Horror – Page 17 – The Official Website of Author Derek Barton

Elude Part One – Excerpt #3… — Derek Barton – 2017

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3 – COLLIDING WORLDS

Vic felt the stiff metal of the chair pressing against his back. The sweatshirt stuck to his skin and chafed around his neck. Inside the interrogation room, it was dead still with no AC blowing through the vents.

Just another old trick they play. Keep the suspect in the room, make him sit there worrying about what he’d been brought in for, what the police know… Literally to make him squirm and sweat. They were his thoughts, but the voice in his head mimicked Rory again.

Then they’ll enter all smooth and nonchalant, offer up a cold soda to get me to relax a bit. One of the cops, the Good Cop, will offer to take the can to throw it away. Secretly, they’re gathering evidence for fingerprinting and DNA for testing.

He frowned and adjusted his chair.

Stop that! They’re watching you right now. Remain cold, emotionless. Don’t give them anything to work with. When they come in, you have to be the investigator. You’ve gotta learn what they know.

His skin crawled, the feeling of their eyes on him, observing him through the two-way mirror. Judging him not only on his history, but on his race as well. He understood the reality of things. He hated it, but he wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking he wouldn’t be held accountable to a social stereotype either.

The last day and night were surreal. It was as if he drove to that wealthy neighborhood and parked his car in another parallel reality. Nothing had made sense since he stepped into Shari’s house.

If he was going to get through this and out of the elaborate steel trap he was in, he had to find answers

A soft knuckle rap at the door announced the entrance of the case detectives. The first was an older white cop with a scruffy, grey goatee, brown, unkempt hair above a set of sharp blue eyes. The detective following him stood a good five inches taller, a black, athletic man, close-cropped hair and a strong jawline. Although he seemed younger, more of a model-type, there was a sense of confidence surrounding him.

Each had a drink in one hand and several manila folders tucked under the other arm. They sat across Vic at the table and opened their file folders without a word.

I am this week’s guest star on Law & Order. Madre! Vic joked to himself. His nerves were ragged, but on the outside, he remained stone and stoic.

“Vicente Vargas, age 23,” said the black detective in a monotone announcer voice.

“Before we start, Champ, you want a drink or something?” the “Good Cop” offered with a shark grin.

There it is… And so we begin.

He shook his head with a tiny movement.

“You sure? Kind of hot in here, no?”

Vic averted his gaze, staring at a corner of the room above the “Good Cop’s head. He fixated on a gray-dusted cobweb that swung back and forth next to a ceiling vent. It helped him to focus on it and not acknowledge their presence. The longer he could drag this out, the better his chances were of getting the information he needed.

Good Cop stepped up. “I’m Detective Ellis. This is my partner on this case, Detective Kemp.”

He still gave them nothing, but he eventually dropped his gaze to meet theirs.

Detective Ellis continued to lead the conversation. “I see you’re a gentleman of few words. Okay… Well, let’s not start that way. The more open you are with us, the more we’ll be able to help you, Vincent.”

“No. It’s Vicente. Vee-sent-teh,” Detective Kemp corrected him.

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Ellis coughed into his hand. “Why don’t we go over the facts, then you can fill in some details for us?”

His eyes remained locked on Vic’s, looking for any signs of cracks in the foundation. The stare was penetrating and precise. Those eyes were focused, experienced, yet somehow haunted.

Like Cory Tames, Vic mused. The kid had been a meth junkie since he was eleven years old and was serving his sixth drug sentence when Vic met him.

Cory’s mouth would say one thing, but his eyes told a different story. They were haunted; you could almost see the ghosts running around in his head.

The heavy-set detective had a similar look in his eyes. Something still hovered over him. Ellis hadn’t let go of it and as a result, it stained his soul.

Vic made a mental note – Could I use that somehow?

“Yesterday evening between 4:30 and 5:30 PM, at the residence of 1718 Lioness Estates Drive, Shari Renee Thomas was stabbed to death. She’d been butchered inside her parent’s house. At 6:40 PM, Vicente Anthony Vargas parked his 2007 Nissan Altima outside 2828 S Margo Drive. Inside the trunk, Officer Dan Reccard discovered Ms. Thomas’ body,” Kemp read aloud to the room, then sat back in his own steel chair. Both detectives waited, watching him intently.

Don’t give them anything. Shari Thomas, remember that name. Wait… They said she was killed between 4:30 and 5:30. I wasn’t there until after 6! I can use — No! They may be baiting me. Giving me invisible rope to hang myself. Dammit!

“Vicente, listen. You’re in a world of hurt here. I want to understand what happened. Help yourself and take my advice. Now is the time to tell us your side of things. Tell us what she did.”

Their game of pleading, threatening, bribing and pretending went on for another half hour. They kept at him like a stubborn dog with a bone.

He didn’t give them anything.

A knock at the door interrupted their little performance. Kemp answered it then rushed out of the room holding another manila folder. Five minutes later, he returned and whispered into his partner’s ear.

“Yeah? No shit?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

They both turned to Vicente.

Bullshit. All bullshit games, my main man, whispered Rory again in the dark recesses of his head.

Kemp sat again across from the young Hispanic.

“You aren’t giving us much choice here, bud. I know we asked you earlier if you wanted your lawyer and you refused, but maybe this is your ploy. Are you a gamer, Vicente?” Ellis asked.

Vic felt fresh sweat gather at the back of his neck. He averted his eyes, staring at the back of his hands in front of him. Something had changed and shifted in their favor.

Kemp jumped in with a mocking taunt. “I know you’re smart. You know a lot of the system from your juvie stint. Did you learn some legal magic in jail? A few good tricks that’ll work this all out?”

“Thinking if there’s no lawyer, maybe you can say we didn’t allow you counsel or didn’t advise you to get one?” Ellis pointed at a camera in the corner, a tiny red light blinking at them.

“It’s all on tape. Just like the recording of you leaving the Thomas residence. “He paused again, letting his words sink in.

“You need to start working this out with us, Vicente.”

Stone cold silence. No show of emotions.

Kemp turned in his chair and looked at Ellis. “Do you think… Samantha Troy is connected at all to this?

Ellis scrunched his face and shook his head slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that, but why?” Then, as if the question hadn’t been proposed, he shifted his attention back to Vic. He leaned away from the table and clasped his hands in front of him. “We have the body. Are you ready to admit to this? Perps like you have avoided the death penalty by being cooperative and leading us to the other bodies.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact.

Yet, when he said “Perps like you,” an expression flickered across his face. A crack in his practiced foundation, a glimpse behind the detective mask to the disgusted and angry hero wanting justice. That look scared Vicente. It was an honest and deep emotion — brief but revealing. He exposed a truth. They have actual hard evidence.

Oh god, I’m in so deep!

Vic met the detective’s gaze for the first time. His top lip involuntarily trembled. “I didn’t hurt that girl. I didn’t know her.”

“Who is this then?” Kemp slid a headshot of a dead woman at him. A pretty, redhead with cloudy white eyes stared at the photographer, but Vic felt those dead eyes pierce into him.

I don’t know you!

“Whose hands are these?” Kemp slid another photo of the hands from the backpack.

The older detective slapped his hand down on the pair of pictures, startling Vicente. “Why do you have them if you had nothing to do with their murders?”

“WHAT?” Vic blurted. “MURDERS?”

“I’m going to run her DNA and find out her name soon enough. You’d save us all a lot of time, give her family closure and it’d go a long way to bettering your situation, IF YOU TELL ME WHO THIS WOMAN IS!” Ellis pointed at the cut hands.

Two dead girls. And they think there’s more.

“Is this Samantha? Did you kill Samantha Troy?” Kemp asked in a more even tone.

