid the tragedy proved her leadership. She simply took on the responsibility and duties of her late husband and no one refuted it. Two weeks ago, she ran officially and obtained the title unopposed.
Candace Little was short and broad. She sat behind a wide oak desk littered with books and papers. She had a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Her thinning red hair was gathered in a ponytail. Her sharp brown eyes above her red cheeks studied the pastor as he entered and stood before her desk.
“Good evening, Pastor Albright.” It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.
“Candace, thank you for seeing me.” He sat down in one of two straight-back chairs before the desk.
She took a sip of her coffee but didn’t comment or offer him any of the drink. A thick journal sat open on her desk next to an open crystal decanter filled with dark whiskey. The smell of alcohol and coffee filled the room.
“I wanted to come and see if you had heard the news about what they found in the mine today. Do you have any contacts at Farbrynn in Minneapolis? Have they given you any indication of what they intend to do with the remains?”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts, sat back in her own dark burgundy, leather chair, and took another sip of the hot coffee. “I appreciate your interest, but I’m not sure why this is a church matter.” She was straightforward and always tactful, but Matthew got the distinct impression she did not like him or the church.
“It isn’t. I am here more on a task of personal interest, I guess. You see, I was told there are Indian artifacts and probably Chippewa remains found. I have studied the Chippewa culture through the Church. I could certainly lend my expertise to any negotiations you will have with the local tribe representatives.”
“I see,” she said. Candace abruptly stood and offered her hand out for him to shake. “I’m afraid you have wasted your time, pastor. The decisions of the mine leadership is beyond my purview and yours. And it has not been proven there are any injun items there—“
“But…”
“Again, I’m sorry but this is the mine’s business, not yours or the church’s. Keep in mind that the success of the mining operation benefits all of us greatly. I and the town support them completely. Now, Jeffrey will guide you back to the door. Good night, pastor.” She had thoroughly dismissed him and had reopened the large journal on her desk and took up her pencil.
“I am not trying to interfere or overstep you. I am just trying to prevent any hostilities arising should those burial remains get moved or damaged. The preservation of their ancestors are very important in the Indian religions. Any mistake could greatly effect this town as well.”
“All right, Pastor Albright. Your opinions have been clearly stated. Should any actual savage remains surface and be reported to me by Farbrynn, I may call upon your expertise. As of—“
“Candace. Why do you have such disdain for me?” Matthew asked in frustration.
In response, she slapped shut the journal. She was suddenly seething. Her face grew even more red. “Sir! You will address me as my role requires as Madam Mayor or Madam Little. You dare to march over here at this time of night and then assume I will give you full access to any private town business I have.” She stood in her fury and set her cup down hard, splashing its contents on the pages of the work journal. “First off, you are new here! An outsider still needing to prove your worth to this town. Second, I hang no trust in the church, it’s servants and this all mighty absent deity you bow down to so easily!”
Matthew gasped at her blasphemy and crossed himself with the holy sign.
“When this town needed God, he took my husband and abandoned us to the piles of buildings he left behind in his wake! I don’t need him, you or anyone!” Tears of rage and obvious pent up grief streamed down her cheeks.
Mathew bowed and gave her a brief nod. “I am sorry, Madam Mayor to disturb you with my presumptions. I’ll pray on your behalf.”
“Screw your prayers!” She screamed at his back.
He cut off the rest of her drunken rage by closing the parlor door.
****
Sheriff Johnathan Benson twisted at one end of his golden brown mustache in his fingers as he knelt over the corpse. A peculiar smell, sour and fetid like rotting vegetables wafted from the dead man. He brought up a red handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. “And no one has seen the head?” he asked.
A younger man, nineteen and only a couple years older than Joshua Brown and Richie Albright, stood behind him. He held a small vanilla notepad with pencil in hand and had taken down a few facts about the scene along with a rudimentary sketch. Deputy Cory Owens answered, “No, sir. Both of us searched the entire chamber after he was reported to us.”
“Where is Deputy Redmond anyway?”
“He rushed over to Dana’s. He didn’t think it was proper she hear of her brother’s murder through town gossip.”
The sheriff looked up at Cory. He nodded. It was likely best. This was new ground for him. He never had to investigate a murder or as they like to say in those fancy detective tales, a homicide. Nor did he have any training. In fact, he could only recall maybe two deaths from bar brawls in Kingston’s entire history. He was over his head and out of his element.
He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand…Look at the condition of the body. His skin is dried and crusted terribly. It’s almost curled up on itself as if sucked inward! What does that? Can’t be just because his body was here in the mine all night.” He stood up and walked around to the other side of the body. “Almost all of his blood has left and pooled around him, hardly any looks like it remained inside.”
Cory nodded, his face pale and gray. The deputy was becoming very nauseous. He extended his hand and pointed at the shoulders and bloody neck stump. “What do you think did that? A bear? A wolf?”
“I haven’t heard of any sightings. Maybe though.” He stopped then took the notes from the young man’s hands. “Go get some fresh air. Then track down Tommy. You two will have to guard the mine entrance tonight. See if the Miller brothers will help or get volunteers and deputize them. I need to secure the crime scene and preserve any evidence. Tell Doc Overton to have Walters’ remains guarded at his place too. It’s important we do this right. We don’t want his killer to get away with this because we were sloppy. Can I count on you, Deputy Owens?”
Cory nodded. He was barely holding his breakfast back. He spun and bolted down the mine tunnel.
Ten minutes later, Deputy Cory and Deputy Tommy ran back together into the cave, sweaty and breathless.
“Sheriff! Sh-Sheriff Benson, you bet-better come q-quick!” stuttered Cory.
“Yeah, you got to come see this!” Tommy insisted. He was heavier than Cory and had a patchy beard that matched his black, curly hair.
The two younger men led the sheriff along the tunnels till they arrived at the mine entrance. Cory pointed at the horizon. Sitting tall in his saddle upon a roan mare, was a dark figure, silhouetted against the sunset. It was a male Chippewa Indian.
“Damnations,” cursed the lawman. “Stay here! Oh, and do not let anyone else approach him or the mines.” Several miners and townsfolk had already gathered and were watching the lone native upon the hill as well.
Sheriff Benson then walked slowly up the hill surrounding the mine entrance. The two talked for a brief, few minutes. When he returned, he refused to answer their questions or to discuss the matter further. “I need you two to go to town and gather as many of the resident families as possible. We will have a Townhall Meeting at 6 this evening at Albright’s Church. I will advise everyone of the situation in the mine and this afternoon’s injun visitation. We need to take immediate control of this before it gets out of hand.”
****
The night was humid and very musky. It was as if the night air had reacted and fed off the volatile townhall meeting. A thunderhead grew and spread along the horizon. Flashes of lightning flared and angry thunderclaps rolled over the fields.
Nothing at all was resolved nor made clear in the meeting. Mayor Little verified a bit of news and rumors as Sheriff Benson stood silently behind her. The mine had stopped for an undetermined time. Also, the mine had possibly discovered a new vein of gold. There had been some kind of accident and Foreman Chauncey Walters was found dead. She would not confirm or even discuss the possibility of injun presence in the mine or live representatives outside the mine.
Before she could dismiss the meeting, Pastor Albright stood up and insisted on making a statement. “With the obvious witness accounts of the Chippewa Indians seen this afternoon, I think it is irresponsible to not have your involvement in the handling of the remains found in the mine. If you leave it up to them, you are only inviting a conflict with the Indian tribes. I have an extensive amount of education on their culture. Their fundamental beliefs are imperative that they protect the dead and—”
“Sit down and be quiet, Pastor!” shouted Geof Brown. He stood among a large group of miners. His face was red and sweaty. In his hand was a mug, slopping over with beer. “You stick to the good lord and preach his word. None else concerns you. No one cares what these savages think and what they want. Only thing that matters is how this town will benefit from that gold!”
Cheers went all around him. The mayor shot Matthew a knowing and wry smile.
“As we already have talked over last night, the mine is owned and ruled over by Aaron Farbrynn. It is in his hands, not god’s or our’s,” she called out over the noise of the crowd.
The pastor sat down once again defeated.
“This meeting is over. Sheriff Benson asks that everyone head home tonight. There is a storm coming and it would be best you are not caught in it,” the mayor said.
As the crowd began to disperse, the group of miners with Geof stood up but did not drift toward the door. The cloud of alcohol wafted in the air around them.
They moved and surrounded the pastor’s seat.
“No, boys! Come on, let’s go home,” Sheriff Benson called out as he tried to cross the room and get through the crowd of townsfolk.
“What gives you this right to talk down to us, Pastor?” said Carter Thompson. He was a squat man, bearded and scruffy. His balding head was shiny and grimy with mine dust. He wavered on his feet and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Yeah! You some kind of injun lover?” another miner chimed in.
The pastor shook his head. “No. I was just offering to help so we don’t have any kind of violence or retaliation from the—”
“You aren’t from here so you just mind your church and shut the hell—”
Sheriff Benson had finally navigated over to Matthew’s side. “Boys. You need to go home and sleep it off. The pastor didn’t mean any harm.”
“I can’t believe you are sticking up for him and those savages!” Geoff roared.
