These Unquiet Bones Read online

  THESE UNQUIET

  BONES

  By

  Dean Harrison

  Omnium Gatherum / Odium Media

  Los Angeles CA

  These Unquiet Bones

  Copyright © 2013 Dean Harrison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher. http://omniumgatherumedia.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  First Electronic Edition

  Acknowledgements

  Though the themes and characters in this novel have haunted me since I was a teenager, THESE UNQUIET BONES took three years, several drafts, and buckets upon buckets of blood, sweat and tears to complete. It would therefore be remiss of me not to give thanks to those who have helped, supported, inspired and encouraged me along the way.

  Of course, I first wish to thank my family and friends. They have always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in me.

  Next, I give thanks to Michelle Ladner, my longtime-friend and fellow writer. It was her thoughtful and brutally in-depth edits and critiques that helped make this novel possible. She suffered through the process with me, and I am forever in her debt.

  To Ty Schwamberger, who saw potential and generously took me under his wing. He is a great friend, a gracious mentor and one killer of a horror writer. I wouldn’t be where I am now without his help and guidance.

  To Thomas A. Erb, Steven L. Shrewsbury, Michael West, Christopher A. Durish and countless more of my fellow horror writers who assisted me with their friendship and advice.

  To Michael Knost and the contributors of his WRITER’S WORKSHOP OF HORROR, a must read for any aspiring horror writer.

  To Chuck Cox and my friends at Satori Coffee House, where much of this novel was written.

  And finally, to the music of Alice in Chains, Black Label Society, Metallica, Clutch, Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Depeche Mode, Smashing Pumpkins, Fiona Apple, Tori Amos and Garbage. All these bands help fuel the muse during the writing of this novel.

  For my wife, who is my pride and joy.

  Prologue

  Deep in the Woods

  November 1, 1982

  Assistant District Attorney Keith Foster sat down at his kitchen table with a steamy coffee mug and picked up The Azalea County Herald. The headline above the fold made him grimace.

  Halloween Horror Found in Gulfcrest!

  That shameless display of yellow journalism was sure to sell plenty of papers.

  Sipping his coffee, Keith scrutinized the article, relieved to find that the Azalea County Sheriff’s Office withheld the names of the deceased pending further investigation. That took care of one problem, for now.

  All the press knew was that an anonymous tip led deputies to a compound hidden deep in a densely wooded area outside the rural Gulfcrest community, where they were engaged in a fierce gun battle. Two of the deputies were injured. The dead consisted of backwoods hillbillies who refused to surrender to authorities without a fight.

  Some of the dead were teenagers, two merely children.

  Scattered about the compound were four double-wide trailers, a chapel made of weathered clapboard, and several small shacks. The site was entirely enclosed by a ten-foot chain-linked fence topped with barbwire and lit by a barrage of floodlights. Inside the chapel, deputies discovered an unholy slaughterhouse.

  Butchered bodies of what were formerly women dangled naked by the wrists from chains suspended from the ceiling rafters. Words such as ‘whore’ and ‘succubus’ were scribbled along the walls in the victims’ blood.

  The gory details were unavailable to the media, but Keith was made well aware of them. His mind reeling with those details, he set down the paper, took another sip of coffee, and rose from the table. Walking down the hall, he paused and peered into the guest room where the anonymous tipper— his sister— lay asleep on the bed.

  Soft morning sunlight streamed in through the blinds and gently caressed Rebecca’s long, handsome face. Keith hadn’t seen or heard from her in well over a decade, no thanks to that possessive, fundamental nutcase she married. So it came as quite a surprise to find her at his doorstep late last night with an unbelievable story, and a strangely silent teenage son.

  Who presently lifted his square head from the pillow next to his mother’s, and aimed at Keith with cold, gun-barrel eyes.

  Startled by the boy’s intense, Doberman-like vigilance, Keith faltered back a step. Gooseflesh prickled at the nape of his neck, sending chills down his back.

  Keith saw no sign of fatigue or unrest on the boy’s face. It was almost inhuman. He wondered if the boy slept at all during the night.

  An unnamed fear blossomed in his chest, but Keith composed himself quickly. “Coffee’s made,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  He was answered with chilly silence and a stone-cold countenance. It unnerved him. He attempted a smile.

  The boy’s gaze never wavered. It looked as if he peered straight through Keith into space, his mind leaving his body to roam the haunted pathways of his psyche.

  Keith could hardly imagine the trauma the boy sustained after what he and Rebecca endured. He hoped having them here instead of a hospital was a smart idea, but he knew he couldn’t keep them here much longer.

  In a day or so the investigating officers would learn of their identity and be searching the county for them. So to avoid their names getting out to the public, he would take them to the Sheriff’s Office to officially document their story.

  He would make damn sure that the press never caught a whiff of it. He was friendly with plenty of law enforcement agents and judges who would make that happen, and most of them owed him favors. A few strategically placed phone calls and the whole matter would be swept under the rug.

  He didn’t want Rebecca and her son to suffer anymore than they had already. He wanted them to recover from this nightmare as unscathed as possible. He didn’t want them to forever carry around the stigma a scandal such as this would create.

  “I’ll protect you,” he promised the boy, who continued to stare through him like glass. “No one will ever know you had anything to do with what happened back there. You’ll able to rise above this mess and move on with your life. I’ll see to it that your secret is safe.”

  At that the boy finally blinked, dropped his steely gaze, and eased the tension from his body with a long, deep breath. The exhaustion at last revealed itself on his face, making him appear old and worn. He dropped his head on his pillow and closed his eyes, falling asleep within seconds.