It was like a one-two punch followed up with an uppercut to his jaw. The detectives had him boxed in and on the ropes. He felt the room was spinning.

“I want a lawyer,” he rasped.

The detectives sighed in unison. A confession, a rant, a breakdown, something…had been close at hand. Whatever it was, it didn’t happen, and their window had passed.

Kemp spoke loud enough for Ellis and their prisoner to hear, “He’s scheduled to be brought downtown on the bus transfer at 9 AM. We can speak with him and his lawyer then after he’s been processed at Phoenix Jail. Give him time to rethink his story and be more willing to save himself from the needle!”

Vic lowered his face into his hands.

***

Bernice Baxter was a bitch.

She knew it. She embraced it. It normally made her job and her life simpler. Or at least, easier to get her way. People didn’t like conflict, and many would give way rather than stand up to you.

Once more and for the umpteenth time that morning, she looked at her watch. It was 8:12 AM.

From behind her, she heard the familiar jingle of The Price Is Right playing on the television in the front room. With her hands on her hips, she glanced over her shoulder. Anna Witherspoon, Bernice’s shut-in patient, sat on the couch with three pillows propping her up. She giggled and smiled through her oxygen mask at the TV as the show began.

The rotation of “Idiot TV” was starting — first The Price Is Right, then The Jerry Springer Show, then Judge Judy all before the lunch hour. In her opinion, not only were these shows dumbing down America, they were exactly what was wrong with this country.

Don Witherspoon, Anna’s oldest son, was overdue from his work shift. He should have been there by 7:30 AM.

On days like this, she wondered again how she’d fallen into this line of work and how she managed to stay trapped in it. Her late husband had kept them afloat with his antique shop and she’d become complacent. Any ambitions she had stalled early in her twenties. Now a widow and making do with her low wages, bitterness was her true obsession in life.

Bernice hated taking care of the elderly. The deterioration of the body at the end of life disgusted her. It required a lot of care and support which didn’t pair well with her lack of bedside manner. But desperate people would hire anyone in desperate times and it helped pay the bills.

“Can I have some cereal at least?” a petite, brunette girl whined from the upstairs hallway.

“Shut it!”

“But—”

“Shellie, I don’t get paid any extra for you to eat. I am not here to take care of you,” Bernice berated her in icy tones.

Don’s only child was a twelve-year-old oddball. Currently, she had the girl sequestered to her room.

Bernice hadn’t liked her from the start. If she were twelve years old, too she’d have gathered a group to jump the brat and beaten the snot out of her. In her day, it was what you did to the oddballs — the ones who didn’t fit in and didn’t get why.

The mousy girl’s face was always in a computer screen or her eyes glued to her smartphone. Bernice walked in on her that morning, watching YouTube videos on the basics of computer hacking. When she reached for the laptop, Shellie shouted at her and pulled away.

Bernice gave her a hard smack across the top of her thigh. The girl’s shorts would hide any resulting marks or bruises.

She smiled knowing the girl would be too modest to undress in front of her daddy so there was little chance of being discovered accidentally. Shellie was smart though. She wouldn’t say anything to Don and risk getting worse from Bernice. This wasn’t the first time one of her patients had a brat to deal with.

Bernice Baxter was a bitch.

“Next, we will have our winners Spin the Wheel after these messages from our sponsors!” Drew Carey bellowed in the background.

Don Witherspoon burst in out of breath through the kitchen door. The clock on the stove said 8:26 AM.

He was covered in sweat and his beige uniform had several patches of sweat.

“I am so so sorry, Ms. Baxter!” he apologized.

“No more.” She shook her head. “I am quitting. Not only are you late again, but your daughter kicked me this morning! And on top of that, I am going to be stuck on the 202 an extra hour due to the morning traffic! Too much. I am done!”

She’d practiced the speech in her head almost a dozen times while waiting. He had no one else to go to. Timing was critical and finally she had enough to threaten to quit… Unless he offered her more money. She had him by what her late husband, Eddie, would have called “the short hairs”.

Swiping her big green purse from the table, she brushed past him and out the door toward her rusting 2006 Chevy Impala parked on the street.

He raced after her, begging for another shot. She made him sweat until she reached for her car door handle. Finally turning to face him, she said, “The only way I can put up with Shellie and your mother will be if you pay me an extra $2 an hour. NO LESS!”

Don blanched then sagged in defeat, nodding his head in agreement. “I will have a talk with Shellie, I promise. Can you come by tomorrow? The register locked up today and I will have to go into the laundromat early tonight to balance out the drawer. Please?”

“Fine.” She didn’t care about the extra time tonight. Her victory elation overshadowed the inconvenience.

As she drove away she watched him in her rearview mirror. “Dumbass!” She laughed, heading for the freeway.

At 9:12 AM, Bernice pulled out from the onramp and merged into the rush hour crowd.

It was already hot. The radio stated it was nearing 96 degrees. She frowned and punched the button, looking for a country music station.

At 9:16 AM, the Impala lurched forward and sputtered as if it had a gas hiccup.

“What the hell?” she shrieked. However, the car continued to race along at 58 mph. There were no red engine lights or any other dashboard signals to account for it.

“I just got this damn thing an oil ch—” The wheel yanked to the right on its own and the car brakes plunged to the floor by themselves.

Car horns blared, and deafening tire screeches surrounded her. The Impala skewed to a parked position in the fast lane. Cars whizzed by, narrowly avoiding her.

Bernice screamed and smashed her foot on the gas to try to get the car moving again.

Nothing…

“Oh, dear lord!” She mouthed the words as she tried the door handle. Intense terror stole her breath away.

The door wouldn’t open. All the doors were locked.

The Impala growled and revved fiercely as if it had a mind of its own.

Bernice screamed again as the car ripped across the three lanes of oncoming traffic. It barreled through the cement barrier. Flung forward, she broke her sternum on the steering wheel at the same time the air bag deployed.

At 9:17 AM Bernice Baxter’s car nosedived through the air, plunging over eighty feet onto the traffic below.

The airbag prevented her from seeing the impact of her car as it plowed through the front cab of a grey transport bus. A bus headed for the downtown Phoenix Jail.

Bernice Baxter blinked for the last time as her eyes filled with blood. She hung against the bus’s hood, partially out of her shattered driver’s side window. The back door of the bus burst open and men clad in orange jumpsuits fled down the freeway ramp.

Flames flickered and scalded her pulped legs as engine oil and fluids flooded the ground. Her skin darkened, and her flesh sizzled like bacon.

She didn’t feel the heat or the pain.

Bernice Baxter would never see her extorted raise.

Bernice Baxter finally ceased being a bitch.

***

At 9:20 AM as Don Witherspoon scolded his daughter on how her abusive behavior had cost him, a miniature, green light on her laptop blinked three times in rapid succession.

A fire engine horn blast followed by the sounds of several wailing police cars could be heard somewhere north of their house. Neither of them noticed nor heard the emergency sirens. Nor did they notice the single bleep and soft hum of files downloading onto Shellie’s laptop.

2017 Bi-Monthly Goals for July & August — Derek Barton – 2017

Goal Setting, Writing Tips

July & August Bi-Monthly Goals

Recently, I came across an interesting video blog on Youtube from fantasy novelist, Kristen Martin. She outlined her “bi-monthly” goals for the months of January & February. I liked the process a lot and I could see how it would be a great motivator for me.

The main aim is to break down your “bigger picture” goals into easier, more obtainable goals. These can be both professional as well as personal. The other part of the process is to publicize them as this gives you a sense of accountability. If I can accomplish at least 12 of the 15 goals then that is 80% which is a “winning” and successful score!

