It was fiercely pleasant to see the stymied look in Arbor’s eyes. The detective held out a business card. “Here’s my number. If you decide you have anything to tell me, give me a call.”
Jason took the card and went inside, leaving the detective to fume on the porch.
* * *
It was two days before Jason saw Detective Arbor again. A fog of grief had enveloped him, and the time since Freddie’s sister had called was a hazy period in his memory. Taking a few days off from work, he had spent most of the time sleeping or sitting in front of a TV he wasn’t really watching.
Now, walking away from the grave of the second friend he’d lost this month, he spotted a dark brown Caprice parked across the road from the cemetery. It was obviously a law enforcement vehicle. Though unmarked, antennas sprouted from the car and the wheels were plain black rims. The tag was a silver government plate. Behind the wheel sat Detective Arbor. Jason tried not to look his way, but he could feel Arbor’s eyes on him as he got in his car and headed home.
A few days later, Jason returned to work. Though he had begun to deal with the loss of his friends, he still found himself falling into a depressed state from time to time. But the whirring machines in the mill demanded careful attention if he wanted to keep his fingers. Having something to focus on helped and the machines provided that much-needed distraction.
He had seen Detective Arbor twice during the following two weeks. The first time, the detective was driving by the mill in his unmarked Caprice while Jason sat at an outdoor table picking at his lunch and smoking. The next week, the detective was parked in front of the barbeque stand across the street when he left work for the day.
The following Friday, with a lonely weekend ahead, Jason headed to his car after work. His dark mood worsened when he saw Detective Arbor standing beside his car.
When Jason stepped around him and opened his door, the detective spoke up. “You still got nothing to tell me?”
“Are you following me, Detective? I’m beginning to think that maybe I should talk to a lawyer about this.”
Arbor shrugged. “Maybe you should. You know, theft of evidence is a serious crime.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
That yellow-toothed smirk again. “Well, it seems that card I asked you about has disappeared from the evidence locker. You sure you don’t know anything about that?”
Jason didn’t answer. Reigning in his anger, he got in his car and left the detective to watch him go.
* * *
Sleep came only with difficulty that night. Lying in bed, Jason stared at his ceiling in the green glow of his digital alarm clock. While the hours passed, he thought of his lost friends. After a few hours and a few more tears, he finally drifted into a fitful doze.
Later, Jason became aware that he was awake in the slow, languid way of insomniacs and the terminally depressed. The ceiling of his bedroom was once again the focus as he lay in the still darkness of his house. Refusing to look at the nagging face of his clock, he closed his eyes and tried to drift off.
A strange scent teased his nose; something dusty, dry, and ancient—exotic spice from far-off lands. Jason’s eyes flew open, and he held his breath. Lying still, he could hear his heart racing. His pulse thudded in his ears. Slowly, he looked beyond the foot of his bed to the open bedroom door, a black rectangle in the darkness.
Somewhere, a faint shuffling could be heard. Distance and direction were impossible to determine. Squeezing his eyes shut again, Jason tried to resume a normal rate of breathing. You’re too wound up, imagining things. Go back to sleep.
But wound up or not, he was sure the scent of spice had grown stronger. He opened his eyes and sat up. When he did, his mouth went dry. A cloaked figure stood at the foot of his bed.
Jason tried to shout, but all he could manage was a choked whistle. In the green dimness, he saw the hooded face lift, and a smile shone above the familiar goatee. A hand reached out and brushed his foot under the blanket. It felt like a serpent’s belly had slithered over his toes.
Then the burning began. Spreading from his foot, up his leg, like a venom racing to his heart, a fire like flesh scraped raw poured into his body. At first, it looked like smoke was rising from his leg. But Jason knew it was something else. Smoke doesn’t move the way this ephemeral form did. He flailed, struggling to pull away from the bottom of the bed, to get to his feet.
Entangled in the blanket, he twisted and then threw himself from the bed. Over the side he went, crashing into the small table that held his cigarettes and ashtray. There was a bright, flickering light in his head, and when he landed on the floor, the table fell on top of him. Dazed, he could only blink, trying to drive away the fuzzy stars that floated in the darkness before him. Sudden pain brought him back to the moment.
