I don’t want to be a hero, but I don’t want to wait for hours, either. The bullet came from above me. I’ll be safer with the horses.
I run down the row, find the first empty stall, throw myself over the top. I land hard in fresh straw. But I am alone, and alive.
Turning back to the cement interior, I scan the area I’ve run from. I have a new perspective on the barn’s entrance. There is a ladder by the door. A hayloft. He must be up there.
There’s only one way to do this. Using the stall door as cover, I swing it open gently. A shot hits the wood, and another, and another. But now he’s given his position away. I can see him. T.H. Winchester has red hair; he looks like a strawberry in the hay.
He ducks his head back in and shoots again. But it’s too late for him. I step from behind the door, and I don’t hesitate. I walk forward, aiming for the spot I’ve seen him disappear into, hoping the flash of white and red I saw a second earlier is his forehead. I squeeze the trigger, and a muffled thud tells me I’ve found my mark. I shoot again, and once more. Winchester falls out of the loft at my feet, dead.
It is over, less than three minutes after it started.
Torres is there, pressing fingers into Winchester’s neck, knowing already there will be no heartbeat. He looks up at me with genuine respect.
“Nice shooting.”
“Yeah.” My hands are strangely cold. I’ve never killed anyone before. And now I’ve shot a man without ever saying a word to him, in anger or curiosity or fear. He is dead, and I am glad.
“Is that him?” I manage.
“It is.” Torres still has his gun out. “I need to tell SWAT and my boss what’s happening before they come in here cocked and loaded, and we need to search this place.”
“You talk. I’ll search.”
“You sure, man?”
His dark eyes are full of concern, but I nod. “I’d rather be the one who finds her.”
“Listen . . . stay here a minute. Let me brief them on what went down, then we’ll do it together.”
I nod, but the minute his back is turned, I start down the row of stalls again. There is a reason Winchester fled to this place. There is something here of value to him, something he wanted to protect.
Seven of the stalls have horses, spooked and stomping and white-eyed, all freaked by the shootings. The eighth confirms my deepest fears.
I open the stall door, and I see her in the gloom, on her back, her empty face staring at the heavens.
“Autumn!”
She doesn’t answer and I realize life as I know it is over. She is dead, lying in the hay in the Thoroughbred’s stall, her legs bent at a strange angle, as if she tried to ride one of the horses to safety but fell off. Or Winchester left her that way, arranged her awkwardly, as if he’d used her then forgotten her. I want to shoot him again, but I leave him to Torres and his crew and go to Autumn’s side, steeling myself.
It’s been twelve days since she went missing. I expect there to be a strong stench around her. And while I catch the scent of ammonia and feces, there is no decomposition.
Her face is so white. I can see the veins running under her skin. She is thin, so thin.
Oh God, I pray, not knowing any more words. Oh, God.
And her eyes focus. Her head turns toward me. She looks at me and something like love flits across her face. Is she a spirit?
Her mouth moves. “Zack,” she whispers.
Dear God, she’s alive.
“She’s alive,” I scream, running to the stall window. “Torres, she’s alive! We need a medevac, STAT!”
Shouts go up around the ranch.
I fall to my knees by Autumn’s side. Her face is bruised from a beating, and it must hurt to do it, but she smiles.
“Zack. I knew you’d come.” Her voice is torn and thick, like she hasn’t had water in a very long time.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here. You’re safe now. Can you get up? I want to get you out of here.”
And it hits me, the way her legs are splayed, so unnatural, so odd. Her back is broken. He has broken her back so she can’t run away. Rage fills me. I am so glad I was the one to kill him. I am so glad I’ve taken some small measure of revenge for us both.
“I can’t walk,” she whispers, but her hand snakes up and touches my forehead, brushes back the hair from my eyes. “He made sure I couldn’t walk first thing. Don’t worry, Zack. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“That’s okay, baby. That’s okay. I’ll carry you. I’ll always carry you.”
We’re both crying, and I hear the whump whump whump of a helicopter’s rotors.
Seven years ago, I lost the love of my life. And now I have found her. She is cradled carefully, gently in my arms, pale and still, broken in two, but breathing, her chest lifting lightly. Autumn is alive. And I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.
The sun is shining, masking the bitter cold outside. I didn’t know Texas could get so cold, but I’m wearing a North Face fleece and damn glad I packed it, because it’s colder than a witch’s tit down here.
The Omen Days are over. There has been a requisite rebirth; the season’s requirements are met. My life has changed, altered. I will never be the same again.
Autumn is still in the hospital in Austin, but is better, much better. The break was lower than we first thought, and the doctors think the damage to her spinal cord is temporary, that she’ll be able to walk again. She’s already getting feeling back in her toes. They think the trauma of the broken vertebrae caused swelling, and that’s what’s shutting off the signals to her brain that her feet really do work. It is a miracle. Torres finally told me the details of the other bodies they’d found. They all had their backs broken. Winchester’s gruesome signature: he paralyzed his victims so they couldn’t run away or even fight him. He was a coward.
