by Mark Lukens
She got to her feet and walked closer to the painting. The buildings in the painting were exactly the same as the ghost town she’d been in.
“It can’t be,” she whispered as she stared at buildings.
A panic began to build inside of her as she rushed over to another picture on the wall, this one was a framed photograph and it was much smaller than the ghost town painting. It was her and Trace’s wedding photo. They had posed in front of the white church where they had gotten married.
It was the same white church she’d seen in the ghost town.
But the glass over this picture was shattered, like her husband Trace had punched the photo.
She looked around the room and saw her small book shelf. She hurried over to the books and scanned the titles and authors. One was written by a person named Carla Lopez. Another one was written by a man named Eugene Rosenthal.
A pile of clothes in a laundry basket in the corner caught her eye. She ran over to the basket and picked up the T-shirt lying on top. It was one of her T-shirts. It had been given to her by a cousin a few years ago as a gag gift for Christmas and she hadn’t been able to throw it out. She picked up the shirt and stared at the cartoon drawing of a rat eating a hunk of Swiss cheese.
Beth dropped the shirt back down into the basket. Oh God, she had somehow dreamed or imagined the whole thing, the ghost town, Carla and the others …
Her thoughts froze when she heard the two dogs barking outside.
She rushed over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Outside, the two Rottweilers were barking and going crazy as a red 1969 Mustang pulled up the dirt driveway and slid to a stop amid a cloud of dust.
The driver’s door flew open and Trace, very drunk, nearly fell out of the car. He managed to stand up and he regained his balance. The dogs continued to bark at him, wagging their stubby little tails. He kicked at one of them and nearly fell down onto the dirt again. He yelled at them to shut the fuck up, and then he turned towards the doublewide trailer.
Beth let the curtain drop back in place, and she turned to the closed door of the bedroom. Even though her mind screamed at her to run, she was frozen with fear. She glanced around the bedroom with wide eyes; she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She could already hear Trace stomping up the wooden steps of their trailer and ripping the front door open.
She started to run towards the closet, but it was stuffed full of clothes and it looked like part of the sliding doors had been destroyed in a drunken rage.
And then she stopped suddenly because she felt something in the front pocket of her jeans—something familiar.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the yellow toy Camaro along with a handful of sand.
“This can’t be …” she whispered.
It was too late to run, too late to hide. Trace was already stomping down the hallway which led right to their bedroom at the end of the trailer. She could hear him talking to himself as he approached their bedroom.
“Fucking bitch! I’ll kill that fucking bitch if I see her again. Nobody leaves me. Nobody.”
Leave him? her mind screamed. Had she left him?
Beth watched in horror as the bedroom door flew open.
Trace stood frozen in the doorway when he saw Beth. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. He could only sway on unsteady legs as he stared at her.
“Holy hell,” Trace finally whispered. And then his face split into an evil smile. “Look who decided to finally come back home.”
Beth shook her head no, trying to speak, but no words could escape her clenched throat. Her body was tense and her skin buzzed with terror.
Trace took a step inside the bedroom, his dark eyes like little pebbles of hatred focused on her. “Where the fuck have you been for the last three days, Beth?”
Beth shook her head no again, trying to answer, but she couldn’t catch her breath.
Trace smiled even wider and snorted in a sniff (just like Tony, Beth thought). “What’s a matter? Cat got your tongue?”
He took another step closer to her. “You come back to get some of your things? Is that it? Figured you would pop in and get out without me knowing it?”
He glanced down at her clenched fist.
“What’s that in your hand, Beth?”
Beth looked down at her own clenched fist. The yellow Camaro was inside her hand, along with some of the sand that had spilled out of her pocket.
Trace rushed at her as she tried to lunge for the bed, trying to get around him and out the door. But he was too fast for her. He grabbed her arms and threw her across the room and into the wall. The picture of the ghost town crashed down to the floor, the glass shattering.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand up towards him. He pried her fingers open and the toy car fell out of her palm and down onto the carpet.
“What the hell’s this?” he asked. “A toy car?”
Beth still wouldn’t answer. She could feel something in the pit of her stomach along with the pain. It was a feeling she’d felt before—she’d felt it at the ghost town. It was a fountain of courage and confidence. And it was building quickly.
“You’d better start answering me,” Trace warned. “I want to know where the fuck you’ve been for the last three days. Who the fuck have you been with?
Three days? I’ve been gone for three days? If I wasn’t really at the ghost town, then where have I been?
But Beth didn’t answer Trace. She stared at him—she wasn’t going to look away from him this time.
Not this time.
And she could feel that sensation of rage boiling up in the middle of her stomach, growing bigger and bigger, threatening to erupt.
Trace swayed in front of her as he poked her in the forehead. He poked her each time he asked her a question, knocking her head back into the paneled wall, harder and harder each time.
“Where have you been, Beth?”
A poke from Trace on her forehead, and the back of her head hit the paneled wall.
