by J. Thorn
A Horror Short Story
by J.R. Rain
Amazon Kindle
Also available:
The Vampire Diaries:
Bound By Blood
by J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
I just don’t have it in me to write: “Dear Diary,” It seems kind of lame, even girlish, if you ask me, but Stefan seems to be into it. Same with Elena. So, here’s my take on the self-confessional habit:
Dear Bloody Diary,
My name is Damon Salvatore. I killed again today. Two campers, two kills, two nicely drained bodies. Camping in Mystic Falls is hazardous to one’s health, especially these days. They had a death wish, if you ask me.
A wish that I fulfilled.
After all, how many have to die in these very woods before people get the idea that:
Here be monsters.
More importantly, my search for the Four Elements is proving futile. It’s hard to look for something when you have no clue what it looks like. Or, even if it exists.
But last night was the second meteorite in three years. And that one was a doozy, blazing across the sky in all its glory...and heralding something else.
Something big.
That is, it will be if I can just find it.
At the very least, I need to figure out what the hell it looks like.
D. Salvatore
Chapter One
I was in my office eating a bologna sandwich and watching highlights from Virginia Tech’s worst season in 20 years when she walked into my life.
She was a dead ringer for Veronica Lake, with that pale, silky hair swept over one eye and those bow-shaped lips that were plumped up to a quarter-pout. She was curvy in all the right places and lean in the others. Chic high heels supported a pair of shapely legs peeking from beneath a mid-thigh navy skirt and matching blazer. For a millisecond, I saw a wink of lacy white camisole as she peered at me through the half-open door.
I blinked and turned off the YouTube video. In fact, I almost pinched myself.
I had a big mouthful of sandwich, and I chewed as discreetly as possible.
She stood there shyly, but in a way that suited her.
It wasn’t often that a beautiful woman graced my humble office. Hell, it wasn’t often that any clients graced my office. These days, investigation gigs were few and far between, which I didn’t mind much, but my landlord did. Especially when I was late again with my rent. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite pretty enough to bat my eyelashes and pay with my good looks, so I did have to take a case every now and then.
Her pretty chin trembled as she half opened the door. Damn. Poor kid.
“Come on in,” I said, hurriedly chewing.
The woman had been crying, that much was obvious. (I wasn’t an ace detective for nothing.) She stood just inside my open door, looking a little bit hesitant and a lot beautiful. Her misty eyes told me she was about to tell me a story that would get me so choked up that I wouldn’t even care if she could pay me. She was that gorgeous. That classy. And that vulnerable. I quickly swallowed the bite of sandwich.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my throat dryer than I would have liked.
“Are you a private investigator?” Her voice was confident, but I could detect a hint of doubt in my abilities.
“To the envy of all my friends, I am indeed a licensed private investigator,” I said. “Would you like to come in? I have coffee.”
She thought about it longer than I would have liked. These days, private eyes were getting pushed out of work by the Internet. Most people could track—aka stalk—anyone they wanted via the Internet. Although I wasn’t a professional stalker, I had once made a good living by locating people who didn’t want to be found. Now, I waited for cases from the odd housewife who suspected her husband of cheating, or the even rarer husband who suspected his wife of cheating. I got why people thought private dicks were sleazy. I felt sleazy sometimes because I followed sleazy people who did sleazy things. I especially felt dirty after I took zoom-lens evidence photos of marital cheating in progress. However, I took whatever work came my way. It was a sleazy job, but somebody had to do it and pay the rent. That someone was me.
Looking at her misty blue eyes, my first thought was that her hubby was cheating on her. She looked way too nice to have sex. Yeah, a real angel face. My second thought was that she should definitely get back at the jerk. With me, of course.
Okay, maybe I was that sleazy detective, after all.
Finally, she nodded and came in. “Yes, coffee would be fine.”
I got up a lot less smoothly than I should have and went around my crumb-strewn desk. “Cream and sugar?” I only had dehydrated Coffee-Mate but cream sounded classier.
“Yes and two.”
My hand was shaking a little as I reached for the guest mug that was least likely to taste like pencils. I poured her a cup of my best joe. I might skimp on the office rent, but never the coffee.
“Is now a good time to talk?” she asked. “Or should I make an appointment?”
“You’re in luck,” I said. I hadn’t had anyone call me for an appointment in maybe two months. “My next appointment just canceled. I’m all yours.” Angel Face.
“Really?” she said, her eyes innocent and trusting.
I brought the coffee over and handed it to her. She looked up at me with what I would classify as gratitude, so I coughed up the truth. “No. I lied,” I said. “And lying is what private eyes sometimes do to get information. We’re good at it. I’m good at it.”
“That’s not really something to be proud of,” she said, taken aback.
“You would think differently,” I said as I slipped back around my desk with my own coffee mug in hand, “if my skills were able to help you. Speaking of which, how can I help you?”