We haven’t discussed what he did to her over the course of the twelve days he had her. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, and I will listen, knowing I’ve meted out the justice she deserves.
Late that first night, I did ask how it all happened, how she managed to find me. I was holding her hand and she was trying, and failing, to sleep. We talked, quietly, low.
“How did you get me the watch?”
She looks distant and eternal, like she’s touched the sky and the stars and they’ve left a mark on her.
“I don’t know. Not really. It was like a dream. He took it off the . . . the first time, put it on the dresser. When he started to hurt me, I fought back. He slugged me, flipped me over onto the floor and stomped on my back, and I got all kinds of floaty. That’s when I had the dream. I dreamed of you, Zack. And I knew you could help me. I got up, walked away from him and the things he was doing, took the watch and . . . found you. I know it doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t care if it makes sense or not. I am so proud of you, honey. So proud.”
I’m not kidding. It doesn’t matter how she managed to leave her body and find me. All that matters is that she’s going to be okay, and she’s going to be mine.
Torres and his team have already found six bodies buried on the ranch property, plus the bones of a male Caucasian in an abandoned well three miles from the barns. It will take a while to sort out who is who, and the ranch covers so many thousands of acres they will be searching for a while, but they are calling the mission a success. A sad success, but so many families will finally know what happened to their loved ones, their lost girls, because my brave Autumn found me, and gave me the piece of the puzzle they needed to take down a prolific, sick serial killer.
Autumn has made a request of me, so I’ve left her in the room and am off to fulfill her dearest wish at the moment, to find some obscure Austin ice cream she loves.
This morning, when I walked in, she was smiling and humming to herself. When she saw me, I swear there was a sparkle in her eyes again. Last night she told me she wants to come back home. Not only to Nashville, but home to me. Home to our interrupted life.
I don’t know what Christmas miracle has occurred between us, but I welcome every minute I get to spend with Autumn. Maybe being apart so long has given me a deeper appreciation of what love is, and how bleak life is without it. Maybe the girl outside Mercy Lounge really was an angel, and when she gave me her smokes, she gave me some sort of blessing, a new lease on life, or opened a plane that allowed Autumn through. I will never know.
I find the ice cream shop. It is next to a jewelry store.
The old me, the Zack who doesn’t believe in miracles, would walk right past. But I go inside, happy for the warmth of glassed-in store. A dark-haired woman is working behind the counter. She looks up and smiles as I approach.
“Looking for something special?”
“I am. Something pretty. It’s a late present. A very, very late Christmas present.”
Twenty minutes later, I have a small velvet box in my front pocket and a carton of salted caramel coffee crunch ice cream freezing my hand off. The walk back to the hospital isn’t quite as cold.
Autumn is clean and fresh, smiling widely when she sees me. Her hair is glistening. “The nurse let me have a shower. I had to stay lying down, but I feel human again.”
“I’m glad. I like your hair short, by the way.”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about growing it out again. For old time’s sake.” She spies the ice cream. “Oh, Zack, you found it!”
I present it to her, with the small wooden paddle spoon attached. “I am a miracle worker.”
Her eyes meet mine. The bruises are fading. Soon she’ll look like she always did, peaches and cream and freckles. There are a few new lines around her eyes. I like them. She’s gone to hell, and she’s come back. She’s going to get better, and I will love her no matter what happens, and what choices she makes.
Her hand reaches out and catches mine, and she squeezes, hard.
“Thank you for not giving up on me.”
“I never have, Autumn. And I never will. Now eat your ice cream.”
“I love you, Zack. I’ve always loved you. I want you to know that.” She nods once, as if resigning herself to her fate, then opens the top of the ice cream. It comes off easily. She gasps.
The ring is nestled in the ribbon of caramel. Hey, it’s an impromptu proposal, don’t judge. I’m thinking on my feet here.
Autumn is crying and laughing through her tears. I have never seen her look more beautiful. I drop to my knees by her bed and say the words I’ve wanted to utter for a decade.
“Merry Christmas, Autumn. Will you marry me?”
Oh, in case you were wondering, we got married on Christmas Day, at St. George’s in Belle Meade. Guilty Pleasures played the reception. Autumn and I danced all night.
Have I ever mentioned how much I love Christmas?
About the Story
For months now, every time I get on a plane, I start my music and listen to Airborne Toxic Event’s excellent song “Sometime Around Midnight.” There is something about this song that lends itself to story. I have used it on several of my book soundtracks, and for each book, the song inspired different aspects of the story, of character development, of setting. It’s a universal tune, one of great love and extreme pain. I think we’ve all been in the position of losing someone we love and seeing them soon after, when the hurts are soothed but not forgotten, with someone else. It’s heartbreaking, and a universal pain. It’s become, in many ways, my favorite song.