“He isn’t.” the sheriff put his hand on his holster but didn’t draw the pistol. “The meeting is over. You need to think of your actions here, fellas. Attacking a man of the cloth in his own church is certainly a ticket to eternal damnation, don’t you think?”
Like a divine sign, the storm broke and thunder erupted over their heads.
That set several of the drunk miners back on their heels. Grunts and murmured curses followed the men as they had had enough and walked toward the main church entrance. Several still showed their anger by throwing wooden chairs out of their way.
Sheriff Bensen leaned down and spoke in the pastor’s ear. “Next time, Father, read the room. I understand your points, but you stirring the pot, only made my job that much harder. You and your son stay in tonight. Lock your doors and windows this evening. Everything will blow over in a few days. Until then, let me worry about the mine and the injun burial site.”
****
The flash lightning storm raged all night, however, only the grain mill suffered some damage and a small fire.
Sheriff Benson sent his two deputies to escort Pastor Albright to the mine.
Word of this spread like wildfire in the town.
The pastor kept his eyes ahead and did not meet anyone eyes along the walk to the mine. He could feel their stares and the heat from high emotions. He had made himself a temporary target for their anxiety. The town had faced a long winter ahead. The crops had not produced well and many were relying on the mine to secure their homes. Now with the possibility of newfound wealth, the townsfolk were not letting up this hope. It remained in their hands as tight as a vice grip.
“Thank you, Pastor Albright for coming out this morning,” the sheriff greeted him with a genuine smile.
“Of course.”
“Listen, last night was a bad combination of alcohol and greed. Don’t take it to heart and don’t let it spoil your view of these people.”
The pastor nodded but remained quiet.
‘Anyway, I figured it was important for you to look at the site and give me your guess on what we are dealing with. No one is here to interrupt you or condemn you. I need to understand what is here that’s all.”
He led Matthew into the dark chamber. The thick cloud of dust and smoke remained clinging to the cavern ceiling. Both men stooped to keep out of it.
Matthew was awestruck at the boulder and the bleached skulls. He ran his fingertips along the carved symbols and letters that circled each of the nooks.
“I have never seen anything like this. Sheriff, this is remarkable! The Church maintains a large collection in its holdings in New York. They gather everything and preserve every bit they can. The common motto is ‘it is better to know your enemy than to hide in ignorance and underestimate them’. I understand that the miners don’t understand my position and see it as interfering, but if I could get them to see that—”
“Pastor Albright,” he said and held his hand up before him. “Stop. I am a religious man and try to be a fair man. However, I lost my father and an older sister in a savages attack when I was three years old. I have no love them but I do not hold grudges or remain fixated on the past. Let’s stick to what you see and explain anything you can, but let’s leave out any sermons on how all men are equal to God, alright?”
Matthew’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned then walked a circle around the boulder. He knelt down and studied the four clay monoliths. “Was this broken before or after the miners found the chamber?”
“I was told that it was accidentally dropped. What are they and do you know what the symbols and words mean?”
“My guess is that they represent the four key elements of nature: water, fire, earth and air. Air is on the broken one. But I have not seen these in a burial site or in any documents of the texts. Most tombs or burial mounds are complete. I am not sure that this really was a burial site.”
The sheriff clapped his hands together. “That’s excellent news!”
Now it was Matthew’s time to raise a hand. “The fact that it is not a burial doesn’t mean that the tribe won’t be upset at the mishandling of the artifacts.”
“I get that. I do. However, right now my only concern can be on who killed old Chauncey.”
Both men paused unsure how to proceed with their arguments.
Finally, Matthew said, “Did the visitors yesterday give you an indication where they are camped? I might be able to get better information straight from the source. If they’ll talk to me that is.”
“Head due south, they’re camped at the base of the cliffs,” he replied. “Said they’re waiting there till morning for us to change our minds…”
****
“I don’t feel right about this, Joshua,” Richie said, kneeling in the shadows between two large broken-down mining carts.
They were hunched down together, outside the mine entrance. Ahead of them were two miners, sitting on stools with a gas lantern hooked on a pole above their heads. The miners were bored, restless, and drinking from a tall bottle of whiskey they shared.
“Look. I get it, but you and you dad don’t understand how bad this town needs the mine right now. That twister last summer storm took out any surplus harvest we had. Hell, we might not have enough to sustain us through this winter. So we go in—”
“You’re doing this for you! Not the town. Stop trying to bullshit me.”
Joshua grimaced at the accusation but looked down at his shoes. “Yes. Some of it works out well for me. My dad is hot about this gold. If I can ensure that the mine will resume uninterrupted and they start on that gold, it will really be something. Something that will impress him, you know?”
The boys grew quiet. The awkward silence was very palpable.
Joshua looked up. “And, if you get those artifacts for your father, then he can preserve them like he wants. It will mean a lot to him. We both win out. If we don’t do this, you know the mine or the miners will destroy them before they give in to the injun demands.”
“Alright. I guess.” Richie did not look convinced. He had been more outreasoned than converted to the idea. “Do you have them?”
The young miner held out the pair of small firework sticks in his hand.
Moments later, the pair ran full speed down the mine shaft. Joshua led the way more by memory than by sight. Most of the lanterns were put out since the operations were still on hold.
Finally, at the mouth of the Indian chamber, they stopped and caught their breaths.
Richie yanked the leather backpack off and sat with his back to the tunnel wall. “I don’t think they saw us. Do you hear anyone?”
The other boy only shook his head, still too winded to speak.
“We take it all. The miners will think the injuns took it all. My Pop told me that the sheriff tell them to not even think of making one step near the town or the mine. The injuns will never know what happened. Your father can either send the items to his church or drop them off secretly to the injuns. Everything safe and secure, you know.”
“All right. Give me a minute before we go in.”
****
Matthew brought the horse to a slow trot. A campfire was burning ahead. Several Indians were sitting around it, enjoying a late meal. Three small teepees were erected behind them.
He eased off the saddle and tied the horse to a nearby tree. He didn’t want to surprise or alarm them by riding up unannounced. He swallowed hard. The entire trip there he debated on what to say or what to ask. Now that he was right in front of them, he was shaking and completely tongue-tied. He wondered if he should have asked the sheriff to escort him. Being all alone now seemed foolish.
Yet if I don’t speak with them, the situation within the mines will undoubtedly get worse. I have to learn more to help everyone out of this mess, he thought.
Shrugging his shoulders and craning his head to the left and right, he tried to work out some of the stiffness. The moon beamed high over head. The night was getting late.
Sighing with anxiety, he began to walk toward the camp.
“Hello? Hello there. I am not—” A thin, young warrior stepped out of the shadows on his right, an arrow already knocked in his bow.
“Stop!” the warrior ordered with a very thick accent. Then he cried out several words over his shoulder. Quickly others ran to them.
The pastor was grabbed by both arms and swiftly taken within the light of the campfire.
Matthew immediately recognized the Indian, the only one to remain sitting at the fire. It was the lone warrior who had appeared at the mines.
“It is late for you to come out. Did something happen in the mines or did the sheriff send you?” the older man asked. He was heavier than the others, with some gray at his temples. One of his ears was missing and a long scar ran through it and down to his neckline. His accent was not as bad as the other’s had been.
“I am not here for the sheriff directly. I am Pastor Matthew Albright. I wanted to speak with you right away. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
The Indian nodded, then gestured for the pastor to sit across from him. “I am Harva Giiwedin, a voice for our people, the Chippewa.”
A lone wolf howled then several others joined. They were distant but his horse and the tribe’s horses all whinnied and pranced about. The night grew still again.
“I know you spoke earlier with the sheriff and I’m sure you are aware that the miners stumbled across one of your burial sites. I wanted to ask you about it. In my time at the Church, I learned a lot about the Chippewa and other tribe cultures. And in the books and pictures, I never seen a burial site quite like this.”
“You were not meant to see it. No man, white or red, was meant to. You must understand that this is not a burial site.”
“What do you mean? I saw remains. Skulls. Is it an altar or for another religious purpose?”
Halva shook his head. He stopped, lifted up a small cup and drank from it. This was the moment, Matthew spotted the fact that the man was trembling and sweating. He was terrified.
“It is not for prayer. It is a prison!”
“A prison?”
“Yes, but not for our world. It is a prison to hold the evil spirit within. I asked the sheriff if the miners had disturbed the grounds. Was he honest with me? He said that they had not entered the area only looked in.”
It was the pastor’s turn to be anxious. “I will not lie to you. They did not mean any disrespect or mean to cause any offence but the miners did go in—”
“Did you see the area? Were there four long…statutes?”
“Yes, the clay monoliths? They were marked with the elements Air, Earth, Fire and Water, Except…” he paused then looked down at his hands and he finished with trepidation. “The Air one was damaged at the base. I’m not sure how or when.”
Halva moaned. “This is very bad. I was afraid of this. Oh curse you white men! Hasthra has been released!”
He motioned for one of his companions then gave some heated instructions. The other raced off and began rummaging inside of their teepees.
“Again, I do apologize for the miners. They were not trying to cause any issues. Who is Hasthra?”
