Good Home Cookin': A Novel of Horror
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
[92]
Good Home
Cookin’
Christian Burch
Copyright © March 2016 by Christian Burch
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or used without written consent by the author and publisher.
This story is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and names are ideas created by the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or deceased, or an event is wholly coincidental.
Books by Christian Burch
The Mirror: Seven Mind-Bending Tales
E.V.I.L.
Haunted
Dark Horizons
Haunted: Awakening (August 2016)
Dark Horizons II (October 2016)
Dangerous Impulses (November 2016)
E.V.I.L. 2: Regneration (January 2017)
The Collector Novella Series
Picture Perfect
Snapshot
Worthy Opponent (Date TBD)
Our Family Recipe
Good Home Cookin’
For Here Or To Go?
Order Up (June 2016)
Secret Ingredient (September 2016)
Shattered Dimensions
Cuddle Time (June 2016)
Careful… I Bite (September 2016)
Wishes Can Be Deadly (December 2016)
What Readers Are Saying
“Haunted was an amazing, suspenseful ride and kept me on the edge of my seat! Christian's writing places me right inside the book feeling all the changes and emotions of the characters and what transpires with them. With an amazing ending I will wait for more of his books and recommend them highly! Write MORE Christian!!” -Jennifer Schmelz’s review of Haunted
“This book is amazing. Once I started reading it I could not put it down. I read it from cover to cover in one sitting! It's a must read!” –Tracy Smith’s review of Haunted
“Here's what I love about this author. This collection of short stories and poems are fast paced and well written, with plenty of action as well as thought provoking passages. Upon completion, several of the stories left me playing out the situation in my head, causing me to ask myself if I was that character would I do anything different? I am left asking myself does Dark Horizons stand up to my highest critiques of a book? Is this interesting? Am I left wanting more? Have I felt myself become invested? To all of these I give a resounding, yes.” –Daniel Acevedo’s review of Dark Horizons
To my wife Carly for never giving up on me. Also for your good home cookin’. I do love it!
Prologue
May 16th, 1996
The two detectives exited their car and prepared to make their way through the throng of reporters congregated outside the prison. Detective Corder counted fifteen cameras and at least double the amount of reporters from the various news stations. He knew when he got the call to come in that morning that it was going to be a media circus. Didn’t mean he had to like it. Information had leaked that after all these years she finally wanted to talk. The reason was at the moment shrouded in mystery.
Silence had been her bed mate from the time of her arrest until today. Corder was beyond curious as to why she had chosen now to come forward. Maybe isolation had eaten away at her psyche and she couldn’t bear it anymore. No possibilities were being ruled out until they could talk with her face to face.
“I’ll part the seas,” Davis said as he took point and cut a path through the news crews.
Questions bombarded them from all sides, and microphones were thrust into their faces asking for statements, new information, etc. Stone faced, the two pushed their way forward into the building without too much heckling from the vultures.
After checking in, they were escorted down to one of the visitation rooms by the warden. He had stopped them prior to entering with a gesture of his hand.
“She wouldn’t give us any information other than that she wanted to shed some new light on the case. She’s a nut job if you ask me. Whole family was,” he said, handing over a folder.
Corder assumed the documents inside were from the case. Pictures of the suspects, victims, location of the murders…
“We’re familiar with the case Warden but thank you,” Corder said with a knowing smile, declining to take the folder.
“Sorry, you misunderstand Detective. This is just the file on her since she’s been with us. Psych evaluations and what not.”
Davis nodded, taking the folder from the warden and looked into the room at the woman seated at a table inside. “We appreciate it. Anything we need to know before we walk in there?”
The woman sat with her hands folded on the table in front of her, dark, wavy hair dropping to just below her shoulders, inquiring eyes locked onto the men outside the door.
“Don’t underestimate her. It’s easy to forget that she aided in the murder of at least twenty people. Maybe more.”
A slow half smile crept across her face and the two detectives entered the room, hoping to uncover some new truths about one of the most gruesome killing sprees ever to happen in Florida. The look on her face was one of a lioness assessing her prey and it sent shivers up Corder’s spine. Goosebumps broke out on Davis’s skin.
Chapter 1
August 5th, 1987
Summer had arrived in all her glory and was holding nothing back. The heat was stifling and the humidity suffocating. Outside activities were regularly accompanied by sweat, mosquitos and the sweet smell of barbecue. None but the natives of Florida would stomach this type of heat and they did so with pride. At night the temperature dropped slightly which made going out at night the pleasurable and sensible thing to do, depending on where you resided.
