THE UNINVITED
F. P. Dorchak
“I get the chills... a most impressive work.”
Rob Butts
Seth Material Facilitator/Author, The Seth Material, The Early Sessions, The Personal Sessions
“At some point in our lives we contemplate, among numerous things, the demise of past souls and the inexplicable ‘natural’ comfort (or immediate aversion) we feel with some upon first meeting. F. P. Dorchak's The Uninvited presents the possibilities through an ominous tale that explores and may provide reason for such sensitivities, while explaining the evil borne (and perpetrated) by society's sinister few.”
Jan C.J. Jones, CoExecutive Producer - Researcher/Writer
Forest Rose Productions, LLC
“The Uninvited is a dynamic, intense novel. F. P. Dorchak weaves his story adeptly, with skill and precision. He easily intertwines the worlds of reincarnation and quantum physics to create a powerful, suspenseful experience for the reader.”
Sydney Heflin, Ed. D. Former Research Chair, International Association for Regression Research and Therapies.
“If psychological and even physical characteristics can follow us from lifetime to lifetime, can revenge and retribution be far behind? In his chilling novel, The Uninvited, author F. P. Dorchak explores the dark side reincarnation. It's a good read. Hard to put down.”
Dr. Robert T. James, author of Passport to Past Lives. The Evidence.
“I found I could not stop reading... became totally fascinated by the depth of Dorchak’s exploration into the many influences beneath the hostilities performed. I was especially delighted with his reference to the modern pioneer in metaphysics and philosophy, Jane Roberts—right there beside the famous psychic Edgar Cayce. Today’s police and lawyers need this novel!”
Madelon Rose Logue
Editor/Publisher The Black Sheep
Copyright 2013 by F. P. Dorchak
Digitally published by F. P. Dorchak at Smashwords, 2013
Cover design by Duvall Design
Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind eBook Design
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Meet the Author
Research
Reading Groups Guide
Author’s Note
Extreme thanks goes to Rob Butts and Laurel Davies-Butts, Dr. Sydney Heflin, Ron Pehr, Esquire, Moe Morris, Jan (C.J.) Jones, Eric A. Reyes, Esquire, Karen Lundstrom, Paul Kahn and his historical adaptation, the Honorable Jane Looney, District Judge, the Honorable Anne McLauglin, Pat LoBrutto, Karen Lin, Madelon Rose Logue, Therese Byorick, Lynne Bliss, Dr. Lawrence Gilbert, of the University of Texas, Dr. Tim Xie, of CSU, Long Beach, Simon Ager, Luigi Krapji, Denise Little, Margrit Trenker, my cover artist, Karen Duvall, my most patient and masterful formatter, Pam Headrick of A Thirsty Mind eBook Design (and Lynda Hilburn for introducing me to her), Cherry Weiner, the Pikes Peak Writers Conference and its founder Jimmie Butler, and to all those who had any part in assisting me...
With the exception of the Urgench and Takashima characters, all historical figures presented in this work are real, and I did my best to present them honorably. I mean no disrespect to them, their people, or their memory.
To Those Who Have Passed...
and
Lord MacTavish du Lac
Cassie
Lucy
Chapter One
1
Sunset Harbor, Florida, the Gulf Coast
Safe Harbor Retirement Community
March 10th, 1:12 a.m.
Palm tree fronds rustled comfortably outside eighty-six-year-old Matty Jenkowicz’s small manufactured home, one of fifty identical frame dwellings within the compact and still-under-construction Safe Harbor Retirement Community. The silver-haired occupant sat on one end of her yellow, vintage fifty’s Soren Willadsen couch, bathed in the comforting and flickering glow of her ancient and loud Curtis Mathes television set. A partially finished crossword puzzle rested in her lap. Her husband (God rest his soul), Abner Ignatius III, used to sit at the other end of the worn sofa, simultaneously reading some Robert Ludlum novel, watching TV, and slowly working an ice-cold lemonade, which’d always sat on a portable TV tray that’d always butted up against the sofa arm. Tonight’s cool semi-tropical breeze and the hollow haunting tolls of wind chimes wafted in from Matty’s open, screened-in windows. She returned to her television and laughed at The Andy Griffith Show rerun. She reached for her delicate china cup of still-steaming tea and chuckled again.
Suddenly inspired Matty returned to her crossword, searching for the blocks in question: the Greek goddess of discord... where was that—oh, yes, seventy-nine across—“Eris.” Matty triumphantly penciled in the letters. She knew she knew the answer... it just took a little time. Everything took a little longer at her age, but that was okay. She’d lived a good life. She’d wished her husband of sixty-five years was still around, but Lymphoblastic lymphoma had put an end to that two years ago. He hadn’t suffered much, thank the Lord, it’d been a quick attack when it’d finally rallied its forces, but oh, how she missed him! She still talked to him, thought of him every day, every minute... even wrote herself letters that she mailed to herself and imagined came from him. But her friends, and the sunshine and beauty of south Florida all managed to help stem the pain when it got a little much to handle. Sometimes, more so recently, her anxieties kept her from sleeping and she got to thinking about death... and about how much closer she was to it than she had been eighty-six years ago.