I will be revamping these again in September. I will give you a rundown of how I did and then a new or revised list.

Here are my goals for the next two months:

1. Finalize my Chapter Outlines for The Bleeding Crown: I am a big time “plotter” as they say in the industry. I write faster and have better quality of work if I know where I am going in each chapter. You can think of it like a road map. Some authors write by the seat of their pants (“pantsers”), but when I did this, I found I would always get lost. Then I would lose enthusiasm for the story and not finish. For this story, I know exactly where I am heading and how I want it to end. The difficulty is to determine all the little steps along the way on that road getting to the finale!

2. Complete the First Rough Draft of Bleeding Crown: I have been putting a lot of effort into writing the first draft and have three quarters of the story down. Unfortunately, I am quickly coming up to the end of what I had written for the outline. Thus, goal #1 and goal #2 go hand in hand. If I don’t do #1, I won’t get near #2. Sighhhhhh

3. Complete 52,000 words written (52 days * 1000 words): This ties into the other goals, but even if I finish The Bleeding Crown, I have my Elude series. I want to accomplish this so I have even more on my site and Amazon for my readers to dig into. A 1,000 a day is actually not that hard for a lot of writers (Stephen King does over 3,000 every day), but that IS his only career… HA! Once I can comfortably do this on a daily basis, I will be increasing it.

4. Outline first two books of Elude Series: A lofty goal for me, but without the stretch goals I won’t know for sure what I can actually accomplish or not, right? I am enjoying this genre as much as I enjoy my fantasy work (both have my biggest love – horror). I was inspired to write the Elude story after reading Stephen King’s novel Mr. Mercedes which is a great “grim detective” series (he also added a lot of horror elements to this genre story too!). The novels are all going to be relatively short (under a 100 pages each) as I want them to be an on-going series and I want to build that anticipation element to it. Plus right now “short is in” on Amazon and writers are finding success with this approach.

5. Write out three more Elude Sections: I am including the first five sections of the first book for Elude on my blog. Would love to hear your thoughts, suggestions or if any of you have questions about the story. Another appeal to this work is that it takes place in my city Phoenix! I moved here when I was 26 and fell instantly in love with it. Now I can take you, my readers, on a whirlwind tour through Vicente’s eyes!

6. Compile and create an Ebook on the Writing Craft from my past blogs: I have kind of already done a part of this. I put my self-publishing and writing blogs together, but have not edited or refined them in any way. The idea is to put them in a non-fiction ebook. It will be my take on the writing craft and what has worked well for me and what has not gone according to plan.

7. Design bookmarks for my books: I do have a couple of bookmarks already that I can sell when I get back into the comic-con game. But I want more and will be coming up with some new ideas from the books. I want to sell these also from my site.

8. Get the character portraits from artist by August and start getting Poker Card and Calendars made: This is another lofty goal as there are a lot of characters from Consequences. Plus, he’s also got a busy schedule and life! This is my goal, but it does require some successful production from him as well.

9. Complete two Giveaways (one on Kindle Review and my own Indie Book Giveaway): I have signed on for another book giveaway on the site Kindle Review. It’s called A Midsummer’s Dream. A cool production that I am happy to be a part of. The other giveaway, of course, is my own, The Indie Fantasy Book Giveaway, which I have been heavily marketing. It has been slow growing, but I am seeing some success with it. This will also help me out on building up my email mailing list. I do love the website traffic I am seeing from the giveaways. This month has already broken my all-time records for most visitors in a month!

10. Complete one Newsletter a month: July’s was already sent out last week and I should have another one out in the first week of August.

11. Read one writing craft book a month: Reading about my writing to me is incredibly essential. It has raised the level of my writing in a short time. It has helped me learn what the current trends are and given me the tools to produce a more polished product than when I started writing again back in 2010.

12. Prepare for book convention in Tucson: I would like to go this convention, but not sure how financially set we will be for me to do so. We have had some setbacks lately and it has stalled my participation in the comic-cons or book shows. Not only do you have to pay to take part and reserve a table, but you also have to pay for the inventory to sell. There is also expenses for travel and any hotel accommodations to consider if you are not doing it locally.

13. Get booth banners: Again this is an investment I would like to make, IF I can get back into the comic-con circuit by the end of the year. I may have to stall on this one and let it go on future month goals coming up.

14. Strive to walk 3 miles a night, workout set at least once a day: The heat in Phoenix this year has been devastating. Last year we did have one or two days over 120 degrees. This year it has been over 120 degrees off and on for a week and a half. The days it hasn’t reached 120+ has still been very oppressive. When I try to walk at night, I have gotten severe headaches. This heatwave won’t last forever, but it sure does feel like it. I moved to get summer year round (lived in the Icy Hell of Indiana for 26 years) – I don’t regret the move, just cannot wait for our normal weather to come back. This fitness goal is to help me with my bigger goal of losing weight. I want to lose 40 by the end of the year!

15. Create a book trailer video: Another high bar goal, but I have been toying with the idea. I have a lot on my plate and with my day job, it doesn’t give me a lot of “free time” to experiment and toy with the technology out there. It may happen, especially since I now see it is not that hard or even expensive to do. The time to research and find all the images is the obstacle.

This is a lot of minor goals, but if I can accomplish this in two short months, then my overall success for the entire year will be very fulfilling indeed. I realize that there is a good chance that most of these will not get completed, but it still helps having them written out so that I see my targets and the road ahead that I need to take.

Elude Part One — Excerpt #2… — Derek Barton – 2017

New Content

Capture hh

2 – THE CHANGEUP

Like a bolt of lightning, Vic sprinted back into the house, knocking the screen door off one of its hinges.

He blazed through the living room, hopped over a laundry basket in the hallway and bulldozed open the back-porch door. The heavy footfalls of the police officer hadn’t left his ears. He heard the man chasing after him.

“OH MY GOD, VICENTE! WHAT DID YOU DO?” Cat screamed from somewhere in the front of the house, maybe she was even still in the front yard.

“Stop!” Reccard called out to him, already sounding winded.

Vic kept his pace, scrambling up and over the backyard gate. When his feet hit the gravel of the alleyway, he shot to the west. His best chance was to get closer to the campus, get into a crowd. But most of all, he needed time. Time to learn what happened and time to think of his next move.

Above all, Vic didn’t want to go back to jail or have to leave Cat again. Until today, he put faith in the idea that things were going to work out for them. Cat would get back into her schooling, find herself, and maybe even establish a career. He would be careful, avoid trouble and maybe even do something with photography to better himself.

But was that all dusted?

There was a struggling strip mall a few blocks west that was his first goal. The parking lot would be busy enough at this time of late afternoon. He could make for the Frye’s Grocery Store. Plenty of shoppers getting tonight’s dinner.

Sirens blared at the other end of the alley behind him. They must’ve thought he headed the other way. Now the police cruiser barreled down the alley trying to play catchup.

Not breaking stride, he cut right at the end and pumped his legs faster. He had to get to that parking lot first. He heard several dogs barking at the commotion.

His thoughts whirled around the image of blood dripping steadily from holes in his trunk. What the hell was in my car? I didn’t see anything in the house and no one came after me. How can this be happening?

Three blocks ahead, he saw the sign for the grocery store and the various oddity stores. Cars were streaming in and out of the lot. He weaved around them and made a straight line for the entrance.

Sweat poured down his neck and between his shoulders. His black curly hair matted at the sides around his ears. He crossed the entry, stopping to catch his breath. Vic knew he had out-run the first officer, but he only had seconds before more would arrive in the lot.

He briskly walked toward the back, trying not to attract more attention. Below the neon sign for the Produce, an arrow pointed toward the restrooms. A man in his late fifties guided a cart with stacks of open boxes through a set of double plastic doors.

