Praise for Daniel Willcocks
Daniel Willcocks has the ability to draw you into a scene, then stick you painfully, weaving a ribbon of fear as he twists your thoughts about what you read, and what is real."
Michael Anderle
Willcocks has a way of finding humanity in the darkest and strangest of circumstances, turning standard horror-thriller premises into real life touching stories.
Kathy Robinson
Awesome, freaky stories! I really enjoyed every story and I can't wait to read more from Mr. Willcocks! Anybody looking for some quick scares needs to read this book!
Christina B
The Mark of the Damned
A Horror Novella
Daniel Willcocks
Other titles by Daniel Willcocks
They Rot Series (with Luke Kondor)
They Rot (Book 1)
They Remain (Book 2)
They Ruin (coming soon)
Keep My Bones
The Caitlin Chronicles (with Michael Anderle)
Dawn of Chaos
Into the Fire
Hunting the Broken
The City Revolts
Chasing the Cure (coming soon)
Other Works
Twisted: A Collection of Dark Tales
Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace
Sins of Smoke
Keep up-to-date at
www.danielwillcocks.com
Copyright © 2019 by Hawk and Cleaver
First published in Great Britain in 2019
All rights reserved.
https://www.hawkandcleaver.com
ISBN: 9781701019836
Cover design by CreativeParamita.com
All work remains the property of the author and may be used by themselves or with their express permissions in any way that they deem appropriate with no limitations.
No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or print other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
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Contents
I. Marked
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
II. Bound in Bounty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
III. Honoring the Contract
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Become a ‘Darksider’
‘Twisted’
About the Author
Other titles by Hawk & Cleaver
Part I
Marked
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
—George Eliot
1
It was exactly one month after his father’s funeral that Quinton received the final part of his inheritance.
The burning itch came out of nowhere. At first it seemed like nothing more than a slight twinge of the muscles. An isolated case of pins and needles, exclusive to the thick area of fat located between his wrist and elbow.
Quinton’s hand unconsciously moved to his arm. His fingers massaging the skin through the long sleeve of his top while his lips slurped hungrily at Betty’s famous chocolate thickshake.
“…but I guess that’s all over now. That’s what I get for thinking that I can have it all. Something had to break eventually.”
Quinton looked across the table at his best friend and life-long buddy, Gabe Clark. A man with a thick lock of dark wavy hair, stubble, and emerald green eyes that made the girls swoon. Where Quinton had inherited the memorable features of a movie extra, Gabe took the lead, looking like he had just come off set from a James Dean flick.
He had even had his own feature in the local town paper. Just a week ago the Farside Gazette had slapped Gabe on the front page, all white teeth and smiles, his fingers pinching down a pair of expensive shades to reveal his dazzling greens, bragging about his recent triumph of hitting over 150,000 subscribers on his YouTube channel and bringing attention to the small logging town in which they lived.
It’s all about consistency, the article read, a pullout quote in bold popping from the center of the text, your audience expects you at a certain time every week. I deliver. Simple as that.
Quinton had scoffed when he had read the paper, knowing that the residents of Farside were no more likely to follow Gabe’s advice than they were to spit on their newborns and kick them into the nosebleeds. There was something about this town that rooted people to the ground. Kept them here, living in the past. Something which held kids until they became pensioners and didn’t let go.
Some would call it quaint. Quinton would argue different.
Quinton continued to suck on his straw, the paper already turning to mush between his lips. He thought back to the good old days of disposable plastic straws and sighed. At least they had never flaked away and became mush in your mouth. Found a way to stick to your lips until they had dried and glued to the skin like papier mâché. Quinton couldn’t count the times recently he’d peeled off the little flecks of white paper and found pieces of his lips mixed amongst the paste. Small globules of blood peppering his lips. The iron taste following shortly after.
Another brief flash of pain from his arm. Quinton felt himself grimace, his eyes flicking to the cotton of his sleeves. Heat was rising beneath, as though the body was reacting to an infection. He wondered if something might have crawled up his sleeve and bitten him. He could feel the poison spreading already. A lump beginning to rise.
