Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  Clues? You sound like one of the Hardy Boys—the Down syndrome one.

  Never having been much of a reader, he didn’t know if there had been a Down syndrome Hardy Boy—he thought not—but maybe there should have been. Oslo, or maybe Cletus Hardy, accidentally stumbling onto the solution with his extra-large feet, or spying a critical clue with his expansive peripheral vision. That’s what he felt like: Cletus Oslo Hardy. And to top it off, now when the wind blew, he swore he heard a voice carried on it, begging him to “Come”, and with every new gust, the voice seemed to acquire a mocking characteristic.

  You are losing it, Cletus. The cold has frozen your brain.

  Then he saw it and his heart skipped a beat: Sheriff Drew’s cruiser, unmistakable despite the thick layer of snow covering it like a plush comforter. The man, who must have seen the vehicle too—it was impossible to miss the obvious silhouette—unsurprisingly took no notice; he just kept stumbling along his merry little way. Coggins realized that there were more prints—not so much prints as imprints—near the vehicle. And judging by the fact that the still blowing snow had yet to completely fill these indentations, they must have been recent.

  What the fuck is going on here? Where are you, Sheriff Drew?

  All of the excitement of following the drunken man suddenly started to wear off and exhaustion set in. He didn’t know exactly how many miles he had walked, but hiking through the snow and lifting the damn snowshoes high with every step had sapped any energy he might have had left. And this energy void was slowly being replaced by something else: the cold.

  Deputy Coggins watched in bewilderment as the injured man stumbled up the porch and into the gaping—open? Why the hell is the door open?—doorway of Mrs. Wharfburn’s house.

  He hoped that the sheriff would come rushing out of the house then and intercept the man, pulling him back to greet Coggins, shouting, instructing him what to do next.

  But Sheriff Drew never emerged from the Wharfburn Estate, and Brad’s heart sank.

  Please don’t make me go in the house, he pleaded silent. He was not a religious man by any stretch, but he felt his eyes drifting upward to the dark grey sky above nonetheless.

  Please, God, don’t make me go into this house.

  3.

  Cody Blinked Quickly, Trying not to let the tears that filled his eyes spill down his cheeks.

  Seth was gone; the bastard had left—took a water bottle and left. Not even a goodbye. Jared was gone, too. Maybe he had left just like Seth, hiding under the ruse of going to talk to someone—Mrs. Wharfburn?—and Oxford, well, Oxford had checked out a long time ago.

  His rapid blinking proved fruitless and the tears spilled over. Through blurred vision, he stared at where he had seen the injured man and his brother’s boyfriend stand before turning in opposite directions and walking away. It had been surreal, like a Mexican standoff, but they never turned to draw their pistols; they just kept walking, as if deciding, Fuck it, neither of us want to die today. And that was what they were all playing now, wasn’t it? A dangerous game of just waiting to freeze or starve; in short, to die.

  Just me, my two daughters, a nearly catatonic wife, and an absentee mother—Mom, for fuck’s sake, where did you go?—waiting to die.

  But there was another option, one that was equally as disturbing: leave. The alternative was to follow the fucking call and leave.

  Cody wiped the tears from his eyes.

  He continued to watch the snow for another moment, his heart racing as if he expected someone—or something—to appear.

  Then he heard a noise from upstairs and, drawing all of his remaining willpower, he turned away from the glass.

  “Mom?” he whispered, trying hard to project his voice while remaining careful not to wake Henrietta who had finally fallen asleep on one of the loveseats.

  There was no answer.

  “Mom?” he asked again, his voice wavering.

  Cody glanced back out the window, just for a split second, before turning to the staircase leading to the loft.

  He was torn between wanting to go upstairs to investigate the sound, but was hesitant to leave his wife and child, even for a moment.

  There was something out in the cold, something that was waiting for just the slightest moment of weakness to strike—to grab ahold of them.

  Cody shook his head, trying to clear the nonsense.

  “I’ll be back,” he whispered to the sleeping Henrietta, then quickly made his way to the stairs.