“Excuse me, didn’t see you. Need a window in one of those swinging doors,” he complained.

Vic nodded and swung around him. In the back room, one of the fluorescents flickered and buzzed like an angry bee. A cloying rotted citrus smell bowled into him and nearly made him gag. More stacks of fruit boxes filled the majority of the room and lined two of the cement walls. A desk and a corkboard covered in Postit notes saddled the other wall.

An open doorway led to a dark back stockroom and docking port. He saw a glowing-red exit sign above a metal set of double-doors.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and triggered a piercing alarm.

Damn! Damn damn damn, he cursed to himself. He knew better – he’d just blown his advantage.

“HEY KID!” the produce clerk called after him.

He dashed to the left, avoided the sloping dock ramp and went parallel to the back of the strip mall shops. Around the corner at the back end, he shot up and over a low, cinder block wall, and landed on a tree-clustered, dirt bank. Ahead of him, he spotted several two-story townhouses.

You ever in a race, change it up – find new clothes fast! It will give you another chance to confuse ’em.

Another pearl of jail-time wisdom from his former cellmate, Rory James Cole.

He froze in his tracks when an idea popped into his head. Rory’s younger brother, Durojaiye “DJ” Cole might be willing to help him. The two had been in the same grade in Brinton Middle School, but Vic had hung out more with Rory back then. The police wouldn’t have him as one of Vic’s known associates.

Looking through a window of the nearest townhouse, it appeared empty. He removed his shirt and wrapped his fist in it. Praying to himself that the owners didn’t have an alarm, he broke the backdoor’s windowpane.

Once inside he was quick with a decision and raced upstairs. There were three bedrooms. He chose the master bedroom.

The walk-in closet had exactly what he wanted: a pullover ASU sweatshirt, grey sweatpants and a baseball cap.

They won’t be looking for another college student. They’ll be looking for a Hispanic kid in a tee shirt and jeans. He grinned to himself.

Looking down to untie his sneakers, he discovered they were stained red with gore.

He rummaged through the dirty clothes on the floor and lucked upon some oversized sneakers. He also discovered a matching ASU backpack.

He stuffed a few more extra sets of clothes in the backpack.

Next to the bed was a black oak dresser with a lamp, several worn out paperbacks and framed photos. He picked up a photo of a young couple on a white sand beach. Seeing their smiling faces gave him a twinge of guilt. He reached for his wallet.

“Shit. No. Sorry, I may need this money. You aren’t on the run from the police.”

He spoke the words, but it was Rory, always the survivor, who was inside his head. Don’t be no damn fool!

He left by the front door and walked with faked confidence. He carried the sneakers in the crook of his arm, stuffing his shaking hands in his jeans pockets.

Several blocks over he made a beeline for the entrance to the Tempe Town Lake Park. More sirens were working their way through the neighborhoods and closing in. He lowered the brim of the baseball cap another inch.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, but the park lights were stubborn to show themselves. He crossed over 1st Street, cutting through another pair of townhouse complexes.

In the shadows along the shore side, he threw his bloody jeans and sneakers into the flowing water of the man-made lake.

A police helicopter flew west of him, headed to the neighborhoods by the grocery store no doubt. Instinct still told him to take the extra steps and remain out of the light of the streetlamps.

Now that he’d accomplished goal number one, he rested at a metal picnic table. It was one of his unique strengths: calm under pressure. His mind was quick to compartmentalize most situations, or obstacles. Time after time, it walked him through situations in juvie or jail.

I can’t stay here long, he decided, working through his options. Light Rail! Yeah, that’s good. It’ll take me to DJ’s neighborhood and I can still mix in with the crowds.

***

“Yeah? That does sound just like Rory.”

The two young men were in the living room on beaten down leather couches. A haze of Mint-Madness vape smoke floated through the room. DJ pulled again on his brass vaporizer.

Unlike his brother who was a beanpole and looked like he missed too many meals, DJ was near 5’7”, stocky with short, tight dreads. He also had a never-ceasing grin on his lips.

“With just a few words, your brother could get a prison riot started in a convent!” Vic lamented and laughed.

“I know, right?”

“But he never failed me or left me out there to hang. I owe him a lot. When’s his trial date?”

DJ got up and crossed to a cluttered kitchen counter. The court summons was buried in mail and loose papers.

“Uh… here.” He snatched it up and read it. “Next May. May 9th.”

Rory was facing his third appearance in court for a Breaking and Entering charge. This conviction would garner him the designation “career criminal”.

The two went quiet and DJ plopped down on the couch with a bowl of cheese puffs.

“You sure it’s cool for me to stay on your couch tonight?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“I’ll be out before 5. They’ll never know I was here and you won’t get any heat for this.” Vic was grateful for the chance the kid was taking on his behalf. Harboring him for the night could get him in serious trouble.

“Gimme that beer, would ya?” DJ pointed at a Coors on the corner of a glass coffee table. “So… you didn’t even know this girl?”

Vic shook his head, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “I went in the back door — there was a note telling me the front door was broken. And when no one answered I tried to find her.”

“Dude… You went inside?”

“I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Too much sun baking my head today I guess.”

“What’s your plan for tomorrow?”

Vic took a long drink. “I don’t know, at least not yet. I freaked out. Panicked with that cop right there looking at that puddle under the car.”

DJ ate the last puff and stood up. Yawning, he said, “I’m going to check the news on the computer and see what they’re reporting. I can tell you in the morning before you leave. Get some rest. I’m sure this will work out. You didn’t do anything.”

He stated it as though it were a matter of fact, but his eyes asked the question.

Vic replied in a hushed tone, “Nothing.” Then he raised his empty bottle with his own inquiring eyes.

“You’ll want to take it easy on those. A clear head is going to save you in the morning. Here, give me that backpack. I’ll throw those clothes in the washer. You never know what might be on them… College students are walking STDs these days, you know?”

Five minutes later, DJ called out from the back of the apartment, “Oh, hey! Are you hungry? I got some free pizza in the fridge.”

“Free?”

He chuckled, “They delivered this pizza here when you were in the shower, but I didn’t order it. The driver said his shift was over anyway and he was going to report the owners as a ‘no show’. So, he let me just take it.”

“Glad my luck is rubbing off on you.” They laughed together, but it felt forced and awkward. He was beyond exhaustion. The day’s events were starting to hit home.

“JESUS, DUDE!” DJ cursed. There was sheer terror in his voice.

“WHAT’S WRONG?” Vic shouted back.

When there was no answer, he worked up his courage, afraid of what he might see and went to find his friend.

DJ stood next to the washing machine, the backpack spilled open on top of it. Nesting inside was a pair of pale white hands, butcher-cut at the wrists.

“You son-of-a-bitch!”

“I… No, this…” The beer lurched up in Vic’s stomach and he vomited into the corner of the room.

From over his shoulder, Vic heard DJ on his cell phone. “I’m at 1984 W Dunlap. I need a police officer NOW!”

He then put a hand over the phone and hissed through clenched teeth, “Do the right thing, man. Turn yourself in.”

Vic couldn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on the bloody stumps. The fingernails were painted in bright pinks and yellows with polka dots of blood.

Elude Part One — Excerpt #1… — Derek Barton – 2017

New Content

1 – IN COLD BLOOD

Vicente Vargas leaned forward, studying the crystalline blue eyes staring back at him from the computer screen. The picture was of a small girl with fine blond hair, holding a dandelion up in the last of the summer day’s rays. Her face was scrunched, her brow furrowed as she spotted the tiny white spider perched on the flower.