Halva had regained some composure. He ignored the pastor’s question and asked his own. “Has anyone been hurt or gone missing?”
“Yes. A foreman was killed. The sheriff is looking into it.”
The other younger warrior returned carrying a deer hide bag. He gave it to Halva.
“You are a religious man you said. A Christian pastor? Then I trust I can give you this to protect yourselves and your people.” He handed over the bag.
Matthew opened it and saw a slender engraved wooden rod with a large rock mallet tied to the end. It was a war club, he had seen a few in drawings. This one, however, had a highly polished and engraved quartz stone in the center. Painted symbols decorated the face of the stone. Laying next to the wooden club was a rolled-up parchment.
“This is the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe, a powerful weapon to ward off the evil spirit. It will attract the spirit but then if beaten with the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe it can be contained till you restore the prison.”
“Wait. What evil spirit? You are going too fast. Tell me what is this all about?”
Sighing out loud, Halva spoke slowly but sternly. “Your people have broken one of the four guardians to a spiritual prison. Hasthra is a dangerous entity that came alive through a powerful curse of murder and vengeance. It will not ever stop devouring souls. I do not know all the words to explain or to convince you of this. I can only give you a weapon—”
“Why me? Why aren’t you going in there since you know how to stop it? You know what this thing is.”
“The sheriff made it clear that we could not enter the mines under any circumstance. He said the miners would attack to protect the property. It would be the same if the townsfolk, spotted us in the borders of town. He said the only way to preserve peace is if we let him handle it. We thought it would be safe since he swore no one entered the prison ground. We were heading back to report to the elders. I was a fool to accept his word!”
“I see. But will this thing,” Matthew pointed to the bag. “Will it restore the prison or can the spirit be destroyed?”
“No, the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe will keep Hasthra at bay for a while, but a new prison must be made along with the skulls of any of its victims. The papers there will show you the symbols you must surround Hasthra and its victims. The symbols will hold it inside the quartz. Most important step: you must keep anyone from disturbing the ground ever again.”
Shaking his head, Matthew said, “How? The mine company, the town, they will never accept that. They own that land and want to mine it!”
“Only death can be found there now.” His words were whispered low.
“I am not a warrior though, Halva… I am a man of God. I am not sure I am right for this.”
“You have to be. If I or my men go there, then you will have more bodies and bloodshed. The Chippewa do not wish to curse the white man with Hasthra, but we will not lose lives and souls for them either. Your people trespassed on sacred grounds. And lied to us as well as spurned our efforts to aid. Now they will have to resolve this themselves.”
I would love to hear from you again on this. Are you excited to find out what happens to the wild west town of Kingston? You’ll never believe the ending and the horrific curse that befalls the land of 1417 Weatherly Lane, Kingston, MN 80954…
Here is a sneak peek at my upcoming submission for an anthology scheduled to come out this year. It’s a partnership of a great group of up-and-coming new stars in the horror field. I am honored to participate!
The main theme of the anthology is an antique Ouija Board which finds its way handed down generation by generation and all the mayhem it causes!
My contribution will be the origin story to the evil that taints the land of 1417 Weatherly Lane, Kingston, MN where all the stories will take place.
Here is the beginning of the evil legacy…
Kingston, MN 7/5/1911
Geof Brown wiped the oily dark grease from his forehead as a wide grin bared his yellowing teeth. He removed a small rock hammer from his leather belt and chipped at a section of the tunnel wall in front of him.
As the chips fell, small patches of sparkling metal were revealed. “You’re seeing this, ain’t ya?”
Another man, clad in matching, dark burlap overalls and a yellow hard hat with a small lantern gave him an incredulous look. “By God. You don’t suppose it is…”
“I do indeed! Back in the late nineties, maybe 1896 this whole region was once mined for gold. Hell, I bet Farbrynn Foundation was first a gold mine, not an iron mine like it is today!”
Both quieted down to stare in reverence at the vein of gold weaving a crooked path across the wall.
The pair of miners had been detonating and expanding the dig site all week. They now stood at the end of it and had begun clearing the piles of debris when Geoff called out for the other miner to join him.
“We going to report this?” Memphis asked.
“You think it would go unnoticed?” he chuckled. “Us working away at the middle of this tunnel versus us extending the wing to the east as our orders show. We’d be locked up before dusk in Sheriff Benson’s hold for theft!”
“Wait,” Memphis mumbled and laid his palm flat on the stone then his ear. “Did you hear something?”
Before Geoff could reply, he tapped his knuckles along the surface. An empty thud answered his rappings. “I think it’s hollow behind this wall.”
Geoff drew closer and also knocked on the wall making his own hollow thuds. “You’re right. About here, it gets solid again.” He had walked back and forth about eight feet of the tunnel.
“Let’s put one charge there and open it up. Maybe the vein is bigger in there.” Greed flooded his anxious eyes.
Geoff nodded and went back to their tool cart for his chisel and hammer.
“Get only a half of a stick. We don’t want to knock the roof down, just punch a hole here.” He indicated a spot with his fingers. “About here should do.”
Fifteen minutes later, they crouched under a thick cloud of dust and smoke that hovered near the ceiling. The thump and ring from the explosion still rang in their ears. Slowly Geoff and Memphis approached the new entry. After a detonation, one never knew exactly how well the chamber walls would hold. It was best never to rush right in. Besides the normal precautions, they both felt the sudden tension or unease in the air. It was an odd sensation like the electricity you felt before a powerful thunderstorm broke. Stale, musty air wafted out toward them.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Memphis as his lantern highlighted the hollow chamber. It was about thirty feet across and the ceiling arched from seven to a dozen feet high. It appeared to be cut out of the rock by hand. No normal tool marks were visible.
Otherwise, empty, its walls had the normal striations of iron ore. Fortunately, the new thin line of gold continued as they had hoped for along the eastern section.
In the center of the room stood a massive boulder. It was easily a ton in weight and over five feet long. Carved by hand were deep pockets in the rock’s surface. Inside these nooks were six, sun-bleached white skulls. Surrounding the skulls were strings of letters and symbols. On top, a large egg-shaped glass globe sat. It was dark purple, smooth and opaque.
From the ceiling were long lines of colored beads and polished stones. Clay vases with flower remnants and old feathers, crusty and dried, decorated the ground at the base of the boulder.
Forming a square about the boulder were four thin clay monoliths. These too were intricately engraved with symbols.
“Ain’t this sumthin’! God knows it’s Injun! You think this is a burial site?” He pulled one of the monoliths from the ground and held it in his arms to get a closer look at the engravings upon it.
Geoff frowned and snapped, “Best hope not. You know how angry they get when their stuff is messed with.”
Memphis blanched at the statement and fumbled with the piece. It dropped and landed hard on one corner. It shattered upon impact. Immediately a gust of brownish powder blew out and an odd echo of water dripping filled the room. It faded fast.
“What the hell, man! Be careful!” Geoff scolded.
“I’m sorry, it just jumped—” Memphis was cut off as a gale of icy wind swept over them. The cavern darkened unnaturally and a low hum and vibration could be felt through their boots. They both sprinted in terror out of the chamber and ran back to the tool cart.
“We got to get the foreman anyway. Come on!” Geoff grabbed the older miner by the forearm and directed him back down the tunnel where they had arrived. Both men kept glancing back, sure they were being followed. Only the mine’s eternal darkness filled the tunnels behind them.
****
Chauncey Walters stood at the entrance to the chamber as Geoff and Memphis had created an hour ago. His hands were in tight fists buried into his hips. He stared intently at the items within the room but hadn’t stepped foot inside. The rest of the B Wing crew were gathered in a group behind him. No one dared a whisper. Finally coughing into his hand, he turned and focused on the original pair. Geoff took a short drink of water from a canteen while Memphis studied his work boots.
“So, you two thought it wise to blast this wall here, huh? Weaken the tunnel capacity. Jeopardize the entire region here… because of this hollow pocket, am I understanding this situation, right?”
“Well, it was more—” Geoff began.
Chauncey lunged forward and stood in his face. “When did you start getting paid to think down here? Didn’t I write down exactly what your orders were for this week?”
Both miners remained silent.
“Now because you took it upon yourselves to act, I have this mess,” he spun and gestured wildly at the piles of debris and the native artifacts. He rotated back to them. “I am in charge here, Mister Brown! Me! You do get that? I’m the one who has to explain this. Or do you want to go ahead and jump in here too?”
Geoff and Memphis shook their heads no and kept their silence.
“You wasted resources, company time, damaged whatever that injun garbage is, and put the wing at risk! The only way I can justify keeping you two idiots is you stumbled across this possible gold vein. Hopefully we can recoup the costs and maybe even save this quarter for Farbrynn. So, all of you, hear this now and be sure you fully understand what I am saying. Until I say otherwise no one utters a word of this outside this mine. It’ll be in Leadership’s hands on how we go forward with this dig. Am I clear?”
Grunts and nodding heads quickly answered. They turned all together and as one marched away into the darkness.