  On the second step he heard what sounded like somebody dropping an entire box of candies on a hard surface.

  His pace quickened.

  “Mom?” he asked a third time as he pushed open the door to Oxford’s room.

  The room was empty. The man had even somehow managed to clean up after himself, despite the cold and lack of running water. Cody’s eyes scanned the room, instinctively trying to find the towel that he had thrown to his brother to clean up his shit with.

  He couldn’t see it anywhere. A few sniffs of the cold air and he realized that he couldn’t smell it either.

  Cody felt a pang of guilt at how he had treated his younger brother; he didn't have to be so harsh with him, did he? After all, the man could only do so much in the face of his addiction.

  The door to the ensuite bathroom was ajar, and he headed there next. But just as he placed his palm against the door with the intent of swinging it wide, movement in his peripheral caught his eye.

  Even in the dusk that had begun to settle, the form was clearly distinguishable from the white snow.

  Cody froze.

  What the fuck?

  He blinked again, but the figure did not disappear—did not pixelate and become part of the snow like a wintery mirage. No, there most definitely was a woman walking in the same direction that the injured man had travelled not long ago. In fact, she seemed to be following exactly in his footsteps, if for nothing else but to make her passage through the thick snow easier.

  “What the fuck?” he sobbed. “Leave us alone.”

  This was what he had been fearing.

  He did not come; instead, it had come to them.

  “No,” he moaned.

  He left Oxford’s room and made his way back to his family, taking the steps two at a time. He was torn, worried that if he went out into the snow, he might be sucked into whatever vacuous moral state had ensnared Seth and caused him to flee. That thought made him sneer; it was clear that the coward had made up his mind to leave long before stepping out into the snow.

  Then, inexplicably, the woman turned to face him and their eyes met.

  * * *

  Alice froze, and for a moment she thought that the wind that wrapped itself around her entire body like a frigid apron had finally encased her in ice.

  There was a man in the window, a handsome man, she guessed, supposing he was capable of ridding himself of the dark circles around his eyes and the frown that seemed etched on his narrow face. At first she thought that it might have been a mannequin, some sort of crude anti-theft device, but when the man wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, Alice realized that he was indeed real. Real, but strangely dressed in a mish-mash of multi-colored outerwear, topped off by what looked like a dark grey wool cap. It was then, squinting her eyes tightly in the twilight, that she noticed that the interior of the house was nearly completely dark, and with this came the stark realization that the man must be without power—which would explain his ridiculous outfit.

  What is he still doing here?

  Her eyes darted to the two cars in the driveway, and the answer to her question became glaringly obvious: there was no way that these cars would be able to get out of the driveway, let alone navigate the snow-filled road that she had just painstakingly trudged through—no way.

  Why didn’t he just walk somewhere? One of the neighbors must have a generator.

  Alice’s ears perked as she tried to pick up the sound of an engine whirring. Nothing—just the wind. Although she had spent mos
t of her time just concentrating on her footing as she followed the faded blood trail from the smashed car, she couldn’t remember seeing a single neighbor—not a house, not a barn, not even snowmobile tracks.

  She shivered hard, and this time her body kept trembling after the initial sensation passed, thrumming like a plucked violin string.

  I have to get inside.

  She had lost feeling in her nose and ears some time ago.

  Even if they don’t have heat, I need to get out of the wind.

  Having made up her mind, she turned, imagining the invisible layer of ice that encased her body cracking and then shattering to the snowy ground. It took some effort, but Alice managed to take the first of many large, deliberate steps toward the forlorn man in the window.

  * * *

  It took Cody several moments to acknowledge that the woman with the frozen black hair was coming his way—she was coming for him.

  Cody glanced nervously at his wife and daughter and thought briefly about telling Marley about the woman on the lawn. But then he remembered how little she had cared about the strange, injured man and that Seth had left, and he bit his lip and decided against it.

