My father assumed his position behind the wheel of the boat and circled around the shallow waters, waiting to pick up Judy at the dock. Moments later, she was standing on the edge of the wooden, rickety boat dock, waving with a gleeful expression on her face. I liked Judy; always had. She might not have been my mother, but she was a good woman and she loved my father, which was all that really mattered.
After my mom died, it took five years for my father to find Judy. Fiive years might not seem very long to most people, but I was relieved when he finally met someone. My mother was the type of woman who laid out my father’s underwear and socks in the morning. My father needed a woman to take care of him—I’m glad that woman was Judy.
Sully and Roxy’s first request was to ride on the donut-shaped tube that was attached to the back of the boat. Margaret had one of those disposable cameras that you buy at the Quickmart, and she handed it to me gaily. We rode in companionable silence, snapping photos of Sully and Roxy as they cackled excitedly and held onto the float for dear life.
After tubing, there was swimming and a break for slapping together sandwiches and pulling out chip bags. Everything tastes better on a boat; I’m not sure why, but I swear it is true. By the time we finished eating, it was late afternoon, and the sun had shifted lazily behind a fluffy bed of clouds.
Although most of us were more than ready to head back to camp, Sully insisted on doing a little fishing first. He had my dad doing circles around the lake, in search of the perfect spot. He finally settled on a fairly shallow, secluded spot that was barely ten feet from a shore bank. The shore was lined with thick, gnarly roots, ancient oak trees, and overgrown shrubbery.
It was only five minutes after casting his line that the rain drops started to fall. “Time to head back. We don’t want to get caught in a storm,” I warned him.
Lucky for us, the back of the boat was sheltered by a medium-sized canopy. I held baby Maxie on my lap under it, using my hands to shield her from any excess rainwater that might drip into her eyes.
Judy, Roxy, and Margaret squeezed in beside me but Sully, being his usual macho and stubborn self, remained in the front bow of the boat, gripping his fishing pole with a tense expression.
I was tempted to warn him that he would catch cold, sitting out there in the rain, but I hesitated, not wanting to sound too motherly in front of his girlfriend. Instead I gave him a stern look, and he reeled in his line begrudgingly.
Dad had never budged from his position behind the wheel, and he turned the key to fire up the engine on the boat.Nothing happened.
An angry slew of curse words poured out of my father’s mouth, and we all sat there in stony silence, not wanting to agitate him further. I swear I think we were all holding our breath for a moment there.
Again and again he tried to get the engine to turn over, but there was still nothing but the sound of the rain, and thunder roared in the distance.
Why were we not smart enough to check a weather report? The abandoned boat docks and vacant camping lots should have been a clue for us…
“Did you run it out of gas, honey?” Judy finally asked, in a whiny, mildly irritated tone. My father shot her a look that left no room for a verbal response. My father wasn’t that stupid. I knew we weren’t out of gas.
He continued to crank the engine.. I don’t know much about boats, but I know that if you keep on cranking you will eventually kill the battery.
“Dad, do you have your cell phone handy? Maybe we should call for help…” I began to suggest, but then the boat came to life, and the beautiful roar of the speedboat’s engine was tremendously comforting. I let out a sigh of relief and adjusted baby Maxie on my lap.
As we began our lengthy journey back to the boat dock, we were in the throes of the storm. The once sunny sky was now shrouded in darkness, making it impossible to discern time of day. Lightning struck in the distance, and angry torrents of waves swept high along the sides of the boat, knocking us around unsteadily and beating our faces with pricks of water pellets.
I was still holding the baby, and I squeezed her tight, pushing out images of her bouncing off of my lap and into the fierceness of the stormy waters.
I thought our biggest concern was being stranded in Lake Merlott, but riding through this storm was proving to be quite an ominous task. The rain was coming down in sheets now, the water so rough that dad slowed down to a speed just slightly above drifting. The wind was picking up in speed and strengthtoo.
I worried that the entire canopy might be yanked off its poles; or worse, collapse on top of all of us.
My worries were instantly replaced with a new fear as I caught a glimpse of the size and roughness of the waves up ahead. We hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet…
I gripped baby Maxie and I braced myself for the impact. As we hit the first wave with a slam, I held tight to the baby, probably hard enough to bruise her tiny arms.
A shrill, panicky scream came out of the baby’s mouth, and the sound of it was alarming. The next slam jarred my entire body. My butt came off the seat, and I clenched my teeth so tightly,they ached painfully.
Then the boat jerked to the right so hard, it threatened to tip on its side. Water came up over the sides and we continued to endure slam after slam, wrestling with the treacherous waves.
Sounds of shouting echoed in my ears…but this time, I recognized the cries as my own.
How did this storm hit so quickly and violently, without anywarning signs?
A mixture of rain and lake water drenched my face, and I held an arm up in front of Maxie protectively, shielding her from the water as much as I could.