“Do not think I won’t fire anyone right on the spot for breaking the silence,” he shouted. “Keep this in confidence. This gold may be the windfall Kingston has been hoping for. We just have to plan this out perfectly. Until then we don’t want any mistakes or…” He paused and looked over at the boulder with the native remains. “We can’t have any delays due to conflicts and ‘improper handling of sacred remains’ if you get my intention. Today we will close the mine operations early while I send for direction by Leadership. Not a word fellas! Now go.” He stopped to spit cave dust into one corner.
****
“Hey, man, come have a drink with me at Baron’s,” Joshua Brown called out. He was standing in the open doorway to the only town saloon and waving at a group of other young men who were emerging from the Tanner’s Inn stables. Joshua was shorter than most for his age, but he had powerful arms from his years of work in the mines with his father. His long, brown hair stuck out from under his wool cap. His green eyes were bright with excitement.
Among the men he had waved over was his newest friend, Richie Albright. He was the son of the new pastor. Months before, they had moved into the farm lot on the edge of town and converted their small house into a Methodist Church. Richie’s face was freckled and pale under his wispy blonde hair. He also wore thin wire glasses and was a little taller than most of the other men.
When he and Joshua walked together their differences were quite striking. However, they had bonded fast over their love of automobiles. Neither of them had actually owned one, but Richie had seen an actual first-model Ford T back in Chicago. He also had a growing collection of books on the subject. Most of their afternoons had been dedicated to discussing everything related to cars.
“You seem pretty happy. The mines are down early today?” Richie asked as he and the other men caught up with Joshua at the steps.
“Yep! Got some news, but…” he paused and did a quick look around. The other men went ahead and walked into the Baron Vance Saloon. “We’ll talk inside.”
Inside the small saloon, it was dark and smelled of stale beers. A few lanterns were turned on near the bar, but the overhead lights were not yet lit. In the large room were six drinking tables, three larger game tables along the right, and a bar piano in the back corner. In the opposite corner in the back was a stairwell leading up to the sleeping rooms. A few townsfolk sat at the bar, but the drinking tables were filling up fast with the miners. The room grew loud with laughter and talk of the gold vein.
Before they wound their way to their own table, always near the back and the piano, Richie spun around and exclaimed, “They found gold in the mine?”
Joshua laughed, “Yep! We’re supposed to keep quiet about it, but that’s not happening!”
“Where?” he asked as they sat down.
“My father and old Memphis were expanding the tunnels in the east wing when they found this small line. Oh! And get this, there is an injun burial ground right in the middle of the gold deposit!”
“Really? It has to be the Chippewa,” Richie said. He and his father had studied the history of Minnesota before they had trekked out to make a new start. Both had discovered in the process that they were avid Indian history buffs. However, they did not broadcast this to the local residents.
Joshua scrunched up his face in disgust and confusion. “How would I know? Injuns is injuns is all I know. And they were too dumb to mine out the gold!”
He then turned to wave down a saloon serving girl as she passed and asked for two mugs of ale.
“Wait! Did you say it’s a burial site?”
Joshua took a long gulp from his beer, then said, “Yep! Well, at least, there were several skulls in it.”
Richie pushed his spectacles further up his nose. He was fascinated. The automobile chats had gone a bit dry for him. This was new and exciting. His father would be ecstatic too.
“What did you see at the site?”
“Well… it’s a small chamber about thirty feet or so and just a few feet taller than a man. Inside was this big boulder where they carved out holes to put the heads in. There were feathers hanging from the ceiling and clay pottery stuff all around too. You could see the gold twinkling in the walls! Thad Williams thinks this is going to put Kingston on the map. Going to make us all rich!”
“So why did they stop the mining operations?”
“They have to get some direction on what to do with the gold and what to do with the burial site. Foreman Walters was all up in arms and shouting for everyone to be hush-hush on this. Threatened to fire anyone who talked.” He looked all around him with a big wry grin. “Sure looks like we are all scared of that!”
“My father has some education on Indian Cultures. The Church wanted him to have it so he could help with any crisis negotiations. Anyway, do you think they’ll let him look at it?”
Joshua shrugged. He was paying more attention to the brunette serving girl working the left side of the room.
****
A thick cloud of dust and smoke clung to the ceiling inside the chamber. Light from his lantern barely illuminated the gloom of the chamber. Chauncey moved in closer to the wall and pulled out his small knife. “Let’s see just what we are dealing with, shall we?”
He scraped at the rock and dirty grime that obscured the vein of gold. It flaked into his open palm. Holding it inches from his eyes he could see the twinkling metal. A broad grin crossed his face.
A subtle shift in the gravel sounded behind him. He snapped a glance behind him. No one else remained from the crew. Squinting, he peered into the dark entrance of the chamber. “Hello?”
Nothing.
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the wall.
Chauncey stood still trying to calculate how long he could delay his dispatch to the management at Aaron Farbrynn Mining Foundation. He planned to mine a patch or two that night when the mine was empty. He would skip town in a couple of weeks.
How long before anyone grew suspicious of the delays? Maybe four days at best he decided. With the new telegraph stations, communication was spotty. Then it would take some time for them to plan–
Another sound of shifting sand inside the mine. It was more distinctive this time and it was followed up with falling pebbles.
“Alright. Who’s there? Come out!” he bellowed before spinning around. Someone had defied his orders and stayed behind. Someone was going to be his example and get fired!
Nothing again.
He marched over to the entrance of the hollow chamber and leaned in. “Just come on out and let’s get this over with. You can’t hide in there for long and it will just go worse on you if I am forced to find you. I’m not playing hide-and-seek today!”
“Nish..tiggg…waan”
The words floated out from the gloom of the chamber. Chauncey could not find their source. They were drawn out and said with a deep, rolling rumble.
“Who is that?” he demanded and took several steps inside. Keeping his head low out of the dust and smoke cloud, he crept closer to the center of the room where the boulder sat. If anyone was hiding in there, that would be the most logical spot.
“You not only disobeyed a direct order to leave, but you are messing with this…injun stuff which is going to cause me even more grief. Come out now! Let’s get out of here.”
“Niiii toon,” the words were whispered, the faint wind of them brushed his left ear as an ebony mist descended from the cloud and settled over his head. Immediately an intense pressure swelled Chauncey’s skull.
His hands flew up and his finger nails dug into his temples. A gurgled scream stuck in his throat. He coughed hard and choked on the stale air of the cavern as he spun about his legs kicking madly. The foreman’s body acted reflexively versus any thought or direction from him.
Blood bubbled from his ears and out his nose. Somehow he had gnashed upon his tongue and more blood drooled out from his lips.
“Niiitoooon!” the voice shrieked inside Chauncey’s head. It was still a deep bass sound, but it was filled with an intense emotion of rage.
He was barely aware of the voice as he felt rather than heard the popping and sharp crack at the base of his shoulders. Bones snapped as his neck twisted abruptly to the left then yanked back hard to the right. A building scream of sheer raw agony started then was cut off brutally as his scalp split and peeled away to the sides. Chauncey’s eyes blazed to life with an unholy ivory-white light.
More skin tore away, and tendons snapped free from the shoulders as the foreman’s head ripped from the mooring of his body. The severed spine dangled obscenely from the neck. A thick fountain of gore and scarlet blood showered the boulder as his spasming body dropped hard to the dirt.
The skull continued to hover in the air. A flowing black body of bristling hair wavered behind the skull. The creature now appeared part Chauncey Walters and part writhing specter. It swam through the air and coasted beneath the bank of smoke. It descended and dropped down to the boulder. It hovered before each of the skulls in their respective nooks.
“Aashayaan,” The voice came out between the bloody jaws of Chauncey’s mouth. The tongue hung limply to the side and protruded between the lips.
The specter cascaded down to the prone body. A light gray steam rose from the man’s back and bathed the creature. It shook and trembled in delight as it had been eons since it had fed.
It was hungry for more.
I hope you enjoyed my story so far. We even have plans already for a sequel edition scheduled later in the year. Would love to hear your thoughts on the story… Leave me a comment. Till then, happy reading!
INITIAL INVESTIGATION REPORT — 10/28/19: Led by Sedona Police Dept in conjunction with National Forestry Service.
ANNUAL FOLLOW-UP INVESTIGATION REPORT—- 11/15/2020: Investigations & Interviews conducted by Detective Joseph Stouts
ANNUAL FOLLOW-UP INVESTIGATION REPORT—- 11/ 7/2021: Open Investigation led by Detective Reese Arbor
11/14/2021 — My first step is to review the evidence found at the site. I am starting with viewing the video supposedly taken by the cell phone owner. The video has the date and battery amount displayed in the corner.
96% – 10/19/2019
“God! I feel so stupid. I never would have thought I would be doing a ‘found footage’ video, but here I am.” The man on the video spoke angrily and then scanned the surrounding rocks and empty desert landscape about him.
“Okay. Sorry. Let me start again. My name is Merritt Thomas. It’s Saturday afternoon. Or is it already Monday? I kind of lost track after my fall,” he said and then paused to take a deep breath. He is in athletic shape with short blonde hair, light green eyes, and pale but sun-burnt skin. He wore a red rain poncho and a green Coyotes Hockey Team beanie cap. A scabbed-over, bloody laceration ran across his forehead and partially down his left cheek.