  She is coming here. She is coming here to get us—to steal our things. What things? Our heat. Our food. She is coming, just like the voice said. She is coming. Come. Come. Come, I dare you. Come.

  Cody sprinted toward the door, accidently nudging the chair on which Henrietta slept as he passed, and the infant awoke with a start. She immediately broke into a wail, but Cody paid her no heed. The sound just seemed to meld with the now ubiquitous wind, becoming one long, semi-coherent cacophony.

  Coooooooooooooome

  Coooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooome

  She may be coming, he thought, an odd grin forming on his thin white lips. She may be coming, but she’s not getting in—she will not get us.

  Cody’s thickly gloved hand latched the deadbolt moments before the woman’s frigid face filled the door.

  4.

  It Was Jared Who acted first, despite his churning guts. He wasn’t as squeamish as he used to be—case in point him stepping up and dealing with Corina’s broken leg—but this was too much. Making sure not to look down at the skin puddled at his feet like a discarded pair of track pants, he hissed at his brother.

  The man did not move. Instead, he remained rooted, unable to draw his gaze away from what had once been Mrs. Wharfburn. Jared resisted the urge to follow his brother’s stare.

  He hissed again.

  “Oxford! We need to get the hell out of here.”

  Nothing.

  “Oxford!” Jared whispered again, louder this time.

  When Oxford still did not move, didn’t even blink, Jared set to motion, intending on stepping over Mrs. Wharfburn’s skin—his stomach did another barrel roll at the thought—and grabbing his brother and darting for the door. But before he could take a single step, what little twilight entering the house through the open door suddenly dimmed, and Jared’s plans immediately changed. While he did follow through with the first part—hopping over Mrs. Wharfburn and grabbing his brother’s arm—instead of making a beeline for the door, he pulled Oxford backward, deeper into the home. The simple tug on his brother’s biceps was enough to snap the man from his stupor, and his wide, dark eyes raised to meet Jared’s.

  “Skin,” he mumbled, spittle dripping from his lower lip.

  Jared ignored him.

  Let’s go! he mouthed, trying to load the unspoken words with all of the desperation that he felt.

  Mrs. Wharfburn’s foyer darkened another few degrees as something or someone stumbled through the open doorway. Jared caught enough of a glimpse of the shape to confirm that it was indeed a man before he trained his eyes on Oxford and yanked his arm with such force that his brother nearly toppled onto Mrs. Wharfburn’s boneless legs. Three pairs of pants and two coats were not conducive to agile movements, and that was before considering the bag and gas can still clutched in Oxford’s hands, but somehow they managed to make it to the staircase without falling.

  Still squeezing his brother’s biceps, Jared took the stairs two at a time, trying and failing to tread softly, quietly, discreetly in his heavy boots. When they reached the top of the twisting stairway, Oxford pulled back on his arm, indicating that he needed to stop. The man’s face was white and he was breathing heavily through his nose, the air coming in thick, mucousy bursts, and against his better judgment, Jared obliged. While Oxford bent over at the waist trying to catch his breath, Jared quickly glanced down at the man in the foyer. He took a deep breath of his own, and immediately knew that this was a mistake. The smell was so putrid that his eyes started to water, and the horrific stench, the sudden exertion, and the ungodly sight of the two eye holes in Mrs. Wharfburn’s beef jerky face suddenly coalesced into one oddly tangible sensation, and he leaned over and vomited. Jared closed his eyes against the pressure, feeling the warm, mostly liquid puke fill his mouth before splashing noisily to the ground. Somewhere far away, he recognized the taste of one of the last things he had eaten—tuna sandwiches that Mama had prepared—and this made him vomit again.

  When the sensation finally not so much passed as abated, he dared to open his eyes, terrified that the man standing in the foyer, the one likely responsible for skinning Mrs. Wharfburn, would be staring up at him and Oxford with a lecherous grin plastered on his face. And this face would be one of the last things that they would see. But after blinking away the dampness in his eyes, he realized that this was not the case.

  “Let go,” he heard someone whisper.

