“Master and mistress,” Nora said, holding Carol close. “They get mad sometimes. But I never saw them get that mad.”
Paul opened the throttle and turned on the lights. The dark unknown was bad. But seeing all the swimming corpses with their translucent bodies was worse. Nora screamed and cowered in the middle of the boat with her friend. The light drew them closer. They swam from every direction with hideous outstretched hands. Paul swerved and ran some over, yet more came to replace them.
Something thudded, and the speedboat lost its momentum. They coasted along as the engine sputtered, threatened to strand them in a tide of living corpses. Malcolm went to the stern. Then he saw why.
There, stuck on some of the propeller blades, one of those bodies stared at them. It groaned as they twisted through its insides. Malcolm watched the body spin in the water. It was familiar somehow, the way its eyes looked back at him – the peculiar disfigurement of bones and skin. Malcolm looked up when Charlotte bounced her light. She pointed it on the rear of the boat, its rays cutting through corpse skin and falling on that thing's face.
Around and around it churned with the propeller caught between its ribs. It didn't reach its arms out for them like the others.
It smiled at him instead.
Malcolm jumped back into the boat.
That smile was unmistakable. The mark beside it was still etched in his cheek, but it no longer pulsed with light.
“Fielder?”
That thing's smile widened. It leaned forward, pursing its lips with tremendous effort. “Th – thank you.” Maybe that's what it said. It tried to repeat itself, but only babble came out. The smile returned. It remained even as the thing pushed off the propeller blades and opened up a giant hole in its side. That hole was already closing itself, congealing like candle wax, before it slipped into the water and disappeared.
Malcolm went to the edge of the boat to look for it, but there was nothing to see except choppy black water. Charlotte's light had moved on, and now the propeller was free again.
The engine roared to life.
Paul opened it up. The bow shot up out of the water, shaking off swimming corpses before returning to the surface. Malcolm guessed they'd passed through a secret tributary leading back to the underground river. They flew over the open water now, following Charlotte's light as fast as the engine allowed. Paul stood at the helm squinting for corpses or rocks while the girls huddled on the deck. Malcolm sat in the passenger seat, eyes forward.
Charlotte's light cut to the side.
“Hey,” Paul said above the whine of the engine.
But she either didn't hear him or refused to listen. She held the light on the starboard side until Paul cut the wheel sharply to follow it.
Once they changed course she bounced the light up and down in the water. Something metal glinted there. A frame of crossed steel bars waited for them, suspended above the water by ropes and pulleys.
Malcolm looked closer at it.
Not a frame. A gate.
“Should I go through it?” Paul said.
Malcolm nodded. “Hit it.”
Paul opened the throttle and the speedboat shot across the water. He tweaked the wheel so the bow lined up just right. Closer. Closer and closer. Leaving thousands of swimming corpses behind in their wake.
Malcolm sat in the passenger seat and hooked his legs around the base. He held the girls close to the deck, bracing them for impact.
The gate was moving. It climbed out of the water as they sped towards it.
Pulleys squeaking.
Engine screaming when the boat left the water.
A crash.
Blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Malcolm opened his eyes and found himself on a feather bed.
He flexed his toes then lifted his fingers to look at them. His hands seemed alive at least, shining under the light. Warm bodies stirred next to him.
For a terrible moment Malcolm remembered the swimming corpses and shot upright. Instead, he found Paul and Nora doing the exact same thing. Carol lay on her back without moving. She looked even sadder in the bright light. Pale and lost and…
Even more dead then the woman sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Are you okay? I opened it here to hopefully make the landing a little softer.” She reached for the little girl and hugged her before any of them had the chance to answer. They were okay, as far as Malcolm could tell.
Battered and bruised, sure, but surprisingly alive in this sunlit room.
He stretched his arms and looked around the bedroom as the afternoon warmth gathered at the window curtains. “Where are we?”
It was a long while before Charlotte pulled away from Nora to answer. “Somewhere safe. We're in The Cloisters. Back on the other side.”
Paul sat up on the bed, shaking his head. “I'll be damned.”
Charlotte arched her eyebrows and shot him a disapproving look.
“Sorry. But cut me a little slack, lady. We just came back from – hey. What happened to the boat?”
"I blocked it," Charlotte said. "Figured it wouldn't be a good idea to send it crashing into the bedroom."
Malcolm felt his hair. It had been completely drenched just a few moments ago, but now it was dry. He watched Charlotte lean over the bed and look Carol up and down.
“This is what I was afraid of,” she said. “She's almost completely gone.”
“What do you mean?” said Malcolm. “She's not the only one like that. Just so you know.”
“I know,” Charlotte said. “They were probably going to bring her up in a few months anyway. Once they...” She pulled away from the girl and scooted close to him. “Once they were through with her.”
Malcolm shivered. “That's what that pond was about. That beautiful golden pond. They were collecting that stuff for something.”