The rain was pouring down in a blinding rage, making it impossible to see what lie ahead.
After what seemed like hours, but was probably seconds, the boat stopped rocking, and I was able to catch my breath again.
I reached over to clasp my sister’s hand in mine. “She’s okay,” I assured her, talking about baby Maxie, who I still held tightly in my arms. Margaret’s face was white as a sheet. She’s in shock, I realized, trying to catch her eye and offer some assurances.
But then she pointed slowly toward the front of the boat, to the bow where Sully was sitting. Or was supposed to be sitting, I should say. Sully was gone.
That moment—when my eyes landed on his empty seat—is the most persistent memory of them all. It is the moment when my entire life changed.
It is the dividing line that split my life into two separate halves—the part where I had a son, and then the part where I never saw him again.
It is this second part that I find myself stuck, forever entwined in its murky, unforgiving waters. Those waters—more dangerous than the ones in the throe of a storm—hold me hostage, never letting me forget that once upon a time I lived another life—a life that contained my heart, my son…
Website: CarissaAnnLynch.com
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********
By Becca Moree
Being surrounded by this demented fucking shit twenty-four, seven is really starting to get to me. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good Halloween party or carnival as much as any other good ol’ southern boy. Problem was, this one never ends.
These sick fucks actually seem to get off on it all.
I swear on my daddy’s grave, if these people knew what all went on behind the scenes at their beloved Carnival of Darkness, they might think twice about handing over their hard earned cash.
Shit!
Just thinking about all the sick things I’ve seen in the last six months makes my
damn stomach turn. I’d surely be happier than a pig in shit if I could get the hell out of here. But that ain’t in the game plan just yet. Wish I had never accepted this god-forsaken job. I owe Mac my damn life, so when the man says jump, I don’t even ask how high until I’m already in the fucking air.
For now, I have to keep up appearances and keep acting my part. I run the menagerie. It’s my job to care for the animals used around the C.O.D. Lucky me, I also get to put on a little show once a night. You just gotta love being ogled by a shit ton of freaks while riding a horse and lassoing a hot chick who is wearing very little in the clothing department. Not to mention that same chick just happens to be running from a knife-wielding, creepy ass, blood-covered clown.
I get no damn satisfaction in roping some helpless woman so that the clown can catch her. Hell, each and every night my need to take that fucking knife from the clown and give him the fight of his life grows harder and harder to resist.
If it was all an act, maybe I could look the other way a bit easier. Unfortunately, I know that it’s not. I know that each and every night the girl gets kicked, dragged around, and stabbed, and not a single fucking second of it is fake.
Her screams of pain and her fear-filled eyes are one hundred percent real. They fill my dreams, turning them into nightmares I can never escape....
Becca Moree is an indie author that writes what fans are calling 'parts paranormal, horror, and romance!' Who doesn't love a little horror with their romance right?
So far Carnival of Darkness, book 1 in the FaeTAL series, has been released and readers are quickly falling in love! As one reviewer states "The author nails the evil, horrific, tragic events, yet inserts sexy steam, fantasy, humor, and an ending that leaves you craving more!"
Be on the lookout for more in the FaeTAL Series soon!
Books by Becca:
Carnival of Darkness
Hell House - Part of The Unforgiven Anthology
FaeTAL
Connect with Becca:
http://www.BeccaMoree.com
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBeccaMoree/
https://twitter.com/BeccaMoree
You can send her an email at:
[email protected]
********
By Steven Evans
It was quiet, too quiet, even the sporadic winds rustling the leaves... was just too quiet. All the noises behind me were muted and my attention was fixed solely on the stagnant road before me. I knew something was coming, something bad was gonna happen and I was powerless to stop it.
I couldn't believe my eyes. What they were trying to make me think I was seeing was just impossible. A blurry image materialized from out of the dark and made its way down my front porch. Gliding in air, its feet never touched the ground. The street lights flickered and dimmed and each one, in turn, exploded in brilliant sparks as the image went by.
I was scared but too curious to run. As it came closer there was something familiar, a sense of connection I just couldn't explain. It was close, nearly face to face, and now I knew what it was. I knew who it was!
Steven Evans writes just what is on his mind or in his heart -- no more, no less. Maybe anyone can do that ... but it takes a special person, such as Evans, to write it with such depth and feeling, yet without over-sentimentality or pretentiousness.
Form is his servant, not his master: he likes to rhyme, and (for the most part) uses rhythm to good effect; but he refuses to let meter or syllable count interfere with his expressing himself honestly and clearly. Errors? Sure: “had of known” for “had known,” “wreaked” for “reeked.” We can live with that, in exchange for his spontaneity. He needs a proofreader, but emphatically not an editor.