The shot was a perfect story to Vic. When he selected his “keepers”, there was a significant rule he lived by: each shot must tell a story. He was not a wedding photographer or even a mall hack who took portraits. However, he did consider himself a budding artist.

He tagged the pictured and saved it on his hard drive. She would be featured in his collection. One day he would get his chance with a gallery and have a showing.

The voice of his late mother floated through his mind. I know you will make Mama proud. You and your sister will show the world.

She always said it to him when he was growing up. It might have been one of the last things she ever said to him. He couldn’t remember.

He and Cat had been shipped off stateside five years back. He was old enough to watch his baby sister on his own by then. Mama saved and sacrificed for years to get enough money to send them ahead to a house she managed to mortgage. The plan was to rejoin them in a year.

Then Hurricane Sandy took her life away. Flooded the city and drowned all their dreams.

“You can’t hear that?” Cat snapped from the kitchen doorway.

“What?”

“Your phone is ringing! I could hear it through my headphones. Vic, you have got to go!” She scolded.

His sister, Catarina, was only sixteen herself yet in many ways since his return, she had become the mother figure.

He hated the change.

“Fine,” he groaned, shut off the computer monitor and gave up resisting the call.

He had worked for six months now as a driver for an internet food service called Impulse Deliveries. It barely paid him more than minimum wage, even the tips were insulting.

The clock on the wall flashed at him. He called down the hallway. “The power went out again?”

“No. Some sort of ‘brown out’ hit the entire area. Too many AC’s working overtime, bro.”

Bro. Cat was in some mood. Her mouth got as sharp as her wit when she was stressed, or something was bothering her.

He swept up his cell phone, walked through the kitchen doorway and poked his head past her dirty bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

“Homework.”

“Cat… What is it?”

She shook her head and pretended to be scanning the textbook in front of her.

“You know you can talk to me. I’ve been aro—”

“—Yeah. I heard how jail gives you a well-rounded education these days.”

He sucked in a breath between his teeth as her words stung him. He rotated on the heels of his sneakers and stormed through the kitchen back door.

As the screen slammed shut, he heard a muffled, “Hey Vic, I’m so—”

On days like this, he sincerely missed his mother. She had a real gift for reading people and their emotions. Ava Vargas always knew the right words to say.

Irritated and frazzled by his sister’s taunt, he rubbed his nose. It was a nervous habit of his. Throwing his bag into the back seat of their beat-up Nissan Altima, he revved the engine for effect, plastered his foot on the gas and peeled out of the driveway into the street.

At the first red light on Washington, he hauled out the cell phone from his jeans’ front pocket. On the screen was a flashing bike symbol with a capital “I” centered on it. He tapped it.

An address appeared as Google Maps opened automatically for him. It zoomed in and identified his target address and the time he’d take getting to it.

9982 W Broadmore Apt #7E, Tempe.

More instructions appeared below the address. Burger Express: 815 W Warner Rd. Order: 2 Jumbo Boy Burgers with fries. 1 order of onion rings and 2 Medium Cokes. Ask for Jackson.

He sighed and wiped at his forehead. Already beads of sweat had popped up. The temperature in Tempe was a “hair dryer 110 degrees”. Not quite the “stick your head in an oven 118 degrees” yet — those temperatures were guaranteed by the weatherman on Channel 17 for the weekend.

Over an hour later, parked in the shade of an old warehouse, he lay back in his seat. The last three deliveries had gone smooth, but the “tip jar” feature on his work dashboard had shown only $7.50 total. For the four total deliveries, he successfully sweet-talked three of them into adding something extra. The Jackson order stiffed him.

“Mighty white of you, Mr. Jackson,” Vic cursed to himself.

He shut off the car radio playing an obnoxious rap version of Mac the Knife — even at his age he knew some classics you just leave alone. Glancing at the dashboard clock, he wondered if he should head home and call it a day. Then he remembered the exchange with his sister and decided he wasn’t ready yet for the awkward apology session.

Since his release on parole and coming back to the house, they had been working on rebuilding their relationship. In the three and a half years he was in juvie, then jail, she had grown up.

Friends of his parents took her in after the trial. Vic was her only rock back then. He had let her down, was forced to abandon her. She needed him, but one dumb night of idiotic decisions had led to a stupid joyride.

Vrrt vrrrrt vrrrrrt. His cell phone vibrated like a mad bee on the seat next to him. Again, the bike symbol pulsed on the screen.

It’s the Vic signal, V-man! Another daring adventure and another damsel needs saving! The joke broke his sour mood and a smirk cracked his lips. He knew his jokes were lame, but they amused him at least.

1718 Lioness Estates Dr, Scottsdale.

Chipotle: 2819 N Scottsdale Rd, Ste. #9 Order: 3 burritos, 2 steak and 1 chicken with sour cream. No green onions on any of the orders. Ask for Shari

Scottsdale? That might just save this day. Bound to have a few extra dollars for a tip, no?

The phone blipped a tiny bell and a text came through: Ring the doorbell three times to be sure I hear you. Thanks.

Per Google, he was fifteen minutes away from the restaurant.

He started up the Nissan.

Ten minutes after picking up the meal order, he pulled into the gravel drive leading to the large ranch house in Scottsdale.

Balancing the drink carrier with the three bags while trying to close the driver door with his leg, he spotted a piece of pink paper flapping from the glass door of the house.

When he stepped up to the porch he read, “Come around the side, door is not working. Sorry! Shari”

He sighed loudly, turned around and went to the right side of the house. He wasn’t sure if she meant the right, but it had a cement walkway that ran parallel to the brick façade.

In the back, he found a sparkling greenhouse with a single door propped open with a red-orange brick.

Vic used his foot to push it back so he could squeeze inside. The strong scent of citrus filled the entire greenhouse. He didn’t see any other doors to the house. Along the back were dozens of flowerpots. Down the middle of the room were rows of hanging plants and flowers.

“Hello?” Vic called out.

No answer.

“I’m here with your Chipotle order? Hello?”

He walked along the center aisle where it turned to the left. A metal screen door with another wooden door behind it came into view. The window in the wood door had closed beige curtains.

Where are they? C’mon! It’s too hot in here to play this game. Sweat trickled down his back and wetted the pits to his black tee shirt.

A dirty sink and shelf were built into the wall next to the screen door. He set the items down in order to knock.

Still no answer. He was getting irritated, this was taking too long. He placed his hands on his hips.

“HELLO?? ANYONE THERE??” he shouted, cupping his hands to magnify the words.

Perhaps she was upstairs or had headphones on?

He tried the door handle. Both doors were unlocked, and he walked in. He had no idea this was the worst decision of his life.

“Uh… Shari? I have your food order. Shari, are you home?”

He left the food and proceeded inside. The foyer was dark and musty. It led to a cramped sitting room with three love seats, a tiny unused fireplace and a desk covered in old mail and papers.

A light ahead coming through an archway drew him in further.

He walked into a much bigger living room with two couches facing each other across a glass coffee table. There were twin book cabinets on opposite walls and a long stairwell in the east corner. Thick brown curtains were drawn closed, burying the room in shadows.

It was nearly pitch black. Vic slipped and fell face first into the back of the couch. He crashed to his knees. Trying to catch himself, his hand splashed into something wet and sticky. He yanked his hand back, gasping when he raised up a bloody palm to his eyes.

The blood trailing down his arm was still warm and syrupy. The leg of his jeans was stuck to his calf where he landed in the spreading puddle.

“Oh… Oh, shit!” He scrambled to his knees, backpedaling to the other room.

Panic gripped his chest. His breath was raspy.

This is too much blood! Too much to survive! I have to get out of here!