“You’re really starting to piss me off. Where …”
Poke.
“… have you …”
Poke.
“…fucking been for the last …”
Poke.
“…three days!”
The ball of rage inside of Beth exploded. She brought her knee up into Trace’s crotch as hard as she could.
“I don’t know where I’ve been!!” Beth screamed at Trace as he crumpled down to the floor, gasping for breath, his hands on his crotch.
Beth hopped over Trace and ran for the bedroom door.
Trace rolled over on the floor, choking and coughing. But he was already getting back to his feet.
“Oh, you’re dead,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking dead.”
He stood up and braced himself with one hand on the wall for a moment. Then he stumbled across the room and slammed the bedroom door all the way open and stared down the empty hallway that opened up to a large living room area with the kitchen beyond that.
“Beth,” Trace called out as he stumbled down the hallway. “Sweetheart! Come on out! I just want to talk to you!”
Trace staggered into the living room and glanced around at the torn black leather sofas, the flat screen TV, the coffee table littered with beer cans and old takeout food boxes. He didn’t see Beth anywhere.
He stumbled past the bar with a Formica top that divided the living room from the kitchen. He looked around. No Beth anywhere. He opened the pantry door and then slammed it shut again. With a sweep of his arm, he wiped the dirty dishes and food containers down onto the stained linoleum floor.
“Beth, get your ass out here right now, or I swear to God I’m going to kill you!!”
No answer.
He heard a noise and rushed back into the living room. He saw that the front door was ajar and the screen door had just slammed shut.
Trace smiled and ran for the door.
Outside, Trace nearly fell down the three wooden steps
that led from the front door down to the dirt and weeds. He looked around. He saw his red Mustang parked fifteen feet away with the two dogs still barking. Near the Mustang was a stack of old firewood with empty beer cans and bottles all around it. And not too far away from the stack of firewood was a large tree stump with an ax stuck down into it.
A rumbling noise grabbed Trace’s attention. He turned towards the large, free-standing garage in the distance; it was where he worked on cars, his own and other people’s vehicles for some side money. One of the double doors of the garage was sliding closed as he watched.
Trace smiled again.
“My darling wife,” he whispered.
He staggered towards the tree stump. He yanked the ax out of the stump and walked towards the garage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Beth hid inside the dark garage, breathing hard, but trying to be quiet.
She watched as one of the double doors slid open. Silhouetted in the open doorway was Trace with an ax in his hand. He stepped inside and slid the door closed. There was a metallic sound in the gloom like he had latched something shut.
Beth hid by the rear of one of the two vehicles that were inside the garage, both parked side by side, both of them in the middle of renovation and repairs. One of the vehicles, an old Chevy pickup truck, was a job Trace was working on for a neighbor. The other vehicle was Trace’s pride and joy: a yellow 1970 Camaro, just like the toy car she’d had in her pants pocket.
The front end of the Camaro was jacked up with a massive floor jack. The engine hung above the front of the car on a chain that was attached to a metal track nailed to the rafters of the garage ceiling. There were a few car parts strewn across the oil-stained concrete floor underneath the jacked-up hotrod.
She watched Trace as he walked from the double doors towards the pickup truck and Camaro. Around the edges of the garage were wooden counters and pegboards with tools hanging from them. The top of the counters were cluttered with tools, car parts, and beer cans and garbage.
As Trace walked towards the two vehicles, he dragged the ax beside him, letting the ax blade drag along the concrete floor, making a scraping sound.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself than you have to,” Trace said as he dragged the ax behind him.
Beth hid behind the truck, crouched down by the tailgate. She waited until the last second, and then she bolted out from her hiding place and ran to the rear of the Camaro.
Trace laughed as he ran down between the two vehicles through the gloom.
“I see you!” he called out as he slid down onto his side behind the Camaro, the ax discarded behind him. He crawled underneath the car after Beth.
Beth wriggled forward, kicking her legs out behind her as Trace crawled after her, trying to grab at her kicking feet.
As Trace crawled to the front of the car, he reached his hand out for Beth and his fingers brushed by her foot, but he couldn’t see her. He twisted his body around so that he was face-up. He was about to pull himself all the way out from under the car when the floor jack gave out and the Camaro crashed down onto him. With no front tires on the Camaro, the car pinned the lower half of his body to the concrete floor. He pushed up at the bumper with his hands, trying to bench press the car off of him, but the car wouldn’t budge. He beat at it and struggled for breath as he called out to Beth.
“Oh God. Beth … jack the car back up …”
Beth didn’t answer. She walked to the rear of the Camaro and picked up the ax from the floor. As she walked back to the front of the car, she dragged the head of the ax along the concrete floor just as Trace had done.
Beth stood at the front of the car and stared down at Trace. Horrible memories of abuse flashed through her mind like a movie reel.
The beatings.
The broken bones.
The lost child.
She couldn’t lose another one.