How time flew.
The young never thought about that—and needn’t have to. Life was meant to be lived, and that’s just what she and Abner had done. Together. Her favorite cup of Earl Grey and television would help assuage the phantoms tonight, but one day... one day, she’d finally be with Abner again.
Andy and Opie went in for the night, but Matty waited patiently through the commercials—which she never really minded watching—for the next show, Gomer Pyle, USMC. This used to be one of Abner’s favorites. She and Abner’d actually met Jim Nabors once up at Montana’s Glacier Park International Airport, while vacationing years ago. He’d been such a nice man.
Her tea still warm, Matty returned to her crossword. Eleven down was “Disturb,” she’d already
had “the Northernmost trees around German City,” which turned out to be “timberline,” and the “Jeweled weight” of “carat.”
“Ah-ha! ‘Roil’!” Matty again penciled in her entry, then looked up.
She grabbed the remote and muted the television. Listened. Wincing from arthritis she turned her head to one side, allowing her good ear a better angle. Slow to her feet (she hadn’t done anything fast in over twenty years), she went to one of her open windows. The room she was in actually used to be a screened-in portico, but Abner, ever the handyman, had extended the home out and walled it in, making it a regular sitting room. Peering outside and inhaling the cool, floral breezes, she saw nothing. But that didn’t say much for her eyesight, glasses or no. Her night vision had never been any good.
Matty sighed and returned to her couch, returning the television’s volume to its more normal—well, to her anyway—loudness. As she set down the remote and lifted her cup of tea, her patio door slid open and in waltzed the shadowy form of a man. Matty let out a surprised puff of air from asthmatic lungs. Squinting and heart racing, she readjusted her glasses.
“A-Abner?”
The figure continued in, not too quickly, not too slowly, but as if it knew the person on the couch and was just coming in after a long night out on the town.
Before Matty could say anything else, she heard, from outside across the way, a sharp report. She looked away, back out the window, and as she did so the man raised an accusatory arm toward her. When Matty looked back, the man now stood directly before her, holding out something that smelled of oil and something else she couldn’t quite identify. But, before she could complete that memory, the object flared and sent a rifled slug screaming directly through the center of her forehead, slamming her back against the couch. Brains and memories splattered out behind her, all over the faux-wood paneling Abner had put up not five years ago, and all while Sergeant Carter was busy chewing out Private Pyle during an in-ranks inspection.
The intruder fired another round into her chest, then dropped the weapon to the green shag carpet. Wasting no time, he lifted her up off the couch and took her outside to the screened-in carport, another Abner project fifteen years old. There the intruder lay her down at the end of a large throw rug already in place, duct-taped a plastic bag around the remains of Matty’s head, and summarily rolled her up. Then he duct-taped the rolled-up rug, got back to his feet, and gave everything a final once-over. Satisfied, he grabbed the thirty-four-inch Rawlings baseball bat—and without further ado—began beating the living shit out of Matty Jenkowicz’s fragile, arthritic body, as Gomer Pyle received yet another ass-chewing from Sergeant Carter back in the living room...
2
In the balmy, late-night humidity, the dull dead eyes of a security guard stared blankly up at the man called Tiger. The rest of the security guard’s body lay cockeyed on the guard-shack floor in one of those crazy “corpse angles” that look so good in black-and-white movies and police photographs. Tiger never stopped, but continued on past the shack and the busted barricade arm; made his way into the Safe Harbor Retirement Community complex. A nasty wind kicked up through towering Slash Pine and several varieties of tastefully arranged palm trees, as well as through his long, scraggly and unkempt hair and beard. Tiger kept his head low and continued to kick and swipe at the hungry little Solenopsis richteri Forel and Solenopsis invicta Buren—fire ants—off his legs. He pulled his ratty overcoat tighter about him, tightening his grip on the object held hidden within one of his overcoat’s pockets. The humidity was unbearable in his long coat, but he refused to discard it no matter how itchy and sweaty it made him. By God, he’d worn it this far, and he was gonna wear it clean through this business. But the sweat was making it hard to see, and those goddamned fire ants were vicious. He kept trying to shake them off as he shuffled along the Bahiagrass-lined culvert, occasionally swatting at those that had made it up his legs, but the little shits held on, pinching and biting all the goddammed way. Between them and the humidity and the sweat it was near impossible to continue. His ant wounds were painful and swelling and were making it increasingly difficult to focus. But... he was just being tested. He’d been through far worse, elsewhere...