He bolted back through the greenhouse and raced out to his car. Slamming the car into drive, Vic didn’t notice the disappearance of the pink note from the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, he was parked in the lot of a rundown gas station. Its yard was cluttered with car parts, abandoned vehicles and rusted barrels. Spotting an outdoor sink set-up, he drove behind the station.

He got out, looking around for anyone watching. It was all clear. He washed the blood from his arm and took his pants down to wash the blood from his leg.

Later, as he waited at a stop light two minutes from his house, he shook his head as if it might help him make sense of what had happened. His entire 6’2” frame, coated in sweat, still shook with tremors.

“I had to leave,” he whispered.

She’s gotta be dead… I cannot be near that! I’m on parole and they won’t listen to me. No part of it! Won’t take the word of a Puerto Rican felon! Awww, shit! What am I going to do?

His rambling thoughts continued to run in circles inside his head. A car horn blared at him. He hadn’t seen the light change.

When he rolled around the corner, he spotted a single police car parked in his driveway.

What the…

They couldn’t know anything yet. I just found it. What is going on?

Since the squad car was taking up the only available parking area, he parked on the street in front of the house.

Through the front window, Vic saw Cat speaking to a patrol officer. She looked upset and emotional. He swallowed hard and took a quick spot check of his jeans. They were drying, but he didn’t see any telltale signs of blood.

Steeling himself, he straightened his shoulders and stepped across the yard to the front door.

“This is ridiculous! Isn’t this profiling?” Cat exclaimed at the male police officer who towered over her. In his late forties, he was white with a shock of black and white hair, and an air of impatience about him.

“It’s not profiling. I’m just doing my due-diligence and following protocol on any tips given to the police department.”

“What’s this about?” Vic spoke loud enough to make them both jump at his sudden appearance.

The officer whipped his head around and lowered his hand to his belt, close to his service revolver.

“What’s going on here, sir?” he rephrased his question in a calmer demeanor, trying to ease back the dial on the tension.

“Who are you?” the officer demanded.

“Vicente Vargas, sir.” He used the same downward cast of his eyes, the non-threatening tone and the lowered shoulders posture he learned in jail. When you talk with the boss, this was how you talk. Anything different caused further scrutiny or triple the trouble coming your way.

The heavyset officer studied him then replied, “Well, Vicente, my name is Officer Reccard. There was a break-in down the street at Mennen’s Stereo Warehouse, lots of equipment and items were stolen. A tip came in that a young teenage girl by the name of Catarina Vargas might have been involved. She and her boyfriend Jimmy Brower may have information on it.”

“That’s crap!” Vic blurted.

“Watch your tone, son.”

“My sister is not involved. I’m telling you.”

“They already searched the house, Vic. Didn’t find anything.” Cat stated.

Vic asked, “Do you have a warrant?”

The officer raised his eyebrows in surprise, ”Oh? Do I need one? Nothing to hide, right?”

“Uh… no. You’re right we have nothing to hide. We don’t have anything.”

He crossed over to Vic standing in the doorway and leaned into his face. “So… I’m not going to find anything in that car, either. Right? Or would you like to wave that holier-than-thou rights stuff in my face again and make me get a warrant?”

Vic shook his head, focusing on a spot on the floor by his feet.

Reccard brushed past him and headed out to the car. Vic and Cat followed him without a word.

As they crossed the poorly mowed lawn sprinkled with tall weeds, the cop froze in his tracks. Vic looked past the bulk of the officer and spotted something dripping from the backend of the car, puddling under the trunk by the driver’s back tire.

It was more of the warm and syrupy blood…

Upcoming Projects — Derek Barton – 2017

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I have gotten some inquiries on the progress I have had on certain projects (especially concerning my sequel, The Bleeding Crown) so I thought I would send out a quick update.

THE BLEEDING CROWN — At this time, I am almost a quarter to half way through the first draft. I spent a lot of time organizing, structuring the story line and developing the characters along with their backstories. My projected goal is to finish the draft around September or October.

On a side note, I have been kicking around the possibility of a third novel in Wyvernshield, making this a trilogy. I have some interesting paths I could go down, but I have not fully decided one way or another. And since I am not done with the second novel’s first draft, it is too early to start plotting out the third. One thing that is definitely making me hesitate is that I want the series to have a complete whole overall story and not two complete stories and one disjointed story thrown in the mix. If that makes any sense.

CONSEQUENCES WITHIN CHAOS AUDIO BOOK — A sad development here. My voice actress had too much on her plate at this time and just could not dedicate the necessary time to get this done within the time frame I was looking for. So… I have submitted a proposal on Audible.com and I am waiting on audition proposals. My goal was for the end of July, but with this delay I am not sure it will happen that soon. Audible states that once an actor has been chosen, it could be done in 3 to 8 weeks give or take the size of the novel. My book is estimated to be 11 hours recording. Keep your fingers crossed with me!

CONSEQUENCES WITHIN CHAOS COLLECTIBLES — I cannot yet go into too much detail on this, but I have made some inquiries, connections and working relations with several sources in an effort to create some character collectible items. A calendar set, magnetic bio cards, foil posters and a designer deck of poker cards may be on the horizon!

GOODREAD GIVEAWAY AND A GREAT INDIE BOOK CONTEST — I have been promoting the Goodreads Giveaway a lot, but I am also working out a big contest with at least one other independent author. More to come by July, but I am getting pretty excited about what we can offer and what I have in store for you guys!

A NEW HORROR BLOG SERIES — I am working on a new story line and series for you, my horror lovers! Inspiration struck and it won’t stop haunting me. And since I need blog ideas, I have decided to work this out through the blog like I did with In Four Days.

Plus I am still working on the horror novel with my father T.D. Barton; be on the lookout for sneak peek chapters of that as well.

IN FOUR DAYS AUDIO BOOK — In current talks with another voice actor for my novella.

As you can see, I am truly working hard this year! hahaha

Last note, as July is approaching I am astounded and thrilled to realize that this blog and website will be celebrating its ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY!!! Thank you all for your continued support and helping me grow this dream each day!

Lots of things in the works and more to come — exciting times!

Talk again soon!

Steps Taken Upon A New “Path”… — Derek Barton – 2017

New Content

Wolf Eyes #1 In the mid 90s, my father, Ted Barton wrote an original new take on the classic werewolf story. It was called The Path. He ran through the typical gauntlet of publisher inquiries and got the typical rejections. Just like today, literary agents and publishers are looking primarily for already established writers — this cuts down on their marketing costs and the gambling risks of taking on new talent.

Unfortunately, the age of self-publication had not taken shape yet. So The Path has remained locked away in a box ever since, gathering dust.

But now…

My father and I are teaming up, revamping the work and will be publishing it by the end of the year! (Insert trumpet blaring and confetti parades here!)

We will be amending the title, but for now here is the first sampling of our book. Hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER ONE – DZHANKAH:

The Prey was running!

Dzhankah liked it when they ran because it was… entertaining. He had no sense of humor, but it did appeal to his sense of cruelty. It was as close to playing a game as a creature devoid of normal human disposition could approach. Watching his prey stumble clumsily before him, squeaking and mewling in terror gave him immense pleasure.

Sometimes upon first sight of him the timid animals would lock up. Their eyes would roll up white in their sockets and their bladders would let go, leaving dark puddles in the powdery earth at their feet. He would make a big show of his attack, snarling viciously and frothing at the mouth as he reared up and advanced upon them. If he were in a benevolent mood, he would end it quickly by severing their head or ripping out a vital organ. This was not as enjoyable as playing it out, nip by slash, until life ebbed from the quivering remains.

Best of all was when his victims ran.

And this one ran well – almost fast enough to get away.

