The Lurking Season

by Kristopher Rufty

  Erin opened one eye. The girl sat over her, swaying lethargically. Now the other eye opened and she could see her clearly. Her eyes were glassed over, slowly rolling back into her head to show nothing but the whites. Her tongue slipped between her lips as she pitched forward.

  Erin quickly dodged the plunging body. The girl’s face crashed into the snow. Protruding from her back, Erin could see the blurred jut of a long handle. As her eyes came into focus, she recognized it as belonging to the ax embedded in the back of her skull.

  She looked at the spot where the girl had obstructed her view. She could see the dark of the sky above her, the colorless clouds rolling by. A man’s head appeared. His face was sprinkled with blood, and he held a hand against a wound on his neck. His fingers were stained with the flaky smears of drying gore.

  He looked familiar. She knew she should know him. And it wasn’t until his mouth opened with that bashful smile of his that made dimples in his cheeks that she recognized him.

  “Ruh…Randy?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  She felt a smile of her own forming. Tears filled her eyes, making his pleasing face turn blurry.

  Then she started to cry.

  Epilogue

  Erin sat behind the table, arms folded on top, looking rather calm as her legs underneath, concealed by the tablecloth, couldn’t stop bouncing. This was the most nervous she had ever been.

  Vickie, her assistant for the day, sat beside her. She stared at the smartphone in her hand as her thumb scrolled through page after page of social media. She looked bored already, and the store hadn’t even opened its doors yet. They had four more hours before they were done for the day.

  This was the first stop of her book tour. Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Beginning here, she’d soon travel all over the country during the next month before she was finished.

  Erin reached up to one of the several columns of her hardback book and used her scarred hand to take one from the top. She sat it in front of her. The grungy cover gazed back at her—a faded woodland with tiny silhouettes hidden among the trees. You had to look really hard to spot them, but they were there. The title font was a perfect blend of horror and gothic. Haunchyville was stretched across the top in that creepy scrawl and her name was much smaller at the bottom of the cover.

  She’d been published before, but seeing her name on the front of a hardback, with her somber author photo on the back, was an experience she didn’t think she would ever tire of. The Fable Wisconsin series couldn’t compete with this. She only wished it would have happened under other circumstances.

  Being one of three people to ever visit Haunchyville and live to tell about it was not how she’d hoped to become a bestselling author. She’d wanted it to be a trashy romance story that got her here, not an account of her survival.

  But she would take it.

  Over a year had passed since Randy saved her from doom. He’d helped her up and practically carried her to the road. He’d already discovered his car had been immobilized by slashed tires. They had to walk, and were heading toward Cradle Elk when they were picked up by Brooke. The three of them were all who’d survived.

  Erin had dedicated the book to them.

  She hadn’t spoken to Brooke since she’d moved away from Wisconsin with her father shortly after being dismissed from the hospital. Erin never heard what ever became of the mother, but she guessed learning her other daughter was one of the savages had been too much for her already ailing mind.

  Other than a few TV interviews, Randy remained mostly quiet and out of the spotlight. Erin still talked to him a couple times a month. Whenever she visited Wisconsin again, she would meet up with him for dinner. She’d moved far away from the Midwest, to a small beach town in North Carolina. Sunset Splash was better for her. It offered all she needed to put the past behind her.

  She felt herself smirk at that. Even if her body wasn’t a road map of scars, this book would never allow the past to remain buried. No matter how much she wanted to put it all to rest.

  If you truly wanted that, you never would have written the book.

  The book wasn’t something she’d planned on doing. It was Hal’s idea. He’d called her a couple months after everything happened. She was still on her extended leave from work, trying to find a way to cope with the events she’d suffered.

  “Please don’t think of me as an ass,” he said.

  “Too late.”

  His laugh was booming in her ear. “Well then, forget my trying to be sensitive to your healing process. How would you feel about writing a book about your experiences?”

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, but the idea latched on to her brain and she was already outlining it in her mind when Hal continued.

  “Just hear me out. You write it, and we’ll put a rush on the whole thing on our end. We’ll have the book out within six months of your completing it.”

  She told him she would do it. The title came to her right away. What Wendy had branded the Haunchies’ village: Haunchyville.

  Turned out that writing about it was all the therapy she’d needed.

  Rose, the Book Rack’s manager, approached the table, smiling. “Are you ready to get started? The time has arrived.”

  Erin, smiling, leaned to the side to look at the front doors. A crowd had already gathered outside. She could see one of Rose’s employees out there, making everyone form a line. “I’m buzzing inside,” said Erin, and meant it. Her stomach was a fury of motions.

  “It’s going to be a good time,” said Rose. “Just let us know if we can get you anything. The cafe has the coffee ready, would you like some?”

  Before Erin could reply, Vickie looked up from her phone long enough to request a white-chocolate mocha. That sounded good to Erin, so she ordered one as well.

  Shortly after Rose returned with their coffee, the doors were opened.

