In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  Would you like to go dig him up?

  I didn’t think so…neither would we.

  As for his brother Jerry, he is awaiting trial for the murders of eight people and the attempted murder of eleven others. Ed Silver tells us that the older Thomas brother has been heavily sedated, after complaining of the presence of ‘demons’ in his cell in the Davidson County jail. Meanwhile, a thorough search of the Dobbins’ farmhouse in McMinnville turned up another dozen human skeletons. No wonder Justin, Fiona, and I felt as uncomfortable as we did during our visit there a few weeks ago. Marilee and Paul Dobbins were also arrested and are being held in the Warren County jail. For now, I won’t speculate as to whom their victims were, but Ed told us that some of the remains were recent, and others buried for more than one hundred years. I tell ya that family of psychopaths is a frigging Dionysus cult, with a dash of the good ole brotherhood of the Ku Klux Klan thrown in for good measure.

  And, what about our TCP pals that we thought had either succumbed to Melvin’s assault rifle or somehow escaped before our arrival? One of the sheriff’s deputies found all fifteen bound and badly frightened inside what used to be a horse stall inside the dilapidated barn. No doubt, if we had either gotten there later or hadn’t been rescued by our mysterious benefactor, they would’ve all died that night.

  I would imagine that Melvin Schoels would certainly mourn the notoriety he lost out on, since eight confirmed killings pales to the thirty-one lives he and his cousins would’ve totaled by Sunday’s sunrise. Chills run through me whenever I consider just how close that came to being a reality.

  Perhaps some of you might think my assumptions about Melvin are a bit over the top narcissistic. I could grant you that…. But, before I do, consider one last thing before we part ways, you and I.

  Remember Angie? She’s still keeping watch…although she has thankfully left my immediate space alone, at least for now. My latest songwriting sessions with what’s left of our band, while Ricky and I search for a new bassist, have been uneventful trips, to and from our rehearsal studio. I don’t feel her sneaking up on me as I enter or exit my cherished Camaro. Also, the creaking floorboards inside our log home that so often have announced her presence during the past year and a half have ceased since the Mossy Creek incident.

  However, I have seen her three times in the past week, or at least a shadowed form that I believe is her spirit. On each of these occasions, a dark figure with what looks like clipped reddish hair has stood just inside the wooded area that marks the border of our property. A virtual no man’s land lies beyond, one that stretches for several miles and presently belongs to the Williamson County board of trustees. When I have seen this figure standing there, it appears whoever it is waits for me to look their way a second time. All three instances have resulted in the same experience that follows.

  The figure appears to wave to something or someone else deeper in the woods, and before my eyes, a second figure soon appears next to the first one. Significantly larger than the first figure, one might assume it is nothing more than a broad bush that my brain has matrixed into a human form. I can buy at least part of that analysis…. But what in the hell makes this bigger shadowed form seem as if it’s wearing a black bolero hat?

  I’ll leave you with that last morsel to consider.

  Until next time, happy ghost hunting to you all. May you think long and hard before wishing for a good scare.

  Take care,

  Jimmy Alea

  The End

  Available now:

  Plague of Coins

  The Judas Chronicles, Book One

  (Please read on for a sample)

  Chapter 1

  This looks promising....

  It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy. Damned creepy.

  Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever got caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should.

  Oh, it isn’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view exclusive collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.

  But I digress.

  Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.

  I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.

  Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....

  I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.

  Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are you, hotshot?’ That’s what I’d be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.

  Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already inferred my last name from my son’s. I like the name William, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier to fit in without engendering questions about who I am or where I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.

  That got you, I’m sure.

  It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever crossed paths you wouldn’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.

  Back then my Hebrew name was Yehuda. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.

  You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can.

  Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?

  The Greek for Yehuda is Yudas, and that name in Roman is Judas.

  So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.

  But before you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven a
t long last and reunited with the One I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.

