COLONY OF THE LOST
By Derik Cavignano
Praise for Colony of the Lost
“A solid horror story with appetizing characters.”
– Kirkus Reviews
Colony of the Lost
Copyright 2015 by Derik Cavignano
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual names or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
For more information about the author, visit:
www.amazon.com/author/cavignano
www.dcavignano.wix.com/cavignano-stories
E-mail the author at:
[email protected]
Other books by Derik Cavignano:
The Righteous and the Wicked
In memory of my father, Fred Cavignano
For Bella and Ben (when you’re a few years older)
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my wife Mary Ann—my most dedicated reader—for all of her love and support and for not strangling me whenever I asked her to read a dozen variations of the same paragraph (which was often). I’d also like to thank my test readers going back to 2002 when a version of this book was first released under the title Where the Dark One Sleeps. There are far too many of those readers to name, but I’d like to mention Gail Cavignano, Jen Campbell, Chris Coxen, Nicole Wing, and the Okomski clan. I’m also grateful to Kirkus Reviews for their constructive feedback on the manuscript, much of which has been incorporated into the final product. Thanks are also due to Ed Campbell of the Danvers Police Department for his guidance on law enforcement matters in the state of Massachusetts. Any mistakes in that regard are mine, not his. And finally, I’d like to thank Jen Campbell for the great cover photo portraying Washaka Woods.
PROLOGUE
The tall man stared into the dark and wondered about the voices. It seemed that lately he could think of little else. They haunted him at home. They haunted him at work. All hours of the day. Whispered promises of death’s dark purpose.
Shadows draped his living room. Darkness stretched its tentacles into every corner, every crevice. The blinds were drawn tight, shutting out the pale light of dusk and the fluorescent glow of the street lamps.
He hadn’t cleaned in weeks. Dishes loomed over the sink in teetering stacks, rising from a cesspool of stagnant water. A bag of trash overflowed beside the refrigerator; its rotting contents buzzed with flies.
He barely noticed the stench. He was far too used to it by now, far too absorbed in his problems to even care.
He was losing his mind.
Bit by bit.
It happened in a span of weeks. The seed of madness had taken root and blossomed, sprouting spidery vines that wormed into his brain. It seemed hard to believe that his sanity could slip away so suddenly. More likely, he’d always been crazy and just never knew it.
But who could he ask? Ever since Mary died, he had all but broken off from the rest of the world. He had no children, no immediate family to speak of … at least not since his brother died in that car wreck on I-95. He had no friends at work. Just acquaintances. And he’d stopped joining them months ago for the occasional beer after his shift.
He lowered his face into his hands. Please God, let me be insane. Let this all be part of some crazed delusion.
But it wasn’t a delusion. A small part of him knew that. He had imprisoned the truth in the darkest corner of his mind, had bound it in chains and locked it away from the rest of his consciousness.
But sometimes it escaped.
Images appeared when he least expected them, grisly scenes too horrifying to watch. Flashes of light, bursts of sound…phantom memories of events he wasn’t conscious of at the time.
Fact or fantasy? Reality or madness?
Only the prisoner in his mind knew for sure.
Eventually, he’d have to confront the prisoner and discover the truth, but would he be ready to hear what the prisoner might say? Or would it be the last words he heard before the thread of his sanity snapped, and he plunged headlong into the abyss?
His eyes slipped shut, and suddenly the images appeared. He tried in vain to force them away, to resist the horrors he knew would be revealed, but his efforts proved futile.
***
Leaves and twigs crunched beneath his feet as he picked his way through the midnight forest. Starlight filtered through a canopy of skeletal limbs, the trail ahead steeped in shadows. Ragged clouds of breath plumed before him, lingering for a moment before vanishing into the dark.
His respiration was heavy, his lips salty and slick. His arms struggled to restrain their writhing burden. The child jerked and squirmed and tried to scream, but the duct tape pressed over its lips muffled the sound.
Laughter echoed through the forest. Voices circled his mind in a maddening frenzy.
He staggered toward a moonlit glen, drawn toward the mouth of the gaping earth, strung along by the whisper of death’s dark purpose, the promise of life begun anew. His shoes rasped against a rocky floor as he wound through a drafty passageway and spiraled down, ever down, toward the restless voices and the beating of an ancient heart.
He emerged into a cavern adorned by seeping stalactites. A phosphorescent glow emanated from the walls and floor, illuminating a subterranean pool in the center of the chamber. The water was onyx black, its surface as smooth as glass.
The whispering voices became a chant, and all at once he could hear them everywhere, an urgent susurration that compelled him nearer to the pool. He shuffled toward the water’s edge, stooped down, and drew a knife from the sheath at his ankle.
The chanting built into a guttural swell, into a dark symphony of madness. The blade reflected the ghostly light. Steel plunged into flesh, again and again, spattering hot ribbons of blood across his face.