Earlier this year, when I decided to put together a Christmas short story, I immediately thought of my song. I’ve mined the hurt and fear and angst and bad decision jeans that go along with it, but I’d never written something directly inspired by it.
Right around this time, I re-watched a favorite movie—500 Days of Summer. Starring Joseph Gordon Levitt and Zooey Deschanel, it’s a great look at how love changes people, for better and for worse.
So armed with tons of breakup angst, I set out to write a story worthy of the emotions of young men broken in two by women they love. I knew only three things: There had to be a ghost. It had to revolve around Christmas. And since this is a J.T. Ellison story, it had to have a twist.
Now I just needed a title. Something unique. Something cool. Something Christmasy but uniquely me.
I had heard of the Omen Days—Twelvetide—the origins of the twelve days of Christmas, during my research on THE IMMORTALS. Some quick research brought the legends back to the fore, and I knew immediately what my story was going to be, and how it was going to happen. And THE OMEN DAYS was born. Autumn and Zack and Jim and Stephen and Torres and that bastard Winchester—they paraded onto the page and told me their tales.
I’m also especially excited that this is the first story I’ve written expressly for my publishing house, Two Tales Press. If you liked this one, I encourage you to leave a review and help me spread the word. And feel free to check out my others on the website. Because without you, there are no stories.
Lastly, if you ever get a chance to see Guilty Pleasures play in Nashville, do it. They are they bomb! For your enjoyment, I’ve put together a Spotify playlist of all the songs mentioned or referenced in the story, and some more from Guilty Pleasures’ show playlists over the years.
Merry Everything to you and yours!
Author’s Note
I’ve always looked at short stories as a way to have a bit of fun with my writing. In my day job, I write psychological thrillers. I’d written three novels before I ever tried my hand at short fiction. But when I did, I discovered an entirely new world.
I spent a great deal of time telling my peers I couldn’t write short stories. They kept pushing me, and pushing me, until I finally gave it a shot.
That story was “Prodigal Me.” I submitted it to Writer’s Digest and promptly forgot about it. You can imagine my surprise when I received an email from Chuck Sambuchino saying I’d won an honorable mention in their annual short fiction contest.
Perhaps I could write shorts after all.
Soon after, I attended my first writer’s conference, where I met a fabulous writer named Duane Swierczynski. I asked Duane about some short fiction markets, and he suggested I send a story to his friend Bryon Quertermous, who ran an e-zine called Demolition. I quickly wrote another story and submitted it. Bryon loved everything but the title, which we agreed to change to “X.” It was my first published piece.
My love of the short form grew from there. I began placing stories, writing for anthologies, the works. I grew to love the freedom and limitations of the form, and I still use it as a playground of sorts, a way to stretch my wings and explore genres I wouldn’t normally write in.
My short stories are little slices, vignettes. Crimes of the heart, the mind and the soul. The bits and pieces that fell from my mind while I was writing long-form novels, the ideas that didn’t have a place in my current work. Some are quite short, others bloomed into novellas.
With the advent of independent publishing, I decided to start my own house, Two Tales Press, in order to share these sweet little lies with you. I do hope you’ll enjoy them.
* * *
—J.T. Ellison
Nashville
photo credit: Krista Lee Photography
New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison writes dark psychological thrillers starring Nashville Homicide Lt. Taylor Jackson and medical examiner Dr. Samantha Owens, and pens the Nicholas Drummond series with #1 New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter. Cohost of the EMMY Award-winning television show, A Word on Words, Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens.
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Also by J.T. Ellison
Standalone Thrillers
Tear Me Apart
Lie to Me
No One Knows
* * *
Lt. Taylor Jackson Series
Field of Graves
All the Pretty Girls
14
Judas Ki
ss
The Cold Room
The Immortals
So Close to the Hand of Death
Where All the Dead Lie
* * *
Dr. Samantha Owens Series
A Deeper Darkness
Edge of Black
When Shadows Fall
What Lies Behind
* * *
A Brit in the FBI Series, Cowritten with Catherine Coulter
The Final Cut
The Lost Key
The End Game
The Devil’s Triangle
The Sixth Day
The Omen Days
© 2016 by J.T. Ellison
Cover design © The Killion Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more stories by J.T. Ellison, visit TwoTalesPress.com.
Sneak Peeks
(you lucky reader!)
For your enjoyment, I’ve included three excerpts for you. The first is a peek at my critically acclaimed standalone thriller, LIE TO ME. The next is from my newest Taylor Jackson novel, FIELD OF GRAVES, which is actually a prequel to the series. Last but not least is an excerpt from one of my favorite writers, Laura Benedict, who is writing a brilliant Southern Gothic series called Bliss House. The excerpt is from her latest novel in the series, THE ABANDONED HEART, available now. I hope you love them all!
The Omen Days Page 4