  The man downstairs was still in the center of the room as Jared had predicted, but he wasn’t staring up at them.

  “Jared, let go.”

  Instead, the man seemed to be staring at, well, at nothing. It was clear from the way the man was standing that he was injured: his left leg was bent slightly behind his right, with only his toes touching the ground. The man’s eyes, which Jared could see even in the poor light that spilled through the doorway, were vacant, the pupils large and unfocussed. There was a welt that spread from the inner corner of his left eyebrow and extended all the way to his closely cropped hairline, and there was a steady trickle of blood spilling from a gash in the middle of his forehead.

  Something suddenly struck the side of Jared’s face, dislodging the last remnants of tuna fish vomit from his bottom lip. Startled more than hurt, he turned to his brother, who was staring at him with a pained expression. Oxford had slapped him. He had placed the gas can on the ground, reared back, and actually slapped him.

  “Let go of my fucking arm,” he hissed, and Jared immediately obliged.

  He hadn’t realized that he was still grasping Oxford’s right biceps, which seemed impossible with his brother buckling over to catch his breath and his own furious bout of vomiting. But the stiffness in his fingers implied that he had been gripping him hard, and by the look on Oxford’s face, his brother had felt the squeeze even through his many layers of clothing.

  Jared swallowed some residual bile and turned his gaze back to the foyer, not because he was interested in the limping man—who did not seem to pose a threat as he had initially thought—but to figure out the fastest way to get to the front door and leave this horrible place. But with the man just standing there and what was left of Mrs. Wharfburn and the wolf skin by his feet just begging to trip them up, he didn’t see how that would be possible.

  “Who—who—what could have done this?” Oxford asked suddenly, and Jared turned to him.

  Tears were running down his brother’s cheeks and he was trembling. To make things worse, his right hand clutched at his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

  “Calm down and be quiet,” Jared ordered in a hushed voice.

  He glanced nervously back at the man in the foyer, but ever since he had limped his way into the center of the room, he seemed to have stopped moving. Jared was beginning to think that if the man somehow hadn’t heard or seen them bound
up the stairs earlier, then the bruise on his head was indicative of much more serious internal injuries.

  Maybe it was the visible head injury, or maybe it was his unfocussed eyes, but for some reason, Jared wasn’t so much afraid of this man, but of—Come—someone or something else. He was terrified of whatever had skinned Mrs. Wharfburn, which he was beginning to strongly suspect was most definitely not this man standing in the foyer.

  Jared looked around. He and Oxford were squatting just a few feet beyond the top stair of what appeared to be a landing that connected two stairways, one on either side of the foyer, and which extended deeper into the second floor of the house. The sun had sunken so low now that most of the light inside the powerless home had egressed to a dim grey, making it hard for him to make out any specific features down the length of the hallway. Directly behind them was a plain white door to what must have been a small room or closet, as it was inset and disconnected from the main hallway.

  We will go there, Jared decided, not knowing or caring what was in there, only somehow knowing that in there would be better than out here, squatting, exposed.

  There was something coming—he could feel it—and the last thing he wanted to do was be exposed when it arrived.

  Jared reached out to grab Oxford’s arm, but his brother realized his intentions and quickly pulled away before he was gripped again.

  Jared’s brow furrowed. Sore arm or not, they needed to get out of the hallway.

  Let’s go, he mouthed.

  Without taking his eyes off the man in the foyer, Jared eased himself and his brother backwards, doing his best to stay hunched and crouched. Reaching behind him, Jared grasped the doorknob, feeling relief wash over him as it turned easily in his hand. Then, keeping his eyes fixated on the man, he opened the door and gently pushed Oxford back into what he was now fairly confident was just a broom closet. Jared followed, driving Oxford deeper into the closest as he backed up. It was damp and stuffy in there, but Jared started to close the door nonetheless, stopping an inch before it was completely shut, affording him a clear view to the foyer below. It was then, just a split second after he and Oxford backed into the closet, that the man with the injured leg started to slowly and methodically remove all of his clothing.