“I've seen more and more people gathering by the gates over the years – young people. They live and breathe like you do, but I wouldn't call them alive. Not exactly. They're shells of people, really. Lost. I'd never seen anything like it before. So I followed some of them. They all ended up criminals or addicts. Homeless wanderers.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Women of the night too. When your life's nothing but gray you look for thrills wherever you can find them I suppose.” Her eyes flashed to Carol. “They look a lot like her when the gates spit them out. Now I know why.”
Paul shook his head. He got up and studied each piece of bedroom furniture. “When Malcolm put that guy – Fielder – into the tank he ruined everything they'd worked for. What will they do now? Start over?”
Malcolm nodded. “That's exactly what they'll do – if they don't think of another way to get what they want.”
Paul shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Why do you sound so sure?”
“Because he saw them,” Charlotte said. “Isn't it obvious?” She went over to Malcolm and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her touch was almost as warm as the sunlight kissing the windowpanes.
“So what?” Paul said. “We all saw them when we were climbing the stairs. They were just little specks.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I saw them again right before I went down that tunnel. Maybe I'll tell you about it later.” Charlotte guided him over to the window and opened the curtains. Below them rested a perfectly manicured lawn peppered with fountains, oak trees, and tall hedges. A private drive weaved between them. It stopped where a sidewalk and wraparound porch began. But it seemed to run away from the mansion forever, shaded by so many trees that Malcolm had to squint to see it.
There wasn't another person or major road in sight.
“How long were we down there?” Malcolm said. “It feels like it's only been a few hours.”
“About a week,” Charlotte said. “Time works different down there. This place is nice. Secluded. It's perfect for the girls to rest up. The owners are gone – for good, judging by the way they left the place. There was a homeless woman squatting here wh
en I arrived. Scaring her off was easy enough. All I had to do was reveal myself once and she took off like a freight train.” Her face soured a little at that.
"But we're in The Cloisters," Paul said. "It's supposed to be the nicest neighborhood in Lemhaven. What's the point of all those gates and hedges if they can't keep people out?"
"No one can avoid the chaos anymore," Charlotte said. "There's a disease spreading across this city. Gangs and guns and decay. Something that's been going on for a long time and quickly picking up momentum." She pulled Malcolm and Paul aside and lowered her voice. "It could just be two lovers we're dealing with. But I fear it's something deeper. I need to find out if it's all connected."
“What about the police?” Malcolm said.
Charlotte shrugged. “They're easy enough to avoid. That sheriff's still looking of course, but you're safe here for now. I can help keep it that way.”
Malcolm looked out the window into the yard. “I can't just hide here forever, though. I have to figure out how to make that go away.”
“We will,” Charlotte said.
“We?”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “That's right. You paid my price. It's the least I can do. Besides, after what happened down there the lawmen are probably the least of your worries.” She went over to Paul, kissed him and tousled his hair. “Thank you both. I mean it.”
Malcolm stared through the window, unable to walk away. It wasn't police lights and sirens he watched for, but the red eyes that had followed him in that place between worlds. “Fielder's dead,” he said. “Really dead this time.”
“What?” Paul said.
“I saw him – in that river with those corpses.”
“A river of lost souls,” Charlotte said. She bent down to grab Nora's hand and twirled her like a ballroom dance partner.
“Is he stuck down there forever?” Paul said.
Charlotte nodded. “Let's change the topic, boys. At least for now.”
“He thanked me,” Malcolm said. “He looked… happy.”
Charlotte ushered the girls out of the bedroom and told them to go play. Footsteps pattered down the hallway. It didn't take long for Nora's laughter to join them. Charlotte closed the door and continued. “I'm going to stay here with the girls for a while. It isn't permanent. But for now I can't think of a better place to keep them safe.”
Paul shrugged. “Maybe I'll stay here too. We sure can't go home right now. Even if we brought Nora back to the sheriff –”
“No,” Charlotte said. “Absolutely not. That wouldn't clear you of the murder charges. And I don't like that man. He has a black heart."
“We were in those tanks too,” Paul said. “Not very long, I don't think. But we were still in them like the girls.”
Charlotte nodded.
“I don't feel any different,” Malcolm said.
“Oh,” said Charlotte, “but you are different. Everything's changed."
“What do you mean?”
Charlotte picked up a pen from the bedside table, gave it to Paul, and whispered something in his ear.
“He can't lie to you, right?” she said.
“No,” Malcolm said. "Especially if I focus."
“Okay. Ask him what color that pen is.”
Paul held out a red pen in an open palm, waiting.
“Fine. What color is that pen?” Malcolm said.
“Blue,” Paul said effortlessly.
Malcolm shrugged, concentrated harder and locked eyes with Paul. “I asked you what color it –”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I already told you the pen's blue. Blue, blue, blue. Happy?”
Malcolm cocked his head and looked at them both in turn. “How the…”
“That tank changed you,” Charlotte said. “That gift you always saw as a curse? I think it's gone.”