Trace closed his eyes as tears squeezed out of them. He grunted for breath, and opened his eyes and looked up at Beth. “What … what are you going to do with that ax?”
Beth didn’t answer. She lifted the ax up. It was heavy and her ribs hurt a little, but she lifted it all the way above her head, ready to swing it down into the middle of Trace’s face.
Trace choked out a scream and covered his face with his arms like they would protect him from the blow of the ax.
But Beth didn’t swing the ax down at her husband. She lowered the ax and walked over to one of the cluttered counters and leaned the ax next to it. She grabbed a large remote control box with thick wires running out of it. It controlled the chains that the engine hung on over the Camaro. She pressed the red button and moved the chain on the track above the car. It made a rusty, squealing noise as the car’s engine moved into position out past the front of the car, right over the top half of Trace’s body.
Trace took his arms away from his face and stared up at the car engine that dangled right above him. He shook his head no and put his arms up like he could knock it out of the way if it fell on him.
“Don’t do this, Beth! Please!”
“You won’t hurt me again,” she whispered. Her hand went to her stomach which still hurt, but she was sure that the six week old baby inside was okay. She wanted to believe that. She had to believe that.
She pushed another button on the remote control and a clamp holding the chains together separated and the engine fell down onto Trace’s face. He screamed, but his scream was cut off instantly and a spray of blood shot out from his head, neck, and arms.
The spray of blood reminded Beth of Carla when she’d been shot in the face with the shotgun—it looked exactly like the same spray of blood.
But she knew now that Carla hadn’t been real, none of them had. And now everything was coming back to her. The ghost town had been a figment of her imagination as she hid from her husband for three days. She had made up the fantasy of the ghost town to help her deal with the fact that she had no choice but to kill her husband. It was like she couldn’t think directly about the terrible thing she had to do, the terrible trap she had to set for Trace, so she made up a story about a ghost town in her mind.
But she knew that she would learn to deal with what she’d done over time. Over time, she would bury these memories in her mind.
At least she would be safe.
At least her baby would be safe this time.
And even though Carla hadn’t been real, she knew that Carla was what she wanted to be like. And she decided that she would change. She would become stronger. Like Carla. She had to. She had someone to protect now, and she would never let anyone hurt them again.
Her hand went to her belly as she turned away from her dead husband. She left the garage and went back to their trailer to call 911.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Beth waited on the front steps of her trailer as the cops and paramedics milled around. Some of them talked to each other. One man ducked underneath the line of yellow police tape across the garage doors and snapped photographs.
A detective had talked to Beth earlier, but he could tell that she was too traumatized to give much of a statement. He told her that he was sorry for her loss, and that this was such a tragic accident. Beth told the detective that Trace had been drinking a lot, and she had begged him not to work on the cars today.
The detective only nodded and told her again how sorry he was that she had to find her husband like that.
But there was something in the detective’s eyes, something Beth saw when he stared at her face, at her cut lip and bruised eye. The detective only nodded and smiled at her.
“You’re going to be fine now,” the detective told her and walked away.
Yes, Beth thought, I’m going to be just fine from now on.
We’re going to be fine.
She touched her stomach gingerly with one hand, and in her other hand she held the toy car she’d found in her jeans pocket, a replica of Trace’s yellow 1970 Camaro.
“You didn’t win,
Tony,” Beth whispered as she caressed the car. “I won.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I’ve been writing since the second grade when my teacher called my parents in for a conference because the ghost story I’d written had her a little concerned. By the time I was fourteen years old I was reading every Stephen King book I could find in the public library: I was hooked—I knew I had to be a writer. Through the years I’ve worked many jobs: drywall hanger, lawn spray tech, concrete laborer, line cook, welder—but throughout that time I was always reading and always writing.
I’ve had several stories published and I’ve had four screenplays optioned by producers in Hollywood, one of which is being considered for production by a major studio (keeping my fingers crossed). I’ve also written several novels which are available on Amazon/Kindle: Ancient Enemy, Descendants of Magic, The Summoning, Night Terrors, Sightings, The Exorcist’s Apprentice, and A Dark Collection: 12 Scary Stories. I’m a proud member of the Horror Writers Association.
I grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida. But after many travels and adventures, I settled down in Tampa, Florida where I currently live with my wonderful and supportive wife and son, and a stray cat we adopted.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I hope you enjoyed Ghost Town, and I hope you will take the time to leave a review. Readers may not be aware how reviews (positive and negative) help an author and other readers. If you liked the novella you just read, I invite you to read the first few chapters of The Summoning which I’ve included after this note.
Thank you so much for purchasing my book and please feel free to comment at MarkLukensBooks on Facebook and on Twitter @MarkLukensBooks and I always respond to any e-mails sent to [email protected] and I can be found on the web at MarkLukensBooks.com
Thank you!
www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNEOHKU
CHAPTER ONE
1.
Pitch black.
Something dripped in the darkness. Water? Blood?