There weren’t many houses near Florida’s Alligator Alley but those that lived there would advise you not to venture out at night, for obvious reasons. The buzz of mosquitos and calls of other nightly insects and animals were a common and expected ritual of the ‘Glades. The crunch of grass under heavy boots was a new sound to the nightly orchestra. Though recently, it was more of a regular occurrence in this particular area.
The two men walking along the bank of the water were of similar build and height, age is what separated them. One carried a flashlight, keeping the darkness at bay and an eye out for reptiles. On his belt were a seven inch bowie knife and a .38 revolver. The other was hefting two large black trash bags over his shoulder. His breathing got heavier and louder the farther they walked. The load he was carrying was slowly wearing him down.
The flashlight cut a path back and forth in front of them and at times behind. Didn’t want anything to come at them from the rear and perform a sneak attack on them. Rustling in the bushes to their right was illuminated by the flashlight but dismissed by the father and son pair as a small animal scampered away, scared by the harsh light. A collected sigh escaped them both as they continued their trek.
The fence was directly ahead, perhaps twenty yards away. The dumping point. A three foot section of the fence was cut, allowing access to the water that was just past the perimeter of the fence. Three months prior they had severed the link
s upon realizing this was the perfect location due to the heavy traffic of alligators and other predatory animals that prowled the ‘Glades. This time of night, no other soul was around.
“Why am I always the one who gets stuck hauling the bags?”
He dropped the bags from his shoulder and let them fall to the ground with a squishing sound. The beam of the flashlight held still and the older man, Jameson, looked over his shoulder in contempt.
“Do we have to have the same discussion each and every time we do this son? Stop your bitching. We’re almost there.”
With a grunt, Gabe resumed his chore of carrying the discarded remains and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need another lesson in what happened when his dad was pushed too hard about any certain subject. A light bruise around his right eye and cheek were reminder enough.
Something was moving in the water by the time they reached the fence, and Jameson kept watchful for any red eyes in the reflection of his flashlight beam. They’d yet to have an incident but the day they threw caution to the wind would be the day they became gator bait. Holding open the fence, Jameson motioned for his son to toss the bags through. Before throwing them, Gabe stabbed holes in them. Blood began to leak out.
The activity in the water increased and Jameson nudged Gabe with his boot.
“Hurry up, or they’re gonna come right up to the fence.”
Nodding fervently, he heaved the bags through and they landed with a splash in the water. Within seconds the agitation in the water turned into a feeding frenzy as three adult alligators tore open the bags and began consuming what was inside.
Jameson let the fence fall back into place and they headed back in the direction they’d come.
Chapter 2
7 days later
The lights were blinding. The sweat was pouring off of him in streams. The open black leather jacket, with red flames on the sleeves was like wearing a portable furnace. His black leather pants clung to him in all the worst places. All of that shit he could ignore because the roar from the audience fueled his adrenaline and allowed him to forget about anything and everything else. That and the large quantities of booze and drugs currently flowing through his system
With one foot on the monitor, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and launched into the opening lines of their most requested song. At twenty three, Dylan Masterson was living out his dreams of being a rock star. As lead singer of Forbidden Fruit, a band that some would argue was poised to become a major player in the Rock scene, he was given access to anything. Girls, drugs, booze. Two albums with over 300,000 copies sold, a fourteen city tour, and recording a third album upon completion of the tour were a clear indication of their rise.
Tonight’s show was a sellout. A thick fog of smoke hung in the air, three hundred and fifty people jammed uncomfortably into the location, and Dylan couldn’t help but smile. Three years ago they were going nowhere fast, playing gigs at dives and bars, for embarrassing pay outs, bar tabs and food. In those places, they’d be lucky if fifteen people were paying them any mind. They struck gold when a manager for a respected record company happened to stumble upon one of their demos, giving them the opportunity of a lifetime. They were rising above the imitators and fakes that plagued the underground scene.
Fists pumped in the air, and voices lifted from the crowd as he ended the chorus. On stage, the four of them gave one hell of a performance and seemed like the closest of friends. Dylan strode over to Jerry, lead guitarist, and they posed back to back. Jerry’s fingers moved in a blur as he began his solo and Dylan let out one of the screams that he was becoming known for.
Behind the scenes, trouble was brewing amongst the members. Dylan was an asshole to his other band mates. There was no denying it. At the end of the previous show, Dylan had needed help walking off the stage. His drinking was becoming more than excessive and sometimes he couldn’t even make it through an entire show. The other band members were beginning to worry that the next recording session would have to be put on hiatus or worse. Dylan didn’t realize the view the other members had of him was so low, or maybe he would have tried to correct his current descent into oblivion. On the other hand, ever since gaining something of a following, his care and passion seemed to be only for where he could get his next fix or buzz.