“If you are watching this… man, that phrase sounds so weird! I mean I have seen all sorts of ‘disturbing videos’ on YouTube where someone begins their tale with those words, but how did I even get into this position? It’s all so surreal. Anyway, if you are watching this video then that means I may not have made it out of this damn crevice.” He stopped again and looked up off-camera.
“The crevice isn’t that wide, maybe five or six feet wide, but at least seventy feet deep. I was camping by myself which I never normally do. My best friend Marc Gordon had to bail on the trip at the last minute. It’s not your fault, man. Don’t even think of blaming yourself. I chose to come out here alone. It took me a lot of finagling to arrange this time off from work, so I just couldn’t pass it up. I wasn’t going to miss it. In hindsight, I guess, it wasn’t my brightest decision.”
The shadows cover a lot of the area around him. A small pair of cacti grow behind him and a softly babbling stream is somewhere nearby off-screen.
“Friday night went well. I beat the rush hour traffic out of town and came north, near the Sedona region. Hiked till sundown, then made camp. It was perfect weather, no rain, clear starry skies. You’ll see my collection of photos on the phone here.” Birds squawked above in the distance as they flew over the crevice’s opening.
“I made dinner. Caught a pair of bass actually using those new lures you got me for my birthday, Mom.” He laughed, smiled, and then teared up for a second. “Mom, Dad, I love you so much. I really do! I’m sorry I didn’t always make a lot of effort to show you that. I have been so focused on my work and trying to go up in the chain at Phillips & Grant. It’s not an excuse, but I wanted you to know it was not ever my intention. I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel I didn’t value all you’ve done for me and all the support you have given me through law school.”
He wiped away a couple of streaking tears from his cheek. Then grinned again at the camera. “See, look at me! Already letting my fears get away from me. Well, not this time. I am going to find a way to get home. We can watch this dumb video and laugh at my stupid ass all together. Promise! Anyway, it’s getting dark. Going to try and sleep, I’ll update again in the morning. Lucky me I bought one of those battery rechargers. I should have enough energy on this phone for at least a couple more days or maybe till Wednesday if I am careful. Night.”
Video stops.
93% — 10/20/2019
The video started again. It’s nearly pitch black. There is a raspy sound of cloth moving, perhaps his poncho.
“I am so scared,” Merritt whispered. “I don’t know what it is, but I keep hearing this sound. It’s like a growl, but almost as if it is a person is doing it too. Like someone trying to howl or copy the coyotes out here. On Friday night about 2 AM or so in the morning, I think it was what woke me up originally.”
He paused to listen. Except for the cadence of crickets and other nocturnal insects, there are no other noises in the video. He craned his neck to look up and seemed to scan the surrounding rock. “Anyway, I woke up. I am not a sound sleeper, and this wasn’t the best ground to camp on. Since I was awake, I decided to go take a piss. Again, as I was coming back to the tent, I heard this howling noise. Whatever it was sent chills up my spine. It sounded big too. I sprinted back to the tent and grabbed my phone and my flashlight. If it was a bear or a wolf around, I wanted to scare it off. Didn’t want to get a surprise later when I slept, you know.”
Merritt brought the phone around and spoke again to the camera. “I waited to hear its howl once more. When it did, it was further down the trail than before. I ran after it. I guess I just needed to see it. That’s when I made out these voices. Male voices. Somewhere camping north of me. It was definitely two people having a conversation. One had a deeper tone and sounded older than the other which was a male child. I couldn’t make out the whole conversation, but just some words. I think they were in English. After fifteen minutes of looking for the Howler or maybe the two other campers, I decided to turn back. It was getting cold. On the way back, I stumbled over a root and dropped the flashlight. I didn’t know where it went. It bounced then shut off. It must’ve rolled a bit down the slope and then into this crevice.”
He stopped, shivered, and then wiped beads of water from his forehead. “Crap! Starting to rain again. It’s been off and on since yesterday morning. Well, at least from when I woke up from the fall. Yeah,” he laughed and shook his head in seeming disbelief. “I made the classic, ‘Big No-no mistake’. Went off trail looking for the flashlight in the dark and like an idiot walked right off the edge and fell down here.”
He cleared his throat. “I want to warn you before I turn the camera around to show you the result. This isn’t pretty. Uh, Mom, don’t look!”
The camera shifted and a sudden flash of light showed his legs and feet. His left leg was angled madly off to the side, obviously broken. The white sneaker on his other leg was splattered with blood and a belt was cinched tightly above the ankle on his calf. “Broke both of my legs. Snapped the bone out above the ankle here.”
He then panned the camera showing the small muddy bank of a stream with deep russet-orange rocks and boulders. Sparse river grass and cacti also made up the majority of the landscape.
Above him, off-camera, a horrid grunting and growling howl echoed all about the crevice. The flashlight clicked off. He angled the camera to focus on the bit of sky shown above. It was night, but dark gray clouds mainly blotted the limited light. Nothing appeared to move, and no other sounds were repeated. The night crickets had stopped. Merritt stopped the video.
90% — 10/21/2019
“I am not sure I captured that sound, the howling, or not on video. I don’t want to waste power trying to find out by reviewing.”
It was morning, sunlight lit up the rocky background behind him. His hair was greasy and stuck up on one side. He looked haggard and exhausted. Most likely he didn’t sleep since the last part of the video.
“It just stopped raining a few minutes ago. May even be sunny up there but it’s not truly getting much in here. The Howler went away after about an hour. It could’ve been hunting this small pack of coyotes I saw the other day on my hike. Not sure—“ he stopped as a spasm of coughing caught him by surprise.
“Well…that’s a bad sign. I might have the flu or worse starting. If this is Monday, then some people at work should notice I’m out or maybe Marc might be wondering why he can’t reach me by now. Either way, I’m looking at another long day and night in here or even two days. I’m in the elements for sure but not out under the sky completely.”
He paused, rubbed at his stubbly chin with a pained expression, then looked at the camera. “I’m thoroughly soaked from head-to-toe by the rain and yet I’m severely dehydrated.” He chuckled weakly.
Merritt rotated the camera around to video the length of the crevice. The small stream ran about a dozen feet from him and cut through the cliff rock. “I am going to try and crawl over there. I want a sip of that stream so badly!”
The camera flipped back to him. “Should I keep the recording going? Do you want to witness the greatest endurance test I’ve ever taken? Or… No. On second thought, I might do some serious screaming and using some choice words that would upset Mom.” Another half-hearted attempt at humor.
The video stops.
82% — 10/21/2019
Merritt faced the camera again. His face looked more haggard and with thicker stubble. Mud smeared down one side of his head to the base of his shoulder. His jacket had been torn. The green beanie was also missing.
“It is right after sundown. The good news is I got to the stream, drank some, and even managed to find an old water bottle to drink from later. The water tastes terrible, but it’s cool and probably filled with every known variant of parasites in existence.” He sneezed hard. Sneezed again and once more. He then trembled. “That’s part of the bad news. I dragged myself through the mud bank by arm strength alone. Hurt so bad! Never would have thought pain could get that intense, but I battled through it. I had to take the rest of the day though to recover. My right leg is getting, uh, what they call Compartment Syndrome.”
He shook his head, a frustrated and pained expression crossed his face. “I have to get help soon! The Syndrome causes swelling under the wall of muscle due to the extreme injury. Basically, blood is welling up, cutting off the oxygen in the leg. Muscle and nerves will die permanently. I may never walk again!”
He stopped, coughed, and choked up with emotion.
“Sorry. Can’t right –” He then reached for the phone and the video ended again.
73% — 10/22/2019
The video restarted but there wasn’t any image. It was pitch dark, but the water still babbled in the background.
A pair of pale orange, almost red eyes opened. They were not near but seemed above his position. Then a soft purring echoed down the cliff walls. It was a striking, odd noise, not cat-like or even feline-like from a lynx or cougar. It had a whining pitch that paired with the purring cadence.
The purring ended and a voice spoke out from above. It was hollow, monotone, and somewhat slurred. The voice was very similar to Merritt’s.
“Sysssdrrrum caws mussel swallin…sssdrem cacawsez mussel swelling… ssyndome cause muscle swelling –” The words cut off as a coyote howl pierced the night. A pair of other coyotes joined in chorus with the first.
“Syndrome causes muscle swellling do-due to the exxksteen…” The words continued as the pair of orange-red eyes moved closer.
“ He-heello? Hi?” The voice asked aloud in the dark.
Merritt didn’t answer or couldn’t.
“Hi? Help you?”
Still no response or movement.
There was a rustling in the brush at the top of the opening then a pair of lupine growlings could be heard. The pack was exploring at the top.
A loud sigh then the glowing orbs climbed back up the rock walls. The soft purring returned. At the ledge, a flash of ivory skin was caught on the video. It was fast and blurred, but it proved that Merritt had definitely not been alone in the crevice.
The video stopped again as the battery slipped to 59%.
46% — 10/22/2019
“I might be delusional, but I think someone was calling my name. I was in and out of sleep all night.” It was daylight and Merritt was recording another entry. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. His left eye was completely red from a broken blood vessel.