Evans avoids the traps of being too loose or folksy, too Southern or Western, too urban or cool. He doesn’t have a “shtick.” As well as telling his own story, he has an unexpected empathy with others, women as much as men (or more). He writes from experience and truth, not from others’ expectations.
“What you see is what you get” has seldom been truer of a writer. Take it or leave it. I’ll take it.
-- John Ambury, Canadian poet and reviewer.
hyperurl.co/l3yn0o
https://www.facebook.com/steveevansbooks/
amazon.com/author/7evans
********
By Jeremy Simons
From The Veil included in his anthology, Strangers Within.
Darryl mustered up the courage to glance into the mirror hanging above the small basin. His nose lay to one side, shattered beyond repair. All of his front teeth were missing. Blood was caked in spots all over his face and pouring down over his forehead from atop his head.
He ran both of his hands through his jet black hair (at least it used to be), and they both come back red. His stomach lurched as the RV shook around him. He could not control it. He was on his knees puking foam and dry heaving into the toilet. It hurt like a bitch, and it only seemed to bring about more blood, but he could not stop. He puked until his head swam like after a night of heavy drinking and his stomach felt as if it were about to implode.
His entire body throbbed and ached in unison as he struggled to his feet and out of the quaint bathroom. Outside the door laid nothing but turmoil. Dishes were strewn about and destroyed; the mini fridge had somehow shaken loose and was shooting sparks from its frayed cord; the sink had been ripped from its appropriate place in the countertop; the dining table had shaken loose—no surprise there—and was overturned between the driver’s and passenger’s seat; the windshield had busted out; glass littered the floor. But there was no sign of his friends or fiancé.
The more he tried to make sense of this mess, the more he sank. He placed his palms against his temples, closed his eyes, and let out a scream. Everything around him seemed to change in a surreal dreamlike placidness, and he thought again that he must be dreaming.
This is not real; it cannot be real.
He opened his eyes to a pristine RV. Everything was once again back in its appropriate place; nothing was broken or busted. He still did not see his friends, but that was acceptable at this point. Things were returning to normal, and he knew they had to be around somewhere. Maybe they had stopped for fuel or for some food and were all inside. He could definitely go for some food after vomiting up what remnants had remained from supper. Maggie had probably warned the others to not awake him; she had been genuinely worried.
But had that conversation even been real?
Darryl no longer knew what was real.
He removed his hands and opened his eyes. The destruction stayed at bay, and he supposed that was a good thing. But all around him, the world continued to zoom by at a rapid rate. The RV was zipping along down the highway. So much for food?
But where was everyone?
“Maggie?” No answer. “Chad? Melanie?” Silence greeted him once more.
He stumbled through the kitchen area of the RV up towards the front. “Maggie? Is that you? I’m feeling a lot better now. I just puked up my supper, and I could definitely go for some grub. What’chu think?”
The driver’s seat was empty. Outside the windshield, the trees whizzed by in colorful blurs as the rolling highway unfolded before him. Lightheadedness struck him in a flash; he sat down hard in the driver’s seat, the steering wheel brushing his arm as it steered itself around a curve.
What was he missing?
The bleep of a horn caught his attention. When he looked back out the windshield, there was a little red car off in the distance. The horn rang his ears with a perfect clarity, growing more distinct as the car grew near. The RV began to drift listlessly to the left. The car kept coming. Darryl watched in horror as his nightmare was seemingly being recreated. He still did not know how to explain what was going on, but he felt he was being given a second chance. And what was you supposed to do when given a second chance? You change the rules; you take action and better the situation. And that was precisely what he plann
ed to do.
He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled to the right, but the direction never changed. He pressed the horn but no sound escaped. He frantically jerked at the wheel, but the trajectory never changed. He was on a crash course with destruction, and there was nothing he could do about it. The idea of jumping out came to him but was quickly dismissed. The RV was traveling entirely too fast to guarantee a safe landing; and even if that was not the case, there was no way he would jump. If he did jump out of the driver’s side, the probability of being ran over by his own RV was too high. If he jumped out of the passenger’s side, he would undoubtedly be smashed by the oncoming car.
“What in the hell do you want from me?” he screamed up at the sky.
Daylight melted away before his eyes like some horrendous and lucid acid trip. Darkness crept in with a relentless fury. The horn of the oncoming car screamed shrilly, and Darryl could not help covering his ears. The headlights lit his haggard face as he rose to his feet and stumbled away from the driver’s seat. He felt the impact on the passenger’s side as the car struck it. He felt the rear tire explode.
As the RV began fishtailing, Darryl began screaming.
Links
https://www.facebook.com/jeremysimonsauthor
https://www.twitter.com/jeremi1986
https://www.amazon.com/author/jeremysimons
https://www.jsimonsauthor.webnode.com
Buried Alive:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRE6T9K
Untold Tale:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M356X2S
Strangers Within:
A Love of Magic: Jace's story: Chosen Saga Book 1.5 Page 6