Jason’s left leg felt like it was melting. The fire was spreading into his torso, and his knee joint was flexing involuntarily. He rolled over and finally screamed. Opening his eyes, he saw something lying under his bed: A tarot card—The Vizier.
Scrambling about him wildly, Jason’s hand fell on the cold metal of his lighter. Snatching it up, he prepared to throw it at the grinning figure that now stood above him. Then a connection was made in his mind.
Lightning was shooting down his left arm, and his pulse throbbed irregularly in his temples. A fog seemed to be growing at the corners of his vision. Drawing focus from the pain, he reached under the bed and snatched up the card. The familiar PING! of his lighter opening brought hope as he flicked the wheel. A spark and then a flame and then the card was over the lighter.
C’mon! Burn, you sonofabitch! Despair filled him as he watched the flames slide over the card, leaving it unmarked. “Burn, damn you!” he screamed.
The flames took on a blue cast and then began to spread. The corner of the card blackened and started to curl.
An enraged scream came from the man standing over him. The smile gone, he was now backing away. As the card burned, the man’s form became unstable, shifting. Jason watched as he quivered, then flickered. He seemed to lose depth, then emerge into reality again. At last, he stuttered and was gone.
Flames licked his fingers, and Jason dropped the charred corner that remained of the tarot card. The last of the flames died as it hit the floor. He tried to stand, but his left leg wouldn’t hold him. It had gone numb. His heart rate slowed, and aside from a cramped feeling in his abdomen, he seemed to be doing all right. Carefully, he pulled himself onto the bed. Feeling began to return to his leg: pins and needles, then burning. After a while, the pain subsided, and he lost consciousness.
In time, Jason would quit smoking for good. He kept the lighter.
# # #
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all of my beta readers for their invaluable input and support. Special thanks as well to my editor, Pauline Nolet, for helping make this story the best it could be and for putting up with all my neurotic quirks. If you're looking for an editor, you should contact her at https://www.paulinenolet.com. Big thanks also to Derek Gavey for permission to use his photo "Do You Believe In The Future?" as part of the cover art. You can find his work at his website, https://www.gavey.ca. Last, but far from least, extra special thanks to you, the reader, for taking the time to visit with my characters for a while. If you enjoyed this story, please tell your friends, and please leave a review! Thank you for reading!
About The Author
Born in Statesboro, Georgia in 1976, Brandon Luffman was raised in rural North Carolina from the time he was old enough to walk. In the sixth grade he discovered The Chronicles Of Narnia. Soon after that, he was on to Stephen King and Arthur C. Clarke. At the same time, he was making his first forays into writing fiction. After creating a series of short fantasy pieces for a class assignment that were received with praise, he was hooked on writing fiction for the entertainment of others. Now Brandon writes supernatural horror as well as fantasy, science fiction, and other genres. His short fiction is available onl
ine in various formats. Brandon still lives on the family farm in northwestern North Carolina with his wife and family. Taking inspiration from his homeland, he brings southern sensibilities and a modern flair to these classic genre themes. His first novel, Frostwalker, was released in May of 2013.
Connect With Brandon
Website: https://www.brandonrluffman.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BRLuffman
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/BrandonRLuffman
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/BrandonRLuffman
Also By This Author
Out After Dark
Short/Micro Vampire Fiction
Frostwalker
A Survival Horror Novel
There’s something in the woods behind Jake Marsden’s house – and someone wants him to find it. A strange dream shatters his sleep, night after night, and a compulsion to find the dark presence in the forest wars with his logical and ordered nature. What’s a geek to do?
When his small hometown of Wynn falls under an ancient curse, Jake will find himself in a battle against creatures worse than any he’s faced in a game. Playing for keeps, it will be geek versus god in the fight to stop an evil force bent on destroying everything he holds dear.
The Geek Shall Inherit The Earth – If They Live Long Enough.
Frostwalker Excerpt – Dreams Of Smoke
Jake was dreaming again, but at least it was something different. He knew he was dreaming because he was sitting among a large group of people around a large fire. Looking around, he saw that they were all Native Americans. Many of them wore paint on their faces and bodies, and those that didn’t were still covered with tattoos of a style he had never seen before.