“At least it sounded like my name. And it sounded like a real person. Was that a rescue party?” he wondered aloud. “Not sure what that was last night.” He brought the camera close and whispered intimately. “I mean that happened right? Or was that a hallucination? Did I just record the night air or did you guys hear that voice too?”
His voice sounded raspy, thick, and strained. His eyes had large dark patches under them. His hair stuck out at the sides and his lips were scanned with sores.
“I don’t…I don’t think I am going to make it much longer. If they don’t find me before dark—“ his words were chopped by a series of harsh coughs rattling deep inside his chest. He grabbed the phone and ended the video again.
28% — 10/23/2019
“Hi? Hello? Merritt?”
It was the monotone voice again only slightly more animated and sounded even closer to his voice more than ever.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here. Thank God, you found me!” Merritt called out. His gravely words were barely audible on the recording. Night had fallen in the desert.
“You need help? Where are you?” it asked.
“By the water.”
“Who were you talking to?”
Merritt laughed at the question. “No one. I’m alone with just my cellphone.”
“Stay there. Do not…worry… I’ll help you.”
“I’ll turn on the flash so you can see your way down better.”
The flash of his phone blazed to life. Looming above his prone body was a long, lanky creature. It had a snakelike body with twin legs and clawed arms protruding and gripping the stone walls. The head was elongated with spikey, blonde hair and tan skin. The face was evolving into Merritt’s!
When the brilliance hit its almond-shaped, green eyes it screeched and lashed out with a set of elongated fingers. The camera bounced wildly and then splashed into the mud. The flash was buried but the camera kept recording.
Merritt screamed and thrashed as the creature fell upon him.
“Stop! Help you! Stop moving! Must have you! Help I am.”
Merritt’s blood-curdling screams suddenly stopped. A gurgling sound can be heard over the stream’s noises.
“Merritt. My name is Merritt. I…I was camping.” The voice was muffled as if it were full. “I fell but I am okay now. Don’t worry Mom. Don’t worry or look for Merr-me. I’m fine. Going on vacation. Come home soon.”
The video stopped. The Video Tech clerks surmised it ran out of battery.
Merritt Thomas is still missing. His raincoat, boots, tent, and of course his phone were all eventually located.
It is not clear if Merritt had fallen victim to foul play or if this is a very complex hoax perpetrated for the Internet. Some speculate he had faked this to avoid a possible gambling debt but no evidence to that claim has ever been found. Due to remarks made in the video, in my professional opinion, I am inclined to think this is an elaborate setup to gain some recognition or attention. Merritt had a busy Instagram account and a propensity for pranks per friends and family interviewed. However, no financial transaction or credit card activity has been reported since his disappearance. The family insists that this is not within Mr. Thomas’s character, and he had a great bond with his young sister and parents.
To date, with no remains or body ever found, thus the case must remain open.
*Addendum –
2/19/2022: WITNESS SIGHTING REPORT
On 2/11/2022 a married couple while hiking a trail in the northern tip of Fishlake National Forest in Utah, claim they saw a white man, in his mid-twenties matching the description of Merritt Thomas. They stated that they had been living in Phoenix, Arizona, at the time when Thomas was first reported missing in the news. Upon seeing the couple, this male subject left the trail and went deeper into the forest without any response. He did not have any backpack or camping gear with him.
4/23/2023 WITNESS SIGHTING REPORT
During the evening of 4/15/2023, three men were attacked and severely beaten by a white male in his mid-twenties, after the men entered a cave to go spelunking in Spring Cave Park near Buford, Colorado. Police investigated the cave site and only found animal remains. One worn-out ID bracelet with the only readable letters as TT was collected. Days later, one of the victims came across an image of Merritt Thomas posted on a Missing Persons’ website and identified him as the individual who attacked them.
The high walls of the cauldron encircled the gathering. Of the Beleardea to be assembled, there were over a hundred of their top warriors. A thousand of the clergy surrounded the warriors. The troops all formed in an upside-down triangle at the heart of the barren cauldron. Also present were seven of the ten Council Leaders. Pontiff Joman-Gregg remained in exile in Rovmantysa. After LLasher had identified him as a high rank in the Cult, it was imperative that he not lead anyone to tonight’s ritual by chance. He had to exclude himself from an event such as tonight.
Bressard Keough would officiate the ritual in his stead and orchestrate the proceedings. He was a tall, robust man and was adorned in his black and red ceremonial robes. His head was neatly shaven except for a short, gray-white mohawk from his forehead down to his neck. Cold, silver-colored eyes pierced his heavily-wrinkled face. He never smiled, his thin lips in a permanent narrow line.
He had retired as a former military general for the Rovmantysa government. In truth, he had also been a malicious agent of the Byas Ko. Byas Ko was an assassination police force and was responsible for dark operations all over Tayneva. He moved up the ranks in the Byas Ko as fast as he had moved up in the Beleardea, using the same brute tactics. His reputation and blood lusts were legendary. This character trait served him dually in the Cult. It earned him his title, Master of Souls.
Bressard stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he waited on a dais in the center of the gathering. The other six clerical leaders stood in a half-circle behind him. A few torches were lighting the area, but it was not necessary as there was a full moon as predicted.
Behind the dais at the tip of the troop’s upside-down triangle were four small stone monoliths erected. The clergy and mages had spent the last seven days inscribing and enchanting minute runes upon them. Upon each monolith dangled a black iron manacle and chain. More powerful runes and arcane symbols were painted on the ground in narrow circles. The intensive spellcraft literally twisted the air. Tiny waves pulsed from the ground and small bluish sparks popped within the monolith square.
As the last of the assembly marched in and settled in formation, Bressard motioned with his hand, snapping his fingers. A wagon maneuvered by five stout warriors wheeled in a platform with a metal cage. A figure chained with his hands above his head was inside. It was Broenef Cros’seau.
Broenef’s head was completely shaved. He only wore simple white cloth pants. His bare back exposed a multitude of cuts, deep gashes, and spreading dark bruises. These were from when he was first captured and dragged by horse down a mountain in Risa. He hung unconscious, his legs buckled beneath him. He and his cage were brought forward and finally parked in front of Bressard. Then three black-hooded men brought in silver-decorated chalices and placed them next to the cage.
All were eager to start the bloodletting. The Resurrection had eluded them for too long. It was time to bring forth a new age of power. The God of Rot would rewrite the very fabric of reality and this new cloth would be in his holy hands. The Beleardea were to be richly rewarded and all would be at their transgression as it was meant to be.
The Master of Souls held his arms over his head and recited an arcane benediction. The words flowed from his lips while his hands twitched and wriggled through intricate signs. A dark purplish circle of magical energy grew in the sky above the dais. It stretched and encompassed the length of the Cult’s formation triangle.
His frantic words died away. He faced the anxious gathering as he slid an ornate red metal dagger renowned as The Kriss of Keri’si from his leather belt. He held it over his head. “Tonight my brothers we take our last steps toward our ultimate destiny! We challenged all and have crushed the multitude of heretics who would deny the power and rightful place of the Three-Horned Viper!! NEVER AGAIN!” His scream crashed across the cauldron like a clap of thunder. The throng took up the chant as he continued to brandish the dagger.
“NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!”
“Bring forth the shell, The Epitolii! ARa eTohl shall wait no longer!”
The three hooded men returned to open the cage and retrieved the unconscious Broenef. They drug him before the dais and hold him before Bressard to inspect.
As the Master of Souls examined the prisoner, he made tiny cuts into his own left palm. Blood bubbled up and dripped unnoticed to the ground. Bressard mumbled more of his arcane scripture and replaced the blade in his belt. With his index finger, he drew symbols in blood upon Broenef. After a few more minutes he stopped to analyze the work. Satisfied, he again brandished the blade.
Bressard stares in fascination at his reflection within the red metal of The Kriss. His eyes in the image altered and erupted into flames inside their sockets. Twin forked-tongues emerged between his lips and large canine tusks protruded. “The promise… His Gift of Power…” Bressard murmured as he witnessed the vision of what he would become at ARa eTohl’s side.
He renewed his screeching screams of “NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!” He ran about the dais in a frantic blood orgy. “CHAIN UP THE EPITOLII!”
The hooded men carried the prisoner into the eldritch circles, laid him on his back, and bound him by hand and feet.
Bressard forced himself under control and allowed the religious frenzy to finally subside. He held one finger high over his head. “Yofala DrenbaCi xas Hestym.”
From the purplish circle of energy, bolts of lightning snapped and arcs of electricity struck the four monoliths. Broenef’s eyes opened but very little comprehension registered within them.
A second finger was held high. “Lodi Kodo brong Mafa hextas.” A black cloud formed inside the purple aura. It grew and descended toward the monoliths. Tiny black and red hands clawed at the air from within the cloud.
Broenef’s body lifted from the ground, levitating in place. He shouted with sudden fear. “Where? Where am I? What are you doing?”
The Master of Souls ignored him and held a third finger high over his head. “Hea vi Lino MASRA!”
The clawing cloud wafted over Broenef the Epitolii, shrouding his body from view. Only his blood-curdling screams could be heard.
“NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!” accompanied Broenef’s shrieks of agony and gradually washed them out.