But not quite…

When Dzhankah first revealed himself, the Meat froze and stared with little apparent fear. This one was either too stupid or too drunk to believe his eyes. Or perhaps he’d seen things before – events or atrocities that had hardened him to the world. After all, the few kills of these two-legged Meats that Dzhankah had experienced had all been of the local, domestic variety.

This, however, was a wild one.

Dzhankah guessed this as evidenced by the Prey’s appearance and from the fact that he had camped in the clearing next to the field rather than in one of their smelly, wooden caves.

If only I had been on the Hunt last night, I would have slept with a full belly.

This Prey still would be easy to kill, but deserved a little more respect. Dzhankah would chase him down and dispatch him immediately.

When the Meat bolted at last, he fled quickly and with purpose. He didn’t look back, kept his head down and concentrated every effort into making his legs carry him as fast as possible toward the clearing where he had camped.

Dzhankah was curious. What did the Meat expect to profit by gaining the clearing? Could he want more room to defend himself? Perhaps he has hidden some sort of weapon back at his campsite?

Never before had one tried to defend himself! Dzhankah found the prospect enticing and brought a surge of excitement to his heart.

The Beast then decided to leap over a few rows and sprint ahead to check out the clearing. There he would either wait for the Meat to come blundering into him or he would come back to the chase within the corn.

Bursting into the clearing, he cast his eyes over the campsite, searching for anything that might be used against him. He thrust his muzzle to the ground, sniffing everything in sight – the bed of embers in the campfire, the bundle of rags the Meat carried with him, the nest of cornstalks piled near the base of the tree…

The tree!

The wild one wasn’t running for a weapon, but fleeing towards the only possible avenue of escape.

Clever, clever! He thought to himself, slightly disappointed over the missed opportunity for a fight.

Oh yes, the Meat has been around all right. Had seen things… and somehow knows I can’t climb trees!

On cue, his quarry exploded from the cornfield and without breaking stride, leaped over Dzhankah’s head and grasped a low-hanging branch. With a grunt, the Prey began pulling himself up into the tree, his legs pinwheeling in the air.

Before he swung his upper torso into the crotch of a branch, Dzhankah lunged and clamped his teeth down hard upon his left foot. A shriek of agony sliced through the air as the ankle bones crunched into a bloody pulp within his powerful jaws.

The Meat kicked and stomped frantically at his tormentor’s face, but Dzhankah, ignored the blows, closed his eyes… and slowly pulled.

More of the novel will be forthcoming. Please let us know what you think so far. Reviews, suggestions or comments are always welcome!

IN FOUR DAYS: Horror Suspense Novella… Now on Sale!!!

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My newest work, In Four Days: Horror Suspense Novella is now on Amazon Books and Kindle!

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Mysterious disappearances suddenly plague the Philadelphia area. A demonic force with an unending appetite hunts its streets and collects lost souls as trophies.

A young accountant encounters an unrelenting stalker and details her terror upon the internet…

A troubled youth finds that even with new surroundings your troubles can still burn you…

A cab driver with ties to European organized crime soon regrets his own violent actions…

And a pair of brothers with a deep secret plunge into an abyss that threatens to swallow them whole.

IN FOUR DAYS is a collection of chilling stories of intense dread, buried dirty secrets and twisted fates that will leave you guessing up to the very end!

* Includes bonus short story, SEYDE IN BLOOD (Prequel to Consequences Within Chaos)*

On sale at Amazon Books (In Four Days – Paperback $6.99 only)
On sale at Kindle Books (In Four Days – Ebook Version $1.99 only)

Get your copy now and let me know what you thought of it on Amazon Book Reviews!

In Four Days…(part 4)

New Content

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DAY FOUR…

I woke up late this afternoon; of course from a nightmare. Or am I still in the nightmare? Things are blurring together now and I don’t know if I can tell what’s real any more.

When I popped open my laptop, this message nearly stopped my heart:

blog-pic-14 First of the Year’s Snowstorms Expected to Cripple Philadelpha

A massive snowstorm that has devastated the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia and most of the state of Maine is now heading for the Northeast U.S. Coast. This storm is expected to break all-time snowfall records for Pennsylvania – Philadelphia (14.8 inches), Pittsburg (13.1 inches) and Scranton (13.8 inches). Many residents have been advised of an emergency curfew and restricted to their homes and off of roads. Officials fear for extensive power outages up and down the coastlines.

Every light and lamp I own has been plugged in and turned on in my tiny bedroom. My four somewhat used and somewhat sharp kitchen knives are laid out on my bed. The .380 pistol my brother in New Jersey bought me lays in my lap like a pet, a twisted replacement for Rayray.

The coffee table gave up its life to be nailed into the wall and placed across the window. The doors are all locked.

My thoughts race around the last line of the article. Officials fear for extensive power outages…

Deep down, I don’t believe any of this will be enough to stop him. He’s coming. I don’t know why or what he wants. But… this is the fourth day!

It has snowed all night so far. Worst case scenario would be if the pow

Taken and reposted from Amara Rico’s Facebook Page – January 29th, 2016

The above posts from Rosalina Rico were the last entries on my sister’s laptop. A welfare check made on January 25^th by the local authorities found her apartment door open; snow and mud covered a lot of the living room. It seems that the door had been open during most of the three-day storm.

One officer at the scene relayed to me that they did find three bullet holes in one of her bedroom walls.

Her family prays for her safety and requests any help or information you can give.

Please call 1-888-772-6600 — 24 hour hotline.

In Four Days…(part 3)

New Content

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DAY THREE…

I SAW HIS FACE!!

Last night, my nerves got the best of me so I took Rayray out of the apartment and we rode into town. I wanted to be with people and in the public view.

I had been wracking my head trying to figure out what was happening. Was this just some creep with a flair for theatrics? Was this something worse? Or could I be having a breakdown of sorts?

I needed to know and I had this sinking feeling that time was running out for me. Nothing on the internet had given me any clue of what I am dealing with.

On the freeway we encountered a huge traffic jam. While it delayed us for about an hour, being surrounded by a dozen or so cars crammed with people helped and I felt the most secure that I have been since my world unfolded.

It was the weekend and on Friday nights they always have a large live music gathering inside the pavilion at East Fairmont Park. My ex-boyfriend Tad used to take me there, mainly to score a bag of weed while I listened to the music. It should be overcrowded and well lit. Perfect and just what I want.

On Cranston Heights Boulevard, I pulled into the B*** of A******’s parking lot to get cash. The park’s ticket booths weren’t set up for cards and I always liked tipping some of the street performers as well. At its east corner was an ATM in a small glass enclosure attached to the main building. The enclosure was nothing more than a carpeted rectangle with the ATM in its back wall, a small trashcan and plant. Next to the machine, a single door marked STAIRS.

Two street lamps bookend the ATM and blanketed the lot with bright light. I had become very sensitive to knowing where all the lights were, scanning the surroundings and took nothing for granted. I was taking note of everything.

Rayray whined as he sensed my apprehension and he stayed obediently at my heels as we crossed the lot and entered the small room.

Inside, the air was warm and stale – a heating vent blew directly overhead in between two sets of track lights.

“Oh.. oh.. shit, no!” I muttered as I rummaged through my cluttered purse – my debit card was not in its slot in my wallet. I finally found it buried in a side pocket and I slid it into the machine with a heavy sigh.

The ATM chimed loudly as it accepted the card. The screen suddenly blinked at me and then turned off.

The machine chimed again.

My heart began to pound. I glanced over my shoulder to see the empty lot behind me.

EMPTY.

I couldn’t believe I left myself alone and open once again!

Another chime from the machine behind me.

That’s three chimes… my brain screamed at me.