Looking down, he saw that his arms were covered in tattoos as well, bearing stylized animals and stars as well as angular, bladelike swoops in tangled tribal knots. Much of the body art was covered in paint, red and white and blue being predominant.
The people around him were chanting in low voices and swaying rhythmically in unison. He found himself joining in. He didn’t know what the words meant, or how he knew them, but he chanted and swayed nonetheless.
A man walked to the fire from the darkness. As he did so, he chanted as well, his words different, forming a counterpoint to the rest of the group. He was old, elderly even, and he wore a colorful wrap about his body. It was made of soft leather and marked with symbols that Jake couldn’t describe. His eyes watered when he looked at some of them for too long.
Nearing the fire, the old man sat down on the edge of what appeared to be a large deer hide. The fur on the hide was a silver color, made orange and crimson in the firelight. The hide had also been marked with strange symbols and patterns.
The shaman, for this was certainly what the man was, swayed with the group, continuing his chant. As he did, he produced a long clay pipe from his wrap. It was painted with reds and whites and blues, and from it dangled fetishes of beads and feathers. The shaman held the pipe in his left hand, the long stem resting on his upper arm and shoulder. It was a purposeful pose, but Jake couldn’t fathom what it meant.
With his other hand, the old man reached again into his robes. This time he extracted a piece of leather wrapped into a bundle around something. With a twist, the bundle fell open, exposing what appeared to be the severed tongue of some animal. With a shout, the shaman tossed the pink tongue deep into the fire.
Bending forward, the old man carefully extracted a bit of tinder from the fire, its end a glowing coal. This he used to light the pipe, puffing with his cheeks until the bowl held a large cherry.
The shaman lifted the pipe over his head, looking up to the sky. Jake followed his gaze and saw that fat flakes of snow fell down above him, melting as they neared the fire. Behind the group, the trees and fields were smothered with a thick white blanket.
The old man returned the pipe to his mouth, holding it with both hands. He drew deeply, a long and powerful pull, puffing out his chest until his face strained, then he slowly bent forward, his wrinkled chin nearly touching the fur of the hide he sat upon. As he did so, he extended his arms forward so that the pipe was at his eye level, just above the fur.
Slowly, with a restraint that made Jake’s own throat burn with the need to cough, the old man exhaled, the smoke flowing out from his mouth in a broad fan and spreading out over the fur. The streamers of smoke continued for some time, passing through the hair of the hide and curling around like an ephemeral gray sheet, until the shaman blew empty air.
Then the old man slowly sat upright again, cradling the pipe in his lap with both hands, palms upright, staring at the smoke as it crawled across the fur.
The hair on Jake’s neck stood on end. The smoke had continued to move, but it didn’t rise, and it didn’t drift away on the breeze. The draft from the fire had no effect on it. Instead, it continued to undulate across the hide, slowly rotating like a hurricane seen from space.
The smoke formed thick patches, gathering into bands of gray and rising into tendrils and ethereal structures. Soon, a shape coalesced. Four legs and a long body appeared, topped by a head with a long snout. From the head sprouted a forest of antlers, and now a stag appeared as solid as any animal, but formed of smoke. It cavorted about the hide, dancing here and there among the bushes and trees of smoke that had risen up around it. It stopped and sniffed at the smoky ground, then lifted its head and snorted, puffs of smoke drifting from its nostrils.
The world filled with the vision transpiring on the hide. Like tunnel vision, everything seemed made of smoke until the stag turned its head and looked at him. Now it felt real. More, it didn’t bear the gaze of an animal, but a knowing look of sad wisdom and grim determination. Without warning, the stag charged at him. His body tried to recoil, tried to back away from the vision in gray.
The stag grew enormous. Its antlers could easily exceed the reach of his outstretched arms and those of another man as well. He was gripped by anxiety, but not true fear. The stag’s eyes held his own, and he perceived a message of hope and strength as it bore down on him. In a flash, it was on him.
To learn more about Frostwalker or read more excerpts from the book, please visit the Frostwalker page at Brandon's web site!
The Card Page 2