The Epitolii, the shell of ARa eTohl had been crafted. The new body of The God of Rot waited.
Some exciting news: New short story, Victim One, published in the latest release of The Wordpeddlers Society Magazine!!
Check it out and get your copy today! (Only Ebook copies currently on sale for $2.99, physical copies coming soon.) CLICK HERE!!
So recently I learned of a new feature for Amazon Kindle. It’s called Vella. This new platform allows writers to post their work in chapters or “episodes”. I’m going to experiment with this process using my Evade series.
Every week I’ll post on my Vella channel (starting this Sunday 12/3/23), an episode with word counts of 600 to the max limit of 5,000. As a reader you can access the episodes by paying tokens. The token costs are minimal. Every 100 words cost 1 token. Also the first three episodes of any series is free to the readers!
Here are the standard token packets:
There are many genres now available on Vella. Including my faves, horror and fantasy.
I chose my Evade Series to start because I had planned already of compiling all three novels, re-editing, and offering in a complete full novel much like I did with Elude.
Depending how this process works out and the results, I might continue with the Dirithi series here or maybe a whole new horror line.
I like the idea of being able to get more content out early to you and I think this will be good to attract more readers’ attention and interest in my other works.
Click on this link to start reading episode 1 now and be sure to save the link so you can visit later easily!
Hope you like this new process as well and you look forward to each week’s new episode!
I decided to go back to this story written back in 2020 and give it an update and add a fresh spin. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did writing them! Here’s my December 2 Dismember Gifts to you!
IT GROWLS FROM THE CORNER
My eyes open instantly to pitch darkness. My heart races, pumped with an instinctual fear. I clutch the sheets of the bed, my breath caught tight in my throat.
I wait. Listening. There was something. A sound. A noise.
Nothing.
It takes me a moment to even realize where I am. Then it comes back slowly in bits. I was in my late cousin Richard’s farmhouse. He left it to me and several days before, I had moved in, with hopes of renovating the small ranch house.
Two days into the renovations.
The lights were off, the windows shuttered. The dead farmland was blanketed with its night shawl. The only light source came from a light pole next to the battered barn in the back of the house. A ring of ash trees encircled most of the property.
Air was stale and still filled the room. Soft light rays filtered down from one partially open window in the living room and dust floated aimlessly in its illumination.
“Hello?” I whisper, my lips dry, my cotton tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
“Hello?” I venture once more, praying I don’t get a response.
Seconds bleed into minutes, minutes grow into moments. Nothing responds. Time lapses.
One bizarre note caught my attention. I don’t hear anything. No crickets, no late-night songbirds, no distant cars on the I-77 highway. Even the wind is holding its breath. What the hell?
However, I do ease my grip on the sheets and sigh in relief. Maybe it was a nightmare with the last fragments waking me. I can’t quite yet laugh at myself and the fear that seized me.
New place, new sounds. Just a case of heebie-jeebies.
I raise onto my elbows.
Hissssss.
The sound pierces me. It came straight out of the corner, draped in deep shadows. A low rumbling growl follows the hiss. A distinct scrape of claws on the wood floorboards makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
I freeze up all over again, my breath locked in my chest.
My eyes strain to make out a form in the dark. Nothing. It’s like a gaping hole torn into the bedroom space, swallowing up the entire corner.
It’s close. I should be able to see whatever the thing is! Dammit, why can’t I see it? I can’t run. The corner is near the doorway.
What is it? A mountain lion? A rabid wolf? A feral stray dog? What is in my house?
No more noises, no more clues to what it is.
I don’t try to speak again to it. It’s obvious it isn’t human so there’s no real point. My mind floods with bad ideas, desperate ploys, nothing that will get me away.
Moments again drag out. I pull my legs slowly up, curling my form into a better-shielded form. Another growl, deep in its chest protests my movement.
Eyes, silvery and large open up. The space between the eyes at least five inches apart. Then heat and a bitter stench of foul breath wafts over me. Whatever is staring at me, just opened its jaws. I think I can hear the bare sounds of panting.
I brace my hands at my sides against the bed and raise with my back pressed to the wall. Standing seems like my only viable option. It gives me half a chance if this thing rushes me.
Again, from inside the shadows, the unseen beast doesn’t like my movement and it hisses violently, pawing aggressively at the floor. I hear its claws, I see its eyes, smell its breath, but yet there’s no form, nothing in the corner!
At the end of the bed, I left another window open for the summer breezes. A thin metal screen is the only thing on the window. Do I dare plunge through it before this thing is upon me?
It somehow senses my thoughts, and it shifts subtly, the shadows moving with it. Now a couple feet closer to the end of the bed, it sits midway between the door, the end of the bed, and the window.
This tells me one thing. It’s intelligent, but it is also waiting on me to make my move. Yet I feel I have already lost this game of strategy before I even woke up.
I try to summon my dwindling courage. Sweat streams down my neck and chest. I bend slightly, coiling my leg muscles.
The beast stands! I still can’t make out any form, but the shadow grows taller and towers over me, the “head” touching the dusty ceiling. Oh god!
It makes no other move. The ball has come back into my court. My plan for the open window has been shattered.
“Wh- What are you? What do you want?” My voice shakes as violently as my body.
s h e l t e r
The voice carries across to me but speeds through me like a gunshot. It gores my senses and I reel in sudden dizziness and nausea. My legs give out and I collapse in a heap by the pillows.
Shelter? What does that mean?
“I don’t understand.” I moan. “You want to stay in the house?”
It’s useless to try and escape. My fate is in this thing’s claws. There’s no choice but to listen to its demands.
I watch in pure terror as it slowly strides across the room, the floorboards creaking under its weight. Shadows stretching and wrapping around my neck and over my screaming mouth.
Lifted in the air as a smothering sensation wracks me, a burning agony doubles me over in its grasp, and a lightning icy claw rakes across my back.
Tumbling from its hold, I hit the bed, and then tumble to the floor with the words,
w e s h e l t e r h e r e
searing into my brain.
Hours later, as sunlight drifts in and warms my exposed legs and feet. My eyes open and stare up at the room’s dust-covered ceiling fan. A hunger, a need, a blood-thirsty craving howls inside me. My head rises and I study the far wall.
s e r v e
Etched into the faded green wallpaper are symbols, plans, and demands. None that I understand or want to comprehend.
Inside, it reads the words. It knows its purpose.
s h e l t e r a n d s e r v e
It growls again from the dark corners of my tattered soul.
Here is the second victim’s story. Keep in mind, these people are not connected. The demons…well, maybe.
IT GROWLS FROM THE CORNER II
I leaned over and slowly turned the faucet, watching the tepid water pouring into the tub. I sat for a moment absorbed in my thoughts. My world had taken a major hit and nosedived. It all happened right here. Somehow, he turned my own home into a nightmare!
Unable to stop myself, I focused on the cuts and bruises on my hands and arms. A nasty laceration on the top of my left wrist was especially worrisome. It was jagged and deep, held together by twenty-some stitches. A jarring flash image of Jeff’s knife crossed my mind. It had been serrated. One of those hunting knives he collected.
I gasped despite myself as an ugly thought bubbled up. What if it was the knife that I bought him for Christmas two years ago? Would he have done that? I couldn’t recall what the gift had looked like. Before that night, I would have never thought he could be that cruel. Now, I couldn’t honestly profess that I really knew Jeff Huntington.
My hand hesitated as I reached for the shower control lever. First, I glanced at the floor and then stood, pulled off two long white towels from the rack, and laid them out on the gray linoleum. I would never shower behind a curtain again. The bloody and torn-up shower liner from before remained untouched from where it had been wadded up and thrown into the corner by the sink.
Son-of-a-bitch has robbed me of that too. I once cherished long hot showers. Never again. That was exactly how that night had started.
I had driven home after 3 pm from my waitress job at the truck stop, dropped everything, and jumped right into the shower. My uniform always reeked of Anthony’s greasy food and the hated smell coated my skin. It was a habit, the first thing I did every night.
Jeff knew that.
I never heard him come into the bathroom. He must have hidden somewhere in the house. When we broke up three weeks ago, I had demanded the key back, but he obviously made a copy.
Right after the lights went out in the bathroom, he started swinging his aluminum baseball bat. He caught me square on the right side with his first swing. It broke two ribs. However, he didn’t stop with one swing. I was soaking wet, bleeding, screaming, and crying as he carried me out and into the bedroom. There he had already fastened nylon rope to the bed frame. More beating rendered me semi-conscious. I was barely aware when Jeff bound my hands and feet.
Up to that point, Jeff had not said a single word. He shook me to a somewhat lucid state. “You did all this,” he said with a sneer. His voice was terse, his jaw clenched. “You brought all of this on, you understand? It isn’t up for debate. No arguing. You just don’t have the right to call it quits. I am the man! Okay? You are the woman! I will say when and if you can leave. Got that? And Teresa, you aren’t leaving ME!”
He brutally raped me for hours in between breaks to pound his fists into my stomach or cut my body with his blade.