“Dude, are you okay?”
Quinton didn’t answer right away. Instead he thought
back to all the bug bites and attacks he’d had growing up. He had been just five-years-old when he first discovered his allergy to mosquito bites.
His father had taken him fishing. Something that sounded like a fun idea, at the time. A day out with a father he rarely saw throughout the week, tossing lines into the water and collecting fish by the bucketful. A whole two days spent with a man who had spent more hours inside his beloved upstairs office than he had across his entire lifetime with his wife and son.
Not that they were ever mad at him for that, of course. While his father may have played his role as an elusive ghost from his upstairs office, he had always provided for his family. Quinton had never understood his father’s job, but him and his mother had never wanted for anything. They had a peaceful life. A nice home, food in the fridge, clothes to keep them warm.
A nice life.
A quaint life.
On that sunny weekend in May, 15 years ago, Quinton remembered the smile he had on his face after he cast his first line. His father teaching him how to hook bait and the signs to look for to know when you had a fish on your line. The peaceful quiet surrounding the lake. Sparrows tweeting overhead. The sun beating down on his fragile, translucent skin, the blues of his veins like spiderwebs patterning his body.
Hours passed. Nothing caught. A few tentative nibbles, but not so much as a splash.
“They must already have had their lunch.” His father grinned.
Resigned, Quinton took a seat on the bank and slapped at the little black insects that swarmed his arms. He hadn’t realized that they had already bitten, his arms now covered in minute red bumps. It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that Quinton had been rushed to the hospital.
The agent acts fast, particularly when you scratch them, the irritation enough to inflame the surrounding area and bring out the skin in blisters. A swelling so hot and furious that the skin will stretch to its limit, so tight that you fear it might crack and break. A small tablet of yellow pus incased in a thin film marking the entry point the mosquito had taken.
Seven of them spaced unevenly along his arm. All feeling in his hand numbed. Syringes filled with antihistamines. Tears shed at his discomfort. An overnight stay with mother draped over his bed.
Where his father had to go, he was never told.
“Dude, I’m worried about you.”
Quinton’s eyes refocused. He hadn’t realized he was staring at his forearm.
He shook his head, resisting the temptation to scratch his itching skin by moving his arm under the table. He clutched at his forearm and squeezed it tight, turning the action into a shrug.
“You really don’t need to be,” Quinton said, hardly feeling convinced. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Gabe’s head tilted to the side. “Please. You can be honest with me.” He took a breath and Quinton immediately knew Gabe was debating whether or not to bring up the elephant in the room, wondering whether or not to broach the subject. Quinton prayed he wouldn’t, but in true Gabe fashion, he went ahead anyway. Gabe always knew best. “Look, I can’t possibly sit here and pretend that I know what it’s like to lose a parent. You know me and my dad ain’t even that close, so I can only imagine what it is that you and your mom are going through. But it’s been a month now, and this is the first time I’ve seen you out the house. The first time we’ve sat down with some cool shakes like the good old days and shot the shit.”
“Gee, I didn’t realize that my mourning was an inconvenience to you.” Quinton heard himself speak from afar, his famous brand of sarcasm tainting the words before he could control them. His arm throbbed painfully and he nudged the table. A small salt shaker fell to its side and spilled its contents on the table.
An elderly woman on a nearby table looked up from her newspaper and tsked.
Gabe frowned. He righted the shaker and swept the spillage into his open palm, tossing the contents over his left shoulder and continuing as though nothing had happened. “You know I’m not saying that at all, Quin. I just mean that, I’m here for you, too. The only reason I’m shooting off my mouth about Aubrey is because I don’t know what else to say.” He raised his hands, palms. “I know, I know. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about my awkwardness. I just want you to know where I’m at. Truth is that Aubrey was a bitch from day one. I knew it’d end eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. I thought she at least had another few good months in the tank.”