  How do I know the truth about Jesus now as compared to then? You’ll have to read on for the answer—and it comes in bits and pieces, really. No, it won’t be some pompous sermon. What I’ve learned these past two thousand years transcends anything and everything you’ve ever read in any book—including what is considered the standards for the Holy Scriptures—like the Bible, Koran, etc. You’d be surprised at the shenanigans I’ve witnessed that later became the accepted “truth from the very mouth of God Almighty.”

  So much is rubbish, and yet hidden within it all is the truth. Or, at least a version of the eternal truth.

  But I digress, again. Just know I am supremely confident of this: Everyone’s burning questions will be answered by the end of my story…the first installment of what remains of my earthly quest.

  So, back to this place called Al-haroun. While there are many places in the world that suffer from a host of calamities, only a few originate from a small epicenter within a few square miles. And not every one of these places contains what I need. However, since at first glance it’s impossible to know for sure, I must research them all.

  As a town, Al-haroun is no stranger to the wrath of God, or if you will, the unfortunate reputation as a cursed place. That night, I viewed article after article, along with a continuous stream of film images to support the stories—literally, an endless succession of earthquakes, floods, famines, wars, and plagues. Even a rare tornado struck the town in 1942 that destroyed nine homes and killed three people. Not exactly catastrophic weather, unless you consider the fact this is Iran we’re talking about and not Topeka, Kansas.

  But all in all, if one considers the previous millennium’s host of travesties visited upon this small area, I have to consider the likely source: a single coin. Buried somewhere, and likely hidden from the light of day for centuries. Meanwhile, hundreds, if not thousands of lives have been ruined—either killed, made homeless, or both. The last article I looked at talked about a rare blizzard from thirty years ago. That event took place in May, when things begin to heat up near the Alborz Mountains. More than three feet of snow fell upon the town, and the temperatures plummeted deeply enough to destroy livestock and crops.

  The people believe they’re cursed, that somehow they’ve offended Allah. If only they knew that something there—likely buried beneath the soil—was indeed offensive to God, they might burn everything to the ground and leave. Forever.

  My gut instinct was telling me a single silver shekel was responsible. One that bears Caesar’s notorious beak of a nose on one side and a proud eagle upon the back. Just like twenty-nine others I once accepted as payment for my evil deed. A moment of folly, and to think it could’ve been forty pieces of silver if Caiaphas hadn’t tried to cheat me by offering half-shekels instead.

  As I studied the latest stories and pictures on the screen, my left hand began to tremble. This familiar sensation always confirms the truth of what my intuition tells me.

  Silver ‘blood coin’ number twenty-two was within reach.

  Satisfied, I turned off the viewer. I then returned the older films to the correct cabinets and the newer CDs and flash drives to their file drawers.

  It was time to request some vacation days, and make arrangements for a little trip overseas.

  To purchase your copy of Plague of Coins, click on the link for your preferred ereader device below:

  Kindle US

  Kindle UK

  Also, available now:

  Cades Cove: The Curse of Allie Mae

  The Cades Cove Series, Book One

  (Please read on for a sample)

  “M-m-u-u-r-r-der-r-r-er-r-r!”

  David opened his eyes, awakened by the whisper that passed over his face. The room was completely dark, and not even the parking lot lamps’ glow penetrated the murkiness. He noticed the curtains’ unusual thickness when he turned up the heater before retiring, assuming it was the motel’s way of compensating its guests for the sparse insulation. At least one couldn’t be bothered by any car or truck lights coming in late, as most of the motel’s patrons seemed to be in the long-haul transportation business.

  The television was blank and silent, and David couldn’t make out its outline. The heater’s comforting hum was also absent. It left the room in a hostile stillness. Suddenly, the sound of a deep sigh filled the air above the space between the two beds. Something floated there.

  He raised himself, fully aware of his distinct disadvantage against whoever was here with him. Peering into the darkness where the sigh came from, he reached for the lamp switch next to his bed.

  “Don’t do it!”