She processed what I said and nearly got up to leave. Luckily, my coffee must have tasted good—or the warm mug felt comforting in her hand. Or maybe it was my encouraging smile that did her in…or the relaxing ambiance of my simple office with its cluttered desk and foldout client chairs. At least she wasn’t put off by the scar on the side of my neck…a horrific scar that reached up almost to my ear and plummeted to well below my collar.
Or, perhaps, she was just plain desperate.
“I need help, Mister....”
“Long,” I said. “Max Long.” I said it like: Bond. James Bond. You only get one chance to make a first impression.
She nodded. “I need help, Mr. Long.”
“What kind of help?”
“Someone killed my sister and her boyfriend.”
I was about to lift my own coffee mug when I paused in mid-lift. Steam wafted up between us, obscuring the blonde woman in front of me. “Killed them?”
“Yes. And I want you to help me find the killer.”
The Vampire Diaries:
Bound By Blood
is available at:
Amazon Kindle
About the Authors:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
Elizabeth Basque lives in southern California with her two children. She’s the author of Sharpened Edges, the first in a paranormal mystery series. She’s presently hard at work on her next novel. Please find her on Facebook.
THE FORGOTTEN
By
Jacqueline Druga
The Forgotten
By Jacqueline Druga
Copyright 2013 by Jacqueline Druga
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
J. Miller, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your help.
Cover image provided by © Andrey Kiselev - Fotolia.com
>
Dear Garret,
The world ended today.
Dad
CHAPTER ONE
Alone. More alone than any human being could imagine.
The silence of the dead city rang out in a buzz.
Quiet.
It was so quiet that the only sound was Del’s steps. His black boots barely made a noise against the pavement, yet they echoed. How could they not? No one was around. Not a motor sound, airplane, or even a bird. Wearing a long black trench coat, dark hair in need of a haircut, and a book bag, Del walked down the deserted street.
Cars spewed about the road. Some had open doors. None contained any passengers.
For the most part, the storefronts were still intact as if waiting on the daily shoppers. No patrons would come this day. Nothing really was disturbed. It was if the world just stopped.
It just stopped.
Del Lincoln moved at a steady pace. That was, of course, until he crossed the street and arrived at the old movie theater. Classic theater. He imagined decades before, it was the place to go in the small town. People bustling in and out, paying a quarter for a show, a nickel for popcorn. Days gone by. It appeared to be renovated, to be one of those ‘artsy’ theaters. Showing independent films along with classics.
The marquee had missing letters from the currently-playing titles. Posters in the displays, faded. The older theater, located right there on the main street, had a ticket booth. An old-style ticket booth.
The glass was brazed with a dirty film, giving it a fog appearance, the curtains inside drawn as if to say ‘sold out … forever.’
A silver, ticket-exchange counter encircled the booth, and Del caught a glimpse of the white sticker. A sticker that read ‘God Saves.’
He chuckled. ‘There is no God’ was written over the words. Someone actually took time to do that?
Man, Del thought. What I wouldn’t have given to have one of these in my town. He walked to the booth and stopped. Of course, no one was in the ticket booth, but Del dared to dream, to pretend he was going to purchase a ticket to one of those low-budget films or classics from the past. After all, who was around?
“Whoa, Soylent Green is playing,” he spoke to the ticket booth. “Probably be better if it was Omega Man, don’t you think?” He laughed, then cleared his throat. “Sorry. Hear that one before? How much?” He paused. “You’re kidding, right? Highway robbery. But … I’m in the mood.” He reached into his pocket and as he lifted his head, he caught it. A reflection in the glass of the booth. A figure. Obviously a man. Del cocked a half smile, reached under his coat and turned around.
The man, face pasty white, eyes black, opened his mouth in a gaping manner, gasping out a hungry moan. Sores graced his chin and lips. He smelled.
Quickly, without hesitation, Del pulled out his weapon.
It wasn’t an ordinary weapon. Homemade. It looked like a pipe with a trigger.
He raised it, aimed, and shot.
Out of the end, ejected a thin spear. It seared directly into the forehead of the man, and retracted back into the weapon just as fast.
No blood. Just a single hole, and the man dropped.
“You just took all the fun out of my movie fantasy,” Del said to the body, sighed, and returned the weapon under his coat to his belt.
He moved on, as if nothing had occurred, continuing in his walk down the empty, deserted street.
++++
The backwards baseball cap wasn’t the only indication of his youth. Rick Kheoler hunched over the pool table. His boyish, twenty-two-year-old frame, lanky and tall. He smiled, revved back and took his shot.
The success in which the nine ball met the left corner pocket, bred a scream of enthusiasm across the hollow building.
One time a huge grocery store, shelves removed, the building was renovated to house musicians for recording.
Partition walls put up to separate ‘napping’ quarters, and there was a small makeshift kitchen, living area, and a pool table, of course.
Instruments still remained from the days when it probably was filled with partying people, playing the creations of their souls.
Now the building was occupied by people protecting their own souls.