I backed up against it just as the street lamp on the right of the ATM enclosure burst into a shower of sparks, followed up by the lamp on the left. The lot fell under a cloak of absolute darkness. Death was surely perched to pounce upon me if I left the enclosure.

“Oh my god, Rayray, what is he?” I moaned. “What am I going to do?”

The room grew colder, the air itself denser. The track lighting sets flickered and then died too.

One more chime signaled his presence.

Rayray growled and his fur bristled as he stepped in front of me.

On pure instinct, I bolted for the door marked as STAIRS. He was not getting next to me ever again!

A sudden blast of icy wind came from the open door behind me as he broke into the enclosure.

“Rayray come!” I screeched as I lunged through the STAIRS door and descended the steps.

Behind me, the STAIRS door slammed shut. I had no idea where this stairwell was leading me to, but I couldn’t think straight at this point.

Parallel lines of fluorescents on the walls began to explode as I approached them. The blackness followed at my heels like a stalking wolf.

But even blind I ran or stumbled on – I think I traveled down almost five flights to the bottom. There I found only a chained door with a tiny window looking out at an abandoned underground parking lot. I waited helpless and shivering against it. Sitting in the cold, trapped in a pit while the abomination hunted above for me.

What would come next? I realized that I could hear absolutely nothing. No wind, no breathing, no sounds of traffic. Not even the ATM chimes.

He isn’t gone. I knew this deep in the core of my being. He wasn’t done with me.

Or did he already kill me and this is death? Laying blind in the cold? The thought raced through my mind before I could contain it. Perhaps I am already lying in my coffin and I don’t even know it?

I stared up into the black maw of the stairwell.

Then a brief hope flickered in my head. I began to rummage through my purse again, feeling around.

My fingers finally curled around my prize just as a sound echoed down to me.

Drip…. Drippp…. Dripppp….

I wondered if the ceiling maybe had sprung a leak, but that just seemed unlikely.

And it wasn’t raining when we came into the bank! My brain screamed at me once again.

Drip…. Drippp…. Dripppp….

The steady patter of drops grew stronger and splashed loudly on the cement floor in front of my legs. A stream of drops formed into a puddle.

Then just behind the sounds of the drops, I heard his heavy, dragging footsteps.

Squellccchhh…. Sqquueeelllccchhhhh

His muck-covered boots stuck to the metal stairs. Was he pouring something over the steps?

When he got to the landing just above mine, the drops finally faltered and came to a stop. Something heavy was then dropped at his feet.

I held my breath; my heart nearly bursting from the confines of my chest and waited for the words I knew were coming.

“Two days… I will hav–”

I was better prepped this time – I raised a pen flashlight I had carried in the purse and clicked the flashlight on. The small beam of light cut through the gloom and illuminated the landing – a towering, shadowy figure stood there in a hooded, black rain slicker, mud-caked jeans tucked into mucked over boots. He roared and his shape swirled away from the beam and his features bled into the dark shadows of the stairwell.

But as I said before – I SAW THE BASTARD’S FACE!

The skin of his cheeks were leathery and drawn, pulled down tight toward his chest. His chin covered in coarse grey and brown hair. His bluish lips were thin and his mouth pressed tight into a single line. The nose was very thin, beak-like and cleft at the end.

But the eyes, the eyes… were missing. There were three, empty black hollow sockets; one sitting on two in some skeletal-like pyramid.

I think I fainted. I don’t remember even how I got back to my apartment.

I don’t even know where Rayray is. I am all alone…

In Four Days…(part 2)

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Dark Elevator

DAY TWO…

I am not sure how long I laid on the floor of that bathroom. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was disbelief that had just happened or maybe it was just embarrassment – Either way, I didn’t report it or call the police. I didn’t want to believe it myself, let alone trying to convince anyone else.

Rayray, my rottweiler, must’ve thought it was his lucky night as I had him sleep in my bed.

That next morning, I considered calling in as I hid under the comforter. It felt unnaturally cold in the bedroom.

“You know! You know it was just security, right Rayray? Just another asshole guard trying to be big and bad. Prove he’s got the balls and the badge.” The dog only whined and pawed at my foot.

“Yeah, I know. Get up and get to work.”

…ØØØ…

I yawned and drank from another hot coffee as I waited for the elevator to come. Yeah, another! Don’t judge.

A rusting sedan went by slowly and worked its way down the row of parked cars. The parking garage was windy; my breath plumed in the brisk morning air. I was a bit early – it was 7:22 am.

Again, I chided myself for living yet another winter in Pennsylvania. My mother and brother lived just outside Miami. That’s where I should be – not standing here in this refrigerator!

The bell signaled the elevator car arrived and the doors slid open. I walked in and flicked the dead cigarette from my hand behind me.

As the doors closed behind me, I wondered aloud, “Did I leave the reports on the printer or did I even get those to my desk before…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Finishing meant completing the thought and the thought scared the living shit out of me. LAST NIGHT NEVER HAPPENED!

Instead of talking more to myself which is a bad habit of mine, I pushed for floor 8.

At floor 4 the overhead lights bloomed brighter and buzzed like a beehive.

At floor 5 the elevator jerked once.

NO! SHIT, NO!

Floor 6 dead stop. The elevator brakes screeched angry.

Like anyone else would in that situation, I banged repeatedly at the buttons. Hammering the open door button. Nothing worked.

“REALLY?” I shouted. “After last night, now I am about to get stuck in an elevator?”

I hit the intercom button next. “Hello? Can you help me?”

No response.

Suddenly the elevator belled chimed, but the car didn’t move. It was still on floor 6.

“Hey out there! Can you get me out? Get help!” I started slapping my hands on the metal doors.

Normally, I don’t get claustrophobic or even nervous inside elevators. But I was still a ball of nerves from the encounter the night before and this just didn’t feel right.

The elevator bell chimed again.

I shivered as it was somehow getting colder in the tiny elevator.

Hitting the intercom again, I screamed, “WAKE THE FUCK UP!! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!”

Another bell chime and then the lights cut out. Once more I was standing in complete darkness, scared witless.

Then the elevator doors opened slowly. The lobby on the 6^th floor was also pitch black. Nothing could still be seen, only heard.

Do I run? What’s happening? I began to hyperventilate. Where are all the lights?

A fourth bell chime.

The elevator floor shifted with new weight – someone had stepped inside next to me! They never said a word.

I held my breath for what seemed hours, tears streamed down my face.

He was back. And deep down, I knew he would be. I could hear his wispy breathing, smell the grey-green muck from his boots and feel his eyes crawl all over me!

I was completely frozen in place.

Right by my left ear, “Three days… I will have you in three days.”

Screaming like I was on fire, I bolted out of the elevator and down the hallway of floor 6.

…ØØØ…

Two hours later, security (my “heroes”) found me balled up under a desk in the Payroll Department. I had bitten each of my fingernails off and somehow tore the skin off three toes when I lost my shoes.

Work has imposed a “vacation” for my own good, however, they did admit to me that they found mud tracks in the hall and elevator.

Today is January 22nd — the third day since this started. I won’t let Rayray leave my side in the apartment and I keep my cell phone charging.

I am not insane (I wish I was. Then there was a chance for a cure or some wonder drugs to put me into a stupor!). Nothing like his has ever happened to me and no one in my family has ever had issues with mental health. I don’t do drugs or drink much and live a pretty normal, healthy life. I am so lost!

It never occurred to me how many times a day that I am alone. We all are alone at least six to a dozen different times during the day. Car rides, bathroom breaks, eating in the breakroom, working late at your job, shopping through the clothes rack in the store, reading in your bed at night, alone in the grocery aisle… elevator rides. We all take it in stride.

But what if something really is hunting me when I am all alone??

Four days… I will have you in four days.