  The feminine voice surreal, the accent and the fact it sounded both near and far was familiar.

  “Allie Mae?”

  The air around him was already chilled from the lack of heat, but it now grew even colder. The presence was drawing near to him. A brilliant blue eye appeared, aglow in the darkness less than a foot away. The eye was especially beautiful, and it squinted. Perhaps it scrutinized him, or more likely, its owner was seriously pissed.

  “What do you want from me?” David tried to remain calm despite his terror, but found it impossible to control the unsteadiness in his voice.

  The eye moved closer, and as it did he became aware of a soft gurgling sound. It reminded him of the tiny streams he used to find in the mountain valleys of Colorado. Cold drafts of air brushed against his face, and the eye came within a few inches of his own eyes, as if the head shrouded by darkness positioned itself to kiss him. The smell of raw meat filled his nostrils. He pushed himself back against the bed’s headboard.

  “To take back what you’ve stolen,” the voice replied. It was softer and almost normal, erupting from the gurgling noise and sending an icy spray upon him. “And, kill the wicked seed once and for all!”

  “I didn’t steal your bag of treasures, and I’ll happily give it back!” He clutched his bedspread tightly, and shrunk away from the eye, the smell, and the gurgling. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right!”

  “It’s too late to give it back,” replied the garbled voice, sending forth another spray of chilled droplets onto his face. David cringed in response and closed his eyes. “It’s too late to give back my life, Billy Ray-y-y-y!”

  A splash of icy liquid against his throat and T-shirt emphasized the fervency of this last statement. Ever fearful, he opened his eyes. Another eye as grotesque as the first eye was lovely had since joined it. Its mutilated cornea and iris glowed as a ruptured mass of fire and blood within the torn edges of the socket.

  “I’m not Billy Ray! My name’s David!!” he shouted.

  “Ya are what ya are and always will be, Billy Ray-y-y-y!” the voice hissed in anger. “Y’all and yer seed have killed and taken whatever ya’ve pleased! But, no more!! There ain’t no more hidin’ from yer sins!!!”

  “No, you’ve got the wrong guy! I’ve never done anything to you—”

  “M-m-m-u-r-r-r-der-r-r-er-r-r!!”

  He threw up his hands to protect himself as she shrieked her condemnation over and over, the echo resounding loudly throughout the room before returning to where he lay huddled against the headboard. Iciness gripped the base of his bed and steadily moved up toward him, chilling the bones in his feet, legs, and thighs as it touched him. Out of the darkness the two eyes suddenly looked up at him from his waist, revealing the entity now caressed his body like a famished lover, moving from his feet to his genitals and on up to his face. He whimpered in horror as something cold, wet and slimy crept inside his shirt toward his throat.

  Screaming in terror, he slapped at himself, falling out of the bed. He grabbed the nightstand, pulling the top drawer out while groping for the lamp’s pole. A pair of frigid arms embraced him from behind, and even icier hands pinched his nipples. Coldness beyond anything he’d ever known flowed through him from behind, freezin
g his lungs to where he couldn’t breathe. He began to pass out. Turning on the light switch was the last thing he remembered.

  David awoke lying on the floor between the two beds. The nightstand lamp was on, and his head throbbed worse than any migraine he could remember. He groggily stood up and moved over to the clock, which still faced his bed. It read 3:38 a.m.

  After replacing the nightstand’s drawer in its slot, and checking to make sure the heater still worked, he set the thermostat and blower on high and went into the bathroom. He intended to splash water in his face and take something for his pounding headache. But, when he looked in the mirror, he could only stare at his reflection.

  His face and T-shirt were covered with blood.

  To purchase your copy of Cades Cove, click on the link for your preferred ereader device below:

  Kindle US

  Kindle UK

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the Author:

  Aiden James resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, their two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and a feisty terrier named Gypsy. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, he still spends time visiting haunted locales throughout the Deep South. Please visit his website: http://www.aidenjamesfiction.com