The child’s screams became a choked garble. The chanting ceased. The cave fell quiet. All that could be heard was blood dripping into the pool, swirling and rippling its black waters.
When the child’s lifeblood was fully drained, he released the body and watched the once-still water begin to bubble and roil.
CHAPTER ONE
“Go ahead,” Jay Gallagher said. “Pack your things and get out. See if I care.”
The room was hot, hotter than it had any right to be this early in April. From where he lay sprawled on the bed, Jay could see Crystal reflected in the mirror above the dresser, her eyes swollen and damp. Tears mingled with her mascara and traced sooty lines down her cheeks.
All of her crying was giving him a headache. He wished she would just shut up and get the hell out so he could have a drink.
She yanked the drawers open and shoved her clothes into a suitcase, not even bothering to fold them first. He clenched his hands into fists and stared at the ceiling. How could she be leaving him?
I can’t take this anymore. I’ve had it! Her words. You promised, Jay. And like a fool I believed you. It’s over. This time for good.
Buckles buckled into place. Zippers zipped shut.
Crystal slung a bag over her shoulder and stooped to pick up another. She didn’t even have the decency to look him in the eye.
“I’ll be back for the rest of my things.”
“Good for you,” Jay said. He rolled off the bed and stalked into the bathroom. Slammed the door behind him.
Crystal yelled something unintelligible, then stormed through the living room and out the front door. The force of her exit rattled every window in the house.
Jay massaged his forehead. Who needed her anyway? If she couldn’t love him for the man he was, then the hell with her. He gazed into the bathroom mirror and studied his face in the flickering light of a dying bulb. For one unpleasant moment, he mistook it for the face of his father.
The illusion passed when he blinked his eyes, and then it was only him again—a hazel-eyed twenty-eight-year-old with high cheekbones and rugged good looks. Only right now, he didn’t look so good.
Sweaty cords of hair hung in his eyes. The rough beginnings of a beard bristled on his cheeks, the longer hairs tinged with red. Dark circles underscored his eyes, half moons prominent on a face that looked too pale.
He shuddered at the image, for a moment considering the possibility that there might be something wrong with the way he lived his life. But he shrugged it off. Who wouldn’t look this bad after all he’d put up with?
He drew a deep breath and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. After sliding aside the back panel, he reached behind the pipes until his hand closed around a square glass bottle. “Gotcha,” he said, grinning at the familiar black label.
“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Jack.”
A third of the way empty when he pulled it out, the bottle drained below the halfway mark before he collapsed onto the bed. Liquid fire blazed a trail into his stomach. A tingling sensation followed, spreading to his extremities until he felt so numb it seemed as if he was floating. The nasty business with Crystal washed away like the tide rising to cover a rocky coastline.
No need to hide his stash anymore. And no more listening to Crystal’s constant complaining. Hell, this was a good thing. A great thing.
It wasn’t his drinking that bothered her—she’d been looking for a way out of the relationship already. Drinking was just her excuse.
What a cowardly thing to do—accusing him of being drunk just so she could provide a reason for walking out. She must have seen the boy. He was right outside the window, for Christ’s sake. Standing there at the edge of the woods, staring into the bedroom. What the kid was doing out there at midnight, Jay didn’t know, but for her to say she didn’t see anyone ...
He swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey. Tossed the bottle onto the floor.
He wasn’t even drunk when he pointed out the boy. He’d only had three beers at Malley’s. That’s what annoyed him the most—that she’d accuse him of being drunk when he clearly wasn’t. He hadn’t been drunk in front of her for months, ever since he’d agreed to quit. He always waited until after she fell asleep before he got started on the real drinking.
The boy was out there, though. It wasn’t a drunken hallucination like she claimed, although what the kid would be doing at the edge of the woods so far after dark was anybody’s guess, especially with that Brakowski kid missing.
It didn’t matter. She’d come to her senses eventually, and if she didn’t, so what. He’d find someone who loved him for the man he was, someone capable of loving him despite his faults. After all, wasn’t that what true love was supposed to be?
True love. What a joke.
The boy was there, Crystal. How could you not have seen him?
Sometime later, after day faded into night, he climbed out of bed. A void had opened in his stomach, and it ached to be filled. He shuffled into the kitchen, already feeling slightly detached, a passenger in his own body. When he reached the jar of flour, he yanked off the lid, chucked it to the floor.
How do you like that, Crystal?
He thrust his hand into the powder and retrieved a fifth of scotch. Thanks to Crystal, tonight’s ritual had started a little early. But that was all right. A little more was always better than a little less … just like his dear old dad used to say.
He shook his head. How could she just walk out on him? He brought the bottle to his lips and chugged it down in three quick gulps. The wall hit him as he lurched into the bedroom. He spun away from it, too tired to be angry, and collapsed onto the bed.
The boy was there.
The thought pursued him into the sucking spiral of sleep.
***
5:45 A.M.