Malcolm spent the next few minutes grilling Paul about their duplex and the women who'd visited there. But all he got were lies. They rattled off Paul's lips without a moment's hesitation. Malcolm even tried to rile him up first. But any awkwardness – any tension he created whenever he put someone on the spot – was gone. He didn't feel any different, but Charlotte was right. Everything had changed. Gone were the days when he couldn't go in public without someone cursing at him or backing away on the street corner. Gone were sabotaged relationships. Gone was the private detective business with its snooping and drama profiteering.
Gone were the old days…
And in came something new.
He fell back onto the bed with his eyes closed, muscles limp with relief. What did it mean to be normal? What did it mean to experience life and love and loss without the surgical lens of Truth? A smile crept onto his face, and those horrible red eyes from between the worlds faded.
"Can you cure us?" Paul said. "From what happened in the tanks?"
"I'm not sure," Charlotte said. "But I'm certainly going to try."
"If this is a sickness I don't want to be cured," said Malcolm. The golden pond appeared just behind his eyelids. Churning. Drawing him closer with its warmth.
"We'll talk later," she said. "After Malcolm rests. There's plenty I need to tell you."
Someone closed the curtains. Then Charlotte and Paul went into the hallway, chatting softly as they closed the door behind them.
The last thing Malcolm heard before drifting off to sleep was Nora's laughter.
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Spread the Word
Thanks so much for reading my book.
There are a million different things you could have done with your invaluable time and attention. So it means the world to me that you gave The Truth Collector a chance. You rock. Seriously.
But I’d appreciate it if you could do just one more thing (it’ll only take a minute)…
If you enjoyed my story, please leave a rating and a review today.
WHY YOUR REVIEW MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE
For centuries, publishers and booksellers determined which books saw the light of day. Not avid readers like you. You only got to experience a few stories – the ones that made it through all the gatekeepers.
But as Bob Dylan says, “The Times They Are a Changin’.”
Now you have all the power.
Now readers like you and writers like me can cut through the red tape and interact directly.
Now, reviews separate books that get found and read from those that don’t.
There are a ton of great writers out there publishing their own work. But it only takes something as simple as a two or three sentence review to help writers you enjoy separate themselves from the pack.
That’s why your review is so important.
I’m not wild about being so upfront and asking you for one (it makes me feel like I’m one of those dudes in a telethon), but as a new writer, getting discovered and reaching new people helps me do what I love most: keep writing.
Ultimately, I’d continue whether I had millions of dear readers or if it were just me and my computer screen. The numbers aren’t as important as the itch – the drive to create characters and worlds. I’ve written for over 10 years now, knowing deep down it was what I was meant to do. So I’ll go on doing that in any way I can.
But I’d much rather connect with you and others. That’s when something magic happens. I have so many stories to tell, and I want to keep telling them to you forever.
Your reviews – even though they only take a few minutes – fuel my ability to go after my dreams. That’s how important they are. The more of them I get, the more stories I’m able to tell, the more time I can spend telling them, and the more experiences we can share together.
WILL YOU JOIN MY ELITE ONE PERCENT?
Do you know that only about 1 in 100 (1%) of people who read a book actually review it?
It’s true.
Some people don’t care about that stuff.
Others don’t understand how important it is (especially to new se
lf-published authors like me).
Some people don’t leave them because they feel like they don’t know what to say.
And everyone’s busy.
So, if you can’t leave a review for whatever reason (or it you just don’t want to), I totally understand. The most important thing to me is that you gave me a chance – that you’re reading and spending time with the stories I created.
But if you do want to step up to the plate and leave a review, understand you’re joining a very special group of readers making a huge difference in my life. You’re helping me get noticed and reach new people. You’re helping me follow my dream.
The toughest thing for indie authors is finding an audience. Word-of-mouth and reviews at places like Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads can make all the difference whether a new reader will find me.
If you have a few minutes, you’ll make a BIG difference in how my story as a new indie writer unfolds. This is a story we can write together!
Your review doesn’t need to be long, dramatic, or flowery.
Just honest.
A few sentences why you liked the book is all it takes. I’ll consider it a personal thank-you.
Thank you for reading,
Corey Pemberton
* * * *
About the Author
Corey Pemberton is a freelance writer and storyteller who finally worked up the courage to share something he wrote. He’s been writing in his spare time for over 10 years now, filling up desk drawers and flash drives with short stories, novels, and plenty of bits and pieces. The Truth Collector is his first foray into the wild (and wonderful) world of self publishing – and the first installment in the Demon Marked series as well. The journey has just begun, but it’s already been an unforgettable ride!
Corey loves dark, character-driven fiction where the real and the fantastic collide. Some of his favorite authors are Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk, Raymond Chandler, Robert E. Howard, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
When he isn’t pounding his keyboard, Corey is reading, doing something outdoors, or sweating his butt off at his Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym. He lives in Austin, Texas with his beautiful wife, Alejandra. And he appreciates your support more than you know.
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