As the song came to its end, Dylan motioned for the bartender to bring him another bottle. Six songs into the night and he was preparing to delve into his second bottle of the house whiskey. Stumbling slightly before righting himself, he raised his fist in the air as he ambled to the side of the stage to finish off the first bottle in one long gulp.
Jerry glanced over to Rob, the drummer, and shook his head. It would be a miracle if they could finish all fourteen songs before Dylan reached the point of no return. Rob nodded his head in understanding and glared towards their front man as he dropped the empty bottle and trod his way back to the microphone.
* * *
His eyes burst open as a powerful urge to vomit overwhelmed his senses and brought him out of his drunken coma. Falling out of the bed, he scrambled to the bathroom in a mess of sheets, barely making it before decorating the toilet with partially digested alcohol. Spasms racked his abdomen as he tumbled to the side on the tile floor and saw that his room was empty of any other occupants. Where the hell was he? His thoughts were a jumbled mess of incoherent images and snatches of conversations from the night before. A more vivid one reared its ugly head and he moaned.
Halfway through the tenth song, Weight of the World, he’d taken an unplanned walk off the front of the stage, ten feet to the lacquered wood floor. No one in the audience was prepared, nor were the bouncers, so his body and face got intimate with the floor. Pulling himself up on the side of the bathroom sink, he was almost afraid to see the face that stared back at him from the mirror.
Not too bad, all things considered. A light bruise on his right cheek, slight swelling of his lip, and his sides hurt. That last one could be from evacuating the contents of his stomach five times in the past few hours. He was grateful that none of his teeth wiggled when he tested them with his tongue but he did taste blood. He spat a bright red glob into the sink, wiped his mouth on the towel and slowly went back into the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
Still out of it, he made a line on the edge of the table next to the bed and snorted. He needed to get his head straight.
Head in his hands, he begged for everything to stop spinning and inhaled deeply as the drug made its way into his system. A slip of paper next to his bed caught his attention.
‘Band meeting downstairs, 2:00 pm. If you’re not there, we’re leaving without you.’
The clock on the bedside table read 1:40.
“Shit!” he muttered, as he struggled to pull his jeans on and a random, wrinkled shirt from the floor.
Chapter 3
“We deal with this same bullshit every day and I’m sick of it.”
Rob stabbed at the mess of food that covered his plate. A mix of macaroni and cheese, steak, mashed potatoes, rolls, and green beans. A cold beer completed his meal. Drinking was one thing; getting so hammered that you couldn’t function was another.
“I know Rob, we all are. That’s why we have to be honest and tell him straight up how it is,” Jerry said, moving the food around on his plate, having yet to take a bite of it.
Gary walked over with a plate of biscuits and gravy, next to chicken fried steak. The hotel they stayed in had a decent restaurant next to the lobby and they were taking advantage of it. As he sat down, Dylan bolted around the corner, nearly knocking over an older lady who yelped at the sight of him.
Hair disheveled, wrinkled clothes, bruise on his cheek… he was quite the sight.
“Over here,” Rob put up his hand and motioned him over.
Apologizing to the lady, he quickly walked over and sat down next to Gary, whose eyes widened within a few seconds.
“Damn bro, you gotta take a fucking shower. You reek,” he complained, spraying the
table with crumbs.
Dylan gave him the bird, accompanied with a weak smile.
“How much do you remember of last night?” Rob’s tone and face were serious.
In the back of his mind, part of Dylan knew this conversation was bound to come up again and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Enough to know that I fucked up royally. I’m sorry guys, really,” he looked at each one in turn. “I swear on my life, no more drinking during shows. I’ll get my act together!”
The other three exchanged glances that spoke volumes of their doubt. This was probably the fifth, maybe sixth, time that they had heard this same promise presented with the sad, pleading eyes. The problem was it was an empty promise that carried no weight.
“Look, Dylan, we’ve known each other for going on six years. I love you like a brother but your promises just don’t mean shit anymore. The last four shows we weren’t even able to finish out the set. That leads to disappointed, angry fans which then turns into low record sales because we can’t live up to their expectations. I’m not okay with that man. Our fans deserve a decent show.”
As Rob was talking, Dylan’s eyes roved back and forth among them, seeking but not finding any sympathy. The smell of the food on the table brought up conflicting pangs of hunger coupled with a wave of nausea.
“This third album has the potential to raise us to new heights and really put us on the map. Don’t you want to play sold out shows with thousands of screaming fans chanting our names?”
Good Home Cookin': A Novel of Horror Page 1