Screams.
Over and over again.
Jay sat bolt upright, his heart hammering. A nightmare?
The sound repeated itself, but it wasn’t exactly screams—more like an electronic wailing.
The alarm clock!
He flopped back onto his stomach and smacked the snooze button, silencing the alarm’s annoying cry. God, he felt like crap. He rolled onto his back and cradled his pounding head. A film of saliva caked his lips. His mouth tasted sour and yeasty.
He glanced at the empty side of the bed, and the events of last night returned to him in a flood. Tears stung his eyes, and through their hazy blur he could see something sparkling on the dresser: Crystal’s engagement ring.
That stupid kid. Why did he have to be outside our window?
He came awake with a start, unaware he’d fallen back to sleep. According to the alarm clock, it was 7:30. He jumped out of bed and did the math quickly in his head. He should’ve been at work ten minutes ago.
The sudden movement upset his stomach. Bile rose into his throat, and he dashed into the bathroom. A fit of dry heaves doubled him over as he crossed the threshold. He sank to his knees and cradled the toilet, waiting for the spasms in his stomach to subside. When he finally managed to climb to his feet, his whole body trembled.
He cranked the faucet all the way, doused his head, and brushed his teeth. Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and out the door, sunlight blinding him as he raced to his car. It started right away—something the LeBaron rarely did—and he peeled away from the curb with tires squealing.
At two minutes shy of eight, he pulled up to Glenwood High. Someone had taken his assigned spot, so he was forced to park adjacent to the upper fields. The students in first period gym class huddled on the grass nearby, choosing sides for softball.
He slammed the door shut and hurried across the parking lot. This was all Crystal’s fault. If she hadn’t run out on him, she would’ve been there to get him up on time. Now he had to sneak into class before Principal Hoffman found out he’d missed homeroom.
He entered the school through the gym doors, bypassing the main entrance and the administrative offices. The halls were empty, not a student in sight. He could hear snippets of his colleagues’ lectures as he rushed past their classrooms, their voices rising and falling as he progressed down the hall.
He reached his own classroom a few moments later, relieved that his honors geometry students had enough sense to close the door. When he stepped inside, he found that half the class had gone AWOL. The remaining students sat on top of their desks, engrossed in conversation.
Brian Mossler leaned back in Jay’s chair, his feet propped up on the desk. Graffiti adorned the blackboard behind him—a few smiley faces, a Melissa loves Mark 4-eva, and a huge proclamation in red chalk: Geometry is 4 Queers!
“Hey, Mr. G! Glad you could make it.”
Jay dropped his bag next to the desk and squinted at the clock. Forty minutes late. Christ. But had anyone besides his students noticed?
“You look like hell, Mr. G.”
“Thanks, Brian. Your honesty is always so refreshing. I just wish I could say the same for your cologne.”
“Maybe you should take a rest,” said Maria Renaldi. “Teaching will only make you feel worse.”
“Yeah, Mr. G,” said Julia Chapin. “We don’t want you to get sick. We went over the problems while you were gone, anyway.”
“Sure you did.” He was about to boot Brian out of his chair when he felt his stomach lurch. “Uh, I’ve got to step out for a minute. You guys behave yourselves and I won’t give you any homework.”
“We love you, Mr. G.”
He forced a smile and whirled around, anxious to get to the teachers’ room so he could puke up whatever remained in his stomach. He rushed past a group of teachers in the lounge, barreled into the bathroom, and dropped t
o his knees inside the stall.
After he finished, he trudged to the sink and rinsed his face.
The door to the other stall swung open. “Feeling a bit under the weather today, are we Jay?”
Jay sucked in his breath and cursed his bad luck. “Sorry, Ron. I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”
The principal shrugged. He walked to the adjacent sink and rinsed his hands. “We need to talk.”
Jay swallowed. “What about?”
Hoffman dried his hands. “After class, Jay.”
“I can’t help it if I’m sick.”
Hoffman balled up the paper towel and tossed it into the trash. “Go back to class, Jay. I’ll see you in my office in half an hour.” He adjusted his tie and walked out without a glance.
***
Hoffman’s office had to be the brightest room in the school. Jay sat in a cracked plastic chair opposite the windows and struggled to keep from squinting.
“Do you know why I called you into my office?”
Jay shrugged. Because you’re an asshole?
Hoffman leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I called you here because ... well, why don’t I just come right out and say it. I’m afraid I have no choice but to terminate your employment.”
Jay recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “What? I was late for class because I didn’t feel well. How is that grounds for termination?”
“Let’s cut the crap, Jay. You’re an alcoholic. Signs of it have crept up in your work in the past. Today was just another example.”
“That’s ridiculous, I’m not an alcoholic! How could an alcoholic have the second highest test scores in the state? And let’s not forget I was voted teacher of the year for three years running. Admit it, Ron. I’m a good teacher, probably the best you’ve got.”
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