  The crowd was heavy and constant for three of the four hours. The final hour brought many customers, but there were short breaks between them. Nearing the end of her final hour, Vickie excused herself to go check out the pastry menu in the cafe. Erin was kind of glad to be rid of her.

  Leaning back in the chair, Erin looked at what remained of her books on the table—only two stacks with a couple books in each. She was consolidating them into one stack when a woman approached the table. She was probably in her forties with hair the color of strawberries. The red lipstick clashed with her hair and made her lips look thin on her pale face. She walked up to the table and smiled a warm smile when Erin looked at her.

  “Hi,” said the woman. She took one of the books from the stack and set it on the table. “I read this on my Kindle already, but when I heard you were going to be here, I just had to come out and get one so you could sign it.”

  Erin was humbled by the woman’s support. “Thank you very much.” She smiled. “That means a lot to me.” She opened the book, turning to the title page. Her fingers were sore from so much signing, but she could handle one more. “Who do I make the book out to?”

  “Kathy is fine.”

  Erin started penning the same inscription she’d written so many other times today. Thank you for reading my story. I hope you like it. She knew it wasn’t any kind of inspirational prose, but it was all she could think of.

  “Is that the scar from the bite?” Kathy asked.

  Erin glanced at the pale nub of scar tissue on her hand. “It is the one.”

  “Wow. I just can’t believe all that really happened,” said Kathy. “Like something out of a really bad horror movie.”

  “I agree,” said Erin. She closed the book and slid it across the table, where Kathy picked it up and held it to her bosom. “But it really did happen. Every word. I even left out some stuff the publisher said was too much.”

  Like the Stud’s monster penis.

  “Oh my,�
�� said Kathy. “But here you are, alive and striving.”

  “The best I can,” said Erin. She was about to thank her and send her on her way when Kathy started talking again.

  “Have there been any new reports of strange things happening out there?”

  Erin had known people would ask and was surprised it had taken this long today. “Not that I’ve heard of,” she said. She offered a bogus laugh to accompany the bullshit she’d just told her reader.

  “That’s good,” said Kathy. “I wish you the best of luck with your book.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  They exchanged farewells and Kathy left. Erin watched her head for the front doors.

  If only Kathy really knew how much she’d heard.

  Though she’d moved away from Wisconsin, she kept up with all of the murmurs about the town that was once Doverton.

  After Brooke, Randy and Erin shared their stories with the authorities, a special team was put together and sent into Doverton. It was like something from the movies, an elite force of trained killers going into the black forests to hunt a clan of feral destroyers. They evacuated what little remained of the civilians and stormed the village. They killed many Haunchies, fumigated the tunnels with poisonous gas and burned down what remained of Haunchyville.

  And yet…there were still sightings. Even now, people unlucky enough to stumble upon the land where Doverton’s farms used to thrive never came back.

  Hopefully it was just stories, more scary stuff to be told around campfires and at sleepovers. Erin wanted to believe it was. But her parents didn’t raise her to be gullible.

  Haunchies still lived out there.

  There were plenty of areas for them to rebuild their colony. Like vermin, she knew no means of force would ever completely exterminate them.

  Vickie returned to the table, clapping her hands. “It’s time to wrap it up. Want me to take you to lunch?”

  Erin shook her head to jar away those thoughts. She looked up to see her temporary assistant standing on the other side of the table. She leaned back in the chair and smiled.

  “Yes,” said Erin. “That sounds great.”

  About the Author

  Kristopher Rufty is the author of Angel Board, The Lurkers, Proud Parents, and many others. He has also written and directed the independent horror films Psycho Holocaust, Rags, and Wicked Wood. But what he’s best at is being married to his high school sweetheart and being the father of two crazy children he loves dearly. Together, they reside in North Carolina with their gigantic dog and numerous cats.

  For more about Kristopher Rufty, please visit his Website:

  lastkristontheleft.blogspot.com

  He can be found on Facebook and Twitter as well.

  Look for these titles by Kristopher Rufty

  Now Available:

  Angel Board

  The Lurkers

  A Dark Autumn

  Oak Hollow

  Proud Parents

  Coming Soon:

  Desolation

  He’s still their son. No matter what.

  Proud Parents

  © 2014 Kristopher Rufty

  It was a risky experiment, but Greg and Sheila wanted a baby. Unable to conceive, they signed up for the project. Their prayers were answered when they were selected for the experiment. And it worked. All of the chosen families conceived. Then came the mutations—followed by the men with guns, killing everyone, and the fire that burned the place to ashes, erasing its failure from existence.

  But it didn’t eliminate them all. Six years later, Greg and Sheila are still on the run with their son, Gabe, moving from small town to small town, just wanting a life to call their own. Gabe’s getting worse, his appetite is voracious, and his temper is untamable. And now Gabe is changing…again.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Proud Parents:

  Three minutes had passed since Sgt. Macowee last knocked. He’d been tolerant, but with this being his third attempt his patience was pretty much gone.