One foot in front a th’other... one step at a time, he kept telling himself, and everything would fall into place. All would be avenged. Righted. Even-steven. All he had to do was be there, that’s all, and everything would take care of itself. All markers called in. The last bell. Wall Street be closed for the week, my friend...
Tiger lifted his head to the scent of rain. Ah, the sweet, cleansing wash of rain. Lightning flashed in the distance. It was gonna let loose soon, and when it did, oh, boy, was it gonna pound down in sheets and torrents of hell and damnation for the wicked.
Hopefully it’d wash away tonight’s sins.
Tiger winced as more ants dug their mandibles into his already tender and tortured flesh, then followed through with their take-this-you-son-of-a-bitch jab of their stingers. The old fire ant one-two. The little bastards were pissed, and he guessed they had every right to be. He was the one who came plowing on through their homes. They hadn’t been looking for trouble. He had. They were just defending their territory, their right to live. And they’re fast, he found, as he’d come tumbling down and landed onto that first mound upon entering town. Were they like bees, one sting and they blew their load? Dropped off and died? Doubted it. He could tell from their fury they were a tenacious bunch. But he had bigger fish to fry and was almost there. Tiger tried to take his mind off the pain... allowing the deafening roar of the wind and screams to consume him. The noise that had been in his head for years. The wind, hot, aching, and desiccating, it had become his friend, his only companion. He continued on... focused on getting there... on the wind...
* * *
As he made his way down el Prado Street, Tiger saw several other shadows crisscrossing the road ahead. Off to his left he spotted another up just a little farther, on the opposite side of the road.
An image flashed through his mind... a woman being beaten to death while rolled up in something... no, that wasn’t quite right... she’d already been killed...
Tiger lowered his head and stayed true to his course, going where his legs blindly carried him. That had been how he’d found his way here, after the past, dimly remembered couple of months—or had it been years?
New York City.
And he saw no need to change things now. He was almost there, dammit, he could finally put all this insanity behind him. It was...the wind... not just those external Floridian gusts heralding the oncoming
(Armageddon?)
downpour, but the screaming, burning, aching blast internal to his head. That’s what kept him going. The winds that just wouldn’t goddamn stop. Let him go. The winds that had started years ago, gradually and sporadically at first, then had taken on full-force gale proportions. The very winds that had caused him to find himself where he was now, in a town he’d never heard of until tonight.
Tiger stumbled; brushed away more ants.
The pain was intense, his legs, hips, and lower torso all on fire... all growing numb... trying to... but what use did he have to feel his legs or any other part of his body for that matter?
Did people die from ant bites?
He supposed they did or could, if the pain was any indication. He was sure it could get worse, because it certainly wasn’t getting any better. As long as his legs got him there—where else had he to go? But the pain kept him moving, he supposed, because he’d stumbled, and that simply wasn’t tolerated. We must all pay for our transgressions, mustn’t we? Dead or alive, zombie or not, he was going to get there and finish what’d been started, oh, so long ago. If anything positive could be made out of all this, those hungry little bastards kept him moving...
* * *
Espanola Street.
Tiger took a slow right onto it, each step an unparalleled experience in agony. The storm’s wind, the external Floridian one, pic
ked up. He was sure there was more moisture in the air on the way just begging for its angry release. On this road were the beginnings of the trailers, the homes, and he had to continue until he came upon his. There was more activity, here, among the wind-chimed and well-manicured lawns...
* * *
He had arrived. This was the place. It might not have been as expected, but it was finally making sense. Everyone was coming home.
As Tiger passed the home directly before his, he smelled smoke and saw and heard muffled activity inside.
Thumps.
Things breaking.
A cut-off, stifled scream.
Other images assaulted him. One person’s throat cut. Another shot. Still others beaten beyond recognition.
Boiling water... in a tub?
He shook his head, tried to rid his mind of the images.
Had to remain focused on his own task.
* * *
Tiger stopped before his trailer. It was now a veritable battleground of thunder and lightning, flashing and exploding everywhere, allowing him to spot the backlit huddles of other shadowy forms all around him, similarly wandering the streets. Spits of rain began to slam down out of the angry, tormented night sky. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see just how angry the sky really was, but he liked it back here, in the dark—no cars, and the ants seemed to have backed off. Here, the internal howling was the strongest, however. Tiger spit out the grit that filled his mouth, and turned, trudging up the lit carport alongside the trailer. Tightening his grip on the object still hidden within his overcoat, he continued, clumsily maneuvering past the Grand Marquis. He made for the screen door beyond it, opened it, but made sure he closed it behind him. Once inside the screened-in AstroTurf porch, he turned to the home’s patio glass door and opened that. Good for him, it really was open, not that he’d thought about it; he’d just assumed they’d be waiting for him like they all had... for so long. He slid it open and sloughed up the two AstroTurfed steps. He closed that door behind him as well.
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