If my two co-workers, Barbara and Shawn, hadn’t come by to take me out dancing as usual on Friday nights, he probably would have killed me. The police believed the coward fled unseen out the backdoor. I was completely knocked out at that point and bleeding badly. It was early in the morning when I woke up days later in the hospital ICU bed.
Unable to realistically stall any longer, I forced myself to take my first shower since his assault. Maybe baths will be more to my taste in the future? I gingerly stepped into the hot water and rotated the shower lever. The water did feel good as I had only had sponge baths for most of my hospital stay. But it was still too fresh. An open wound not scabbed over. Even with the curtain missing I felt my heart race. I grew anxious, too frightened to close my eyes. Every door and window was locked and secured. I made sure every light in the house was on and all the drapes pulled tightly closed.
He was still out there hiding somewhere in the city. They hadn’t found him yet. Hell, he could still be hiding here waiting to finish his baseball practice and end my life once and for all.
I stopped the shower and grabbed another towel to dry off. Right then I craved – needed – a strong drink. I will never feel safe again.
As I entered the doorway, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My right eye remained puffed up like a large plum. Three lines of stitches marred my left cheek and the bridge of my nose. My bare skin was exposed in patches where he cut chunks of my red hair from my scalp. Two of my front teeth were missing. Now I knew why they refused to let me go to the hospital floor bathroom. My personal unit’s room’s mirror had been removed. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Ohhh. Ohhhh. God, what did you do to me?” I barely recognized myself.
I spent hours weeping into my pillows before I passed out from exhaustion and the meds the hospital had given me.
***
Someone said something. Calling me?
I rolled over onto my back, wincing from sudden sharp pain. The broken ribs were not letting me off that easily and punished me for forgetting them. My breath came out shaky and plumed in the frigid air of the bedroom.
Huh?It’s summer!
I shot a look at the window in the southern corner of the bedroom. It was dark outside, and only the streetlights glowed through the beige curtains. The room was pitch black. The hall light was off as well. My hands gripped the sheets in a surge of panic.
Is he back?
A low growl wafted through the room. An ominous patch of pure darkness occupied the corner opposite the window. The patch completely blotted all of the room’s features. Something inside it smelled almost like rotting garbage or old meat. It was truly rank, and I couldn’t help but gag. Yet, I couldn’t compel myself to move. A pair of silvery eyes opened slowly inside the black patch in the corner. They didn’t move, only stared intently and deliberately.
Oh god, what do I do now? I can’t fight him off… Wait! Is that Jeff? What is that?
My frantic thoughts raced, but my body remained locked and rigid under the sheets.
“Wh-wh-who?” The words slipped out from chapped and split lips.
No reply. No movement. Nothing.
I waited several long and drawn-out minutes.
“I see you,” I stated. This time with no stammer, but the fright still had its grip on my heart. “What do you want?”
The patch grew larger. I heard sharp claws scrape against the tiles of the bedroom floor. It made a full exhale of fetid breath before it leaped into the air and landed deftly upon my chest. This shadow beast pinned me to the bed. Razor-sharp points of its claws poking into the pajama top I wore. It was heavy but not unbearable. The patch was now child-size and perched on my trembling body. A dark, blurry face, lean and elongated like a goat with two big watery eyes peered down at me. The creature tilted its head to one side. Wide, black antlers clicked against the wall.
“Are you tired, Teresa?” it asked. The voice was slightly nasal but had a smooth humanlike tone and resonance.
“Wh-what?” I replied, again stammering uncontrollably.
“Tired of always being beaten, put upon. Broken. Your whole life you have lived under someone’s thumb. First Daddy. Then Uncle Ron after your parents died. Later, you let one loser after another take piece after piece of Teresa Rianne Baylor. Did Jeff take the last bit of you? Are you dead after all?”
The haunting words dug deep, shredding my spirit and soul. Tears poured down my sliced cheeks.
“Are you there?” It inquired.
“Yes. Yes to all your questions.”
“Good. Yes. There you are.” It leaned down between furry haunches that I briefly glimpsed in the shadowy patch. The goat face was merely inches from mine. Wisps of black fur on its chin tickled my neck. “Is there enough of you left to finally make a stand? Make them pay. Make them know who they really are dealing with?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“You will never be powerless again. You don’t have to feel pain like that.”
I nodded. Then whispered, “How?”
“Give me shelter.”
“You want to stay here?” I was lost in the direction of the conversation.
A low rumbling growl from deep within the beast’s chest evolved into a chuckle. “No, no, not this shit hole.” A bony, pale gray index finger came down and pointed to my forehead. “Shelter.” There was a tangible electricity to the spoken word. I could almost feel the weight of it drop onto my chest from its mouth.
Is this a nightmare? It can’t be real!
Oh, girl, I am very real. Its voice rang out inside my skull.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me,” I wailed. This was all too much, too sudden after the terror that Jeff had put me through.
STOP! It demanded. Its dead-cold finger with a nail, black as oil and crusted with gore, pressed into my skin.
My words stopped short, my mouth closed, and I gazed in awestruck wonder up at the demonic face.
“Shelter me and you will never walk alone again. Never be weak again. You will face the world fearlessly. SHELTER ME. SERVE ME NOW. I WILL THEN STOP HIM AND THE OTHERS…FOREVER…
A simple smile formed on my busted lips. I felt a part of myself return. A flicker of life was restored.
A dark calm passed through my ravaged body as my master smiled a toothy, frothy grin.
***
A loud series of snores vibrated through the trailer, even shaking the walls with their powerful volume. I found the fat pig passed out, slouched onto his left side in a broken recliner. Beer cans were crumpled at his feet, a discarded bag of Doritos lay on the floor and only a muted television set on a crate lit up the room.
Jeff was back home, carefree with all charges dropped. The investigation died since they couldn’t find me. Some even suspected Jeff had found me first and I was rotting somewhere in a shallow grave. Or some think it was a ploy by me to get attention or a smear campaign because Jeff is such an upright citizen. Either way, there was no one to testify and no one to accuse him. The police apologized and sent him on his way scot-free. Without a doubt, they were fearing he was going to sue their asses for false arrest.
That was all fine. I didn’t want the police to keep Jeff. He was all alone now.
The air thickened as the temperature dropped. Jeff’s snores subsided some when he hugged his arms across his wide chest and shivered. All but the light from the television darkened, snuffed out under a blanket of silence. A rotating fan standing next to the doorway cruised to a stop.
Jeff didn’t hear the soft whine coming from Cooper, his aged beagle, as he slinked out of the room. His tail was tucked between his legs in resignation and fear.
An infinite patch of darkness swallowed even more light from the room and the shadow expanded above the television set.
Jeff woke up with a start. Tangled fragments of a nightmare drifted away as he blinked himself awake. I plagued his dreams.
His eyes focused on an old rerun of the Password game show. The colors from the screen had bled away, now only stark blacks and whites were visible. The people were also distorted, their heads elongated as their arms stretched in odd angles. My visit was distorting reality, bending the rules.
“What the Hell?” he murmured, fascinated yet seemingly repulsed by the surreal sight.
I let out a soft hiss that broke his concentration, and he noticed then the patch of utter darkness above the set for the first time. The patch had settled and now appeared crouching on top of his television. It was time for me to enter.
I showed my two slender hands and altered them to an abnormal length. His eyes bulged at the sight. Then my thin fingers slowly inched their way down. My new blood red nails made tiny clicking sounds on the glass of the screen until they reached the crate. My hands were still pale and feminine, but I kept the cuts and bruises he made. They crisscrossed and wrapped about my limbs. That long laceration that twisted around the wrist especially caught his attention.
Jeff reflexively sat up and pulled his legs away from the crate. He trembled now with fear more than from the chill.
My soft laughter at the sight of him drowned out his disbelief. “Oh, God. Teresa?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Baby, I’m home. I’m hurt. It doesn’t look like you missed me.” My distorted voice was high-pitched and purposefully mocking
His hands scrambled and plucked a long knife that was sheathed at his belt. He waved it before him. “I will mess you up! Don’t get near me!”
I laughed even louder at his silly show of being a threat. He was about to see who he really was up against. I expanded the patch more and manifested. I was taller and slender than I was before. A lot of me had changed!
I slid down and flowed out toward him like watery smoke as the television blinked dead without a sound. His entire trailer was dark and dense as a tomb.
“You did all this,” I said. “You brought all of this on, you understand? It isn’t up for debate. No arguing. You just don’t have the right to call it quits tonight. I am in control now, little man. You are my bitch! I will say when and if you live. Got that? And Jeff, you will never be leaving me!”
I erupted in more malicious gales of laughter as my hand slashed out impossibly fast. The strike flayed open his right cheek. The skin and flesh slipped down and folded over exposing teeth and upper jawbone.
It was the first of Jeff’s bloodcurdling screams, but not the last he was going to give to me.
The last screams came when I squeezed my fingers into his skull and plucked out his eyes one by one and then laid them perfectly on top of the television facing the door.
I left him alive for now. When the police found him he was blind, castrated, amputated, and mute. Lying in a pool of his own blood. I did leave him with his hearing intact so that he could hear the whispers of pity and the placating lies that they told him and all would be okay as he was rushed to the hospital.
The Official Website of Author Derek Barton 