  Tanner, his much younger partner, stood with him, eager to kick in the door. Macowee knew better. He’d been a cop way longer than Tanner. Although Tanner was a damn good cop, he lacked common sense in situations like this.

  “It seems awfully quiet,” said Tanner, smacking his gum hastily.

  “Good observation there, Tanner,” replied Macowee, not taking his eyes off the door.

  “Too quiet.”

  Macowee crossed in front of Tanner, stepping over to the picture window. The blinds were drawn tight. Smashing his face against the glass, he couldn’t see past the shield of the blinds.

  “I already checked. You can’t see crap,” Tanner said. Macowee sighed at his partner’s colorful vocabulary. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t rightfully know. But it seems kind of odd to me that two social service workers would come out here and just up and vanish.”

  At first, Macowee had suspected the social workers had gotten lost on their way back. He could understand it; this house wasn’t an easy one to find. They’d had quite a time themselves, even though Tanner had sworn he used to date a girl that lived nearby. The car could have broken down; a flat tire was also a possibility. He’d half-expected to find them sitting in their car on the side of the road on their way in. He hadn’t. Suspicion had nudged at him, skittering up his spine, but he didn’t allow it to consume him just yet.

  Play it by ear. No jumping to conclusions.

  The house was located on the outskirts of the county, almost outside their jurisdiction, in the thick forests of Clintonville, Wisconsin. The appearance of the house gave Macowee the creeps, but he refused to admit it, even to himself. It stood alone, surrounded by woods; old, but not dilapidated, though it could use some repairs to the exterior. The white paint had faded and peeled in places, pock-marking the house with the bad complexion of neglect. A Victorian-style house, it stood two stories tall, coming to a point on the top floor.

  The report Sandy had read to them said that a call came in around 5:00 p.m. from Earl, the supervisor at the Department of Social Services. It stated:

  Two of my girls, Glenda Holt and Terri Blanchard, went to the home of Paul and Sara Gordon to investigate a tip from the local mailman. From what the mailman states, the Gordons must have a kid, though he’d never laid eyes on one. He has delivered many packages from Internet pharmaceutical distributers to this address, not thinking much of it. Then, following several occurrences of screams, almost guttural roars that put him in mind of some form of inhuman pain, he became suspicious and began looking into the contents of the packages. What he discovered was that the prescriptions were for a child, as well as many extremely strong medications, like tranquilizers and such. He felt guilty for snooping in their mail, but he was very concerned about what was going on in that house and if anyone was being harmed. He felt it may be best to have someone check it out. So, I sent Mrs. Holt and Ms. Blanchard to the home shortly before 11:00 a.m. this morning and I haven’t heard anything from them since. They had another appointment at 1:30 p.m. that they did not return to the office for.

  Sally went on to add that Earl was worried and he’d tried phoning them both for a few hours before finally putting the call in to the police. Macowee wished he had called sooner. Maybe they would have found something.

  All we have now is a deserted house and an empty driveway, with the exception of our cruiser.

  Tanner spoke, startling Macowee from his thoughts. “Yeah, you’re right, it doesn’t sound right.” Tanner sighed. “Think maybe they tried to take the kid and something happened?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out. I’ll knock one more time and then call it. We can give Sandy a buzz and see if we have grounds to enter on probable cause.”

  Tanner turned around and leaned against the rail, crossing his arms. “I say we ca
ll her now. No one’s here.”

  Macowee ignored him and pounded on the door with the bottom of his fist. Hearing a clicking noise, he stopped. The door slowly swayed inward with groan.

  Tanner joined Macowee at the door. They shared a look of concern and then looked back to the partially open door.

  “Well?” said Tanner, his hand moving to his gun.

  “You know what to do,” Macowee answered.

  They drew their guns.

  Macowee leaned his head into the gap between the door and the frame. “Hello? Is anyone home? It’s the Clintonville Sheriff’s Department!” He waited for an answer but received none. Macowee took a deep breath. “One more time, Clintonville deputies here, and we’re at the front door! We’re coming in if you do not respond!” Tanner went to rush past him, but Macowee held his left arm out, blocking his way. Macowee continued to wait, but still got no reply.

  “Are we going in?” Tanner asked, impatiently.

  “Yeah.”

  Macowee stepped inside. Tanner followed. Pointing their guns this way and that, they skulked into what was most likely the living room. They walked to the center of the room and pressed their backs together, each keeping an eye on the way in. Tanner faced the entrance they’d used while Macowee focused on the rear, the direction they would be heading.

  Macowee cast his gaze over the room, scanning each shadowy crevice that could possibly hide someone. No one was there.

  The room itself had been demolished: the coffee table turned over, magazines strewn across the floor, an end table lay on its side. The TV was on, but the image flickered with static and there was no sound. A couple blankets were strewn about a pile of children’s coloring books that were on the floor. Broken crayons littered the top.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened here?” asked Tanner, his voice shaky. He kept one eye squinted, looking down the barrel of his gun.