Nicole had joined Rick. A beautiful woman, thick and muscular, she was an athlete, but not at pool. She wanted to be a professional wrestler, and trained hard for it too. But because of her pretty face, she was deemed a ‘diva’ and never taken seriously. That wasn’t what Nicole strived for. Now, in the former music studio—slash—former grocery store, she strived to get a good shot.
Rick leaned over the pool table; he was on a roll. Just as he did, the interior door opened, and Del walked in.
“Did you lock the outer doubles?” Rick asked.
Del rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’m not an idiot.”
Rick watched Del. “You were supposed to get groceries. It was your turn.”
“Dude, really? What’s up with second guessing me? I did.” Del walked to the pool table, sliding off his backpack. He plopped it down and it smacked into the balls on the table.
“Hey. We’re playing a game.” Rick raised his hands.
“Food.” Del pointed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “I shopped for it. You put it away.”
“Doesn’t look like much,” Rick said.
With a huff, Del grabbed the bag, unzipped it and dumped its contents on the felt. “Freaking heavy. Appreciate it.”
“Uh!” Rick cried out.
The items lay on the table. Several boxes of rice, some pineapples, beans, cookies, along with multitudes of SPAM.
Nicole stepped closer. “Spam?”
“Dude, you did it again.” Aiming his voice, Rick shouted to another door, “Alex!”
“What’s wrong with Spam?” Del asked. “I like Spam.”
“Alex!”
Del pointed to the items. “Look, I got pineapples to put …”
Again, Rick shouted, “Alex.”
From that door, Alex emerged. Alexandra was her given name but preferred Alex for short. A naturally pretty woman, wearing all black, heaved out a breath as if irritated when she walked into the central room. “What is going on?” she asked.
“Look.” Rick pointed to the table. “He did it again. It was his turn to go on the food run and he got Spam.”
“I like Spam,” Del interjected.
“But that’s all you get,” Rick quipped.
“But I like Spam.”
Alex held up her hand. “Unfortunately, most of us don’t share your passion for the processed meat.”
“Mack likes Spam,” Del said.
At that moment, with a presence as big as he was, Mack stepped into the room. A tall, towering man, he perched his gun next to the pool table. “What about me?” he asked, then smiled. “Yes. Spam.”
“See.” Del pointed. “I got pineapples, can you do that Hawaiian thing you do?” Del asked.
“Sure.”
“Seriously?” Rick shouted.
Alex faced Rick. “Will you stop? Please.”
“I don’t want Spam again,” Rick stated. “I hate it. Plus, you know how the padre gets with it.”
Alex nodded. “Hates it. I know. But just … just deal with it tonight. Tomorrow we’ll do another food run.”
Seemingly fine with that, Rick agreed.
“You and I,” Alex said to Rick.
“What! No! Wait. I hate going out there. Those … those things are out.”
“Yeah, well, those things have been out there for months. We still go get food.”
“Can’t Mack go, and I’ll do roof watch?” Rick asked.
Mack nodded. “That works.”
“No, that doesn’t work,” Alex replied. “And …” She turned to Mack. “Speaking of roof watch. That’s where you’re supposed to be. Why aren’t you?”
“I was taking a break. Padre’s up there.”
Everyone groaned. Del turned dramatically as if his body was whining.
“He sucks,” Del said. “He’s like ninety, Mack. He can’t see. Can’t shoot. It’s dusk, the worst time. You did that on purpose didn’t you? Cause we end up getting hit by surprise.”
“Yeah.” Mack nodded. “I was bored.”
Alex huffed out, “Mack, you can’t do that.”
“I needed a break, Alex. Look my collar,” he pulled the edge of his shirt, “was getting sunburn.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “Take a break. I’ll do roof watch.” She reached down and grabbed his rifle.
“Wait,” Rick called out. “Not that you’re not good. But Mack is Mack. It’s prime time.”
“Rick.” Alex winced. “Do you ever not complain? I’m doing roof watch. Mack …” she pointed, “is making dinner.” With a shoulder of the rifle, she turned and walked out.
Mack grinned and lifted a can. “Oh, yeah. Spam.”
Rick shook his head with a look of disgust. “I hate Spam.”
++++
In his prime, Father Milo Owens was in the hippest and coolest priest. Listening to rock and rap music with the young kids, understanding them, and owning up to at one time smoking ‘the marijuana’ in his youth, earned him some sort of trusted brownie points with the young congregation. But somehow, he turned stern when he became the pastor in a large parish outside the Bronx. Too many responsibilities, too many problems in the parish.
He made the adjustments well. Always did. But, he had a hard time adjusting to so much Spam.
The squarely built, white-haired priest in his eighties, looked perplexed over his meal, or rather what was left of it.
He fiddled with it on his plate, moving it around as if creating some sort of art in the sauce. He stayed focused on that, too, despite the clanking of dishes as Nicole cleaned up.
Her hand reached down for his plate. “Are you finished, Father?”
“Does it look like I’m finished?”
“You’re playing.”