Quinton wanted to listen, but his arm was reaching an agony he could hardly bear. He gritted his teeth, his cheeks sunken in as he sucked his own mouth dry. The itch grew to a burning flame and began to spread. Stretching from the small point in the center of his forearm to the cuff of his wrists. His elbow throbbed as the heat spread towards his shoulder, the skin so hot he feared his bones would melt under their heat.
Quinton tried to reply, tried to ignore it all. His eyes connected with Gabe’s for the most fleeting of moments before he shut them again. He could hear Gabe talking to him as though through an aquarium window.
“Dude? Quin? Are you okay? You’re not looking so hot…”
Then why do I feel like I’m on fire?
An infernal burning, like every mosquito bite Quinton had ever experienced all rolled all into one. Their needle-like acupuncture snouts penetrating the skin, lapping up his blood and drinking it through straws made of liquid metal. Piercing flesh. Draining their hosts.
“Sir, is your friend okay?”
Through a blurry haze he thought he could see someone beside Gabe, a waitress in a pale blue pinafore.
“I… I don’t know. Quinton, what’s wrong? Show me where it hurts.”
With more strength than it should have taken, Quinton dragged his arm out from under the table. The limb as heavy as though it were as dense and swollen as flotsam. He closed his eyes and could see fire. The pummel of the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. Molten iron so hot it turned white. The pain finding his bicep, his tricep, rising and rising to his shoulder.
Please, God, whatever is happening to me, let it stop, there. Please, no more. I can’t take it. I can’t…
In the windows of his mind he could see eyes in the flames. A pair of yellow-rimmed pupils dilated and hungry. He thought he could hear a snarl, a growl, the purr of some hungry thing.
“Someone call an ambulance, please.” Gabe’s voice, urgent. Quinton’s body moved against his will. A void opening up beneath him as he began to fall, fall, fall down into an eternal darkness from which no return would be possible.
Did he scream? He might have screamed.
Make it stop!
Something bashed his head. A sledgehammer to his cranium. If his arm wasn’t in such agony he might have been concerned about concussion.
“Arm…” Quinton managed, his voice unrecognizable through his own pain. “My… arm…”
The mocking laughter of the wild thing flared in his head. White flowers of light began to bloom like fireworks, capped with horns or obsidian. He grappled with the edge of consciousness, something tearing at his sleeve. The sound of ripping cotton. He swam in the middle of the impossible, dived through the in-between, soared into territory never before felt.
“Dude, come on, man. What the hell?”
And then it was all gone. On the turn of dime, the pain subsided. The intensity of it all gone with the click of the fingers of some Divine and holy being.
Quinton’s eyes snapped open. He was on the floor. Several faces coalesced before him, staring down with concern. A woman with blue rinsed hair and a pair of half-moon spectacles fanned a menu in his face, the flurries of air refreshing and cool. Under another set of circumstances, he might have told her that he could see up her pinafore and all the way to the crease between her legs.
“Dude, when did you get that?”
Quinton raised his head, following Gabe’s gaze to his arm. A small gasp escaped his mouth.
“That’s some pretty sweet ink, man. But do you think it might be infec
ted?”
Quinton couldn’t believe it. His mind, still hazy from the visions of fire and flame imagined the worst. Where the soft pink flesh of his arm had been, he now saw the vibrant red of a lobster’s claw. Veins, varicose and throbbing, with every blood pulse. Saw skin stretched so tight that a single poke might make the whole damn thing burst, like a needle to a water balloon on a hot day.
But that wasn’t what was truly there.
He shook his head, trying to shake off the last of his delirium. He screwed his eyes shut and uttered silent words of prayer. When he looked again, his arm looked perfectly normal. Its size in proportion to his body.
More than that, it felt strong. Virile. Better than ever.
The only thing that he couldn’t understand, was how the virgin arm that had been naked and unblemished only a few minutes before, was now covered from his shoulder to his wrist in a strange tapestry of tattoos.
The Mark of the Damned Page 1