  Keith stepped out of the room without another word, and hoped he could stick to his promise. It was the least he could do for not helping Rebecca. But he knew from experience that the future was impossible to predict.

  Sometimes even the best-kept secrets came out of the dark— sometimes with a vengeance.

  Part One

  The Nightmare Man

  Chapter 1

  When the screaming started, Amy Snow cast her iPod aside and clutched her stuffed rabbit, Romeo, close to her chest.

  “Get out of here,” her mother shouted. “Now! I called the police! They’re on their way!”

  The sound of laughter raised goosebumps along Amy’s arms as she regressed in her mind to the age of six and curled among the clutter of dusty boxes and toys clumped in the small crawl space beneath her bed— a place she used to hide
as a child when her parents fought.

  Beneath the bed always seemed like the safest place to seek sanctuary. Amy wasn’t sure why, but there was something warm and comforting about that darkness. She felt like nothing bad could happen, as long as she lay hidden with the dust bunnies.

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch,” the stranger in the house growled. “I’m here to collect!”

  “What are you talking about? Collect what?”

  “You know damn well what, fuckin’ cunt. Stop pussy-footin’ around and give me what I’m owed!”

  Hysterical, her mother replied, “What, money? Is that what you’re after? I’ll give you money; just get the hell out of my house!”

  “Stupid whore. It ain’t money I’m after!”

  Tears blazed down Amy’s cheeks as she trembled, wishing her father were home to protect her and her mother.

  Where was Dad anyway? She wondered. At work? Getting drunk at a bar somewhere?

  Oh, she remembered, that’s right; he’s living with Grandma now. Mom kicked him out of the house after he…

  “No, don’t. Stop!”

  Amy heard the intruder laugh, heard her mother scream, heard strange choking noises followed by the ominous thump of something dropping to the floor. The sound chilled her heart.

  “MOM!” Regressing further into the state of a scared child, Amy gripped Romeo tighter. If she were of a more rational mind, she would have made a dash for the window.

  But rationality had slipped away. Terror took its place.

  She heard footsteps in the hall. They were coming her way.

  “Comin’ to get’cha,” the stranger said.

  She choked back a scream as her bedroom door creaked open. Her heart pounded. Light spilled into her room. She stifled a whimper as a pair of dirty black boots clopped toward her bed.

  “Little slut.” The stranger chuckled. He smelled sickly of tobacco and liquor. “Come out and play with big papa.”

  A large gloved hand reached beneath the bed and dug its fat, stubby fingers into her hair. Amy shrieked as she was dragged from the darkness, her sanctuary—

  —and jolted awake in a cold sheen of sweat, gasping for breath as her eyes scanned the darkness.

  She saw the outlines of two side-by-side windows, a desk with a computer, a bureau with a mirror, a bookcase, and a bedpost. Nothing else.

  No monsters. No bogeymen.

  No longer in the frightened mind-state of a child, she realized it was only a dream and that she was in a different room in a different house in a different time of her life. She was safe.

  Thank God.

  Her throat felt scratchy. For a moment she feared she had actually screamed out loud, awakening—

  Oh, no.

  With a sinking feeling in her gut, Amy remained very still. She heard her heart pounding as she anticipated her father barreling into her room like he had last night when she woke up screaming for her mother.

  Please, don’t. Please.

  But after a few seconds passed with nothing happening she assumed her father was so deep in an alcohol-induced coma that nothing could wrench him out.

  She relaxed the tension in her body, relieved that she wasn’t going to suffer another night wrapped in her father’s large, sweaty arms as he stroked her hair and breathed foul whiskey breath into her face.

  A small part of her, however, resented him for it.

  What if she had actually been in trouble? He wouldn’t have heard her scream. And like last time, he would have failed to save her.

  Why’d he start drinking again?

  That was a question she asked herself almost every night after finding him passed out on the living room couch with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, but she knew better than to ever confront him about it.

  No, it was safer just to hold her tongue like a good girl and keep her mouth shut. She learned the hard way that silence was the best way to stay out of trouble and keep Daddy happy, no matter how much it hurt her.

  She loved her father, but found it difficult to like him. Their relationship was a double-edged sword.

  He became a different person when he drank.

  Dr. Rachel Massie, the psychiatrist Amy used to see, had other insights into the conflicted relationship with her father. She had weird ideas about the possible identity of the Nightmare Man who was the reason Amy was up at this late hour. What would Dr. Massie say if she knew he had returned to haunt her dreams?

  Wiping a hand across her sweaty forehead, she propped herself on an elbow, reached for the lamp on the nightstand, and turned the switch. The light scattered the shadows throwing a soft yellow glow along the purple-painted walls.

  With her eyes adjusting to the self-inflicted assault on her vision she slipped from beneath the sheets, swung her legs off the edge of the bed, and massaged her jaw. It ached from her clenching it during her troubled sleep.

  “Ugh.” She glanced at the alarm clock. It was a quarter to four. Muttering a curse, she brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face, rose to her feet, and stepped toward the dresser. She opened the underwear drawer and rifled through its contents.

  She returned to bed with her diary and sat against the headboard with her knees drawn to her chest. She recorded the account of her latest night terror.

  Her grip tightened around the pen when she came to the part about her mother’s faceless killer, the Nightmare Man. Her hand trembled and her writing grew sloppy.

  Again she had woken up before catching a glimpse of the man’s face. It frustrated her. She chewed on the tip of her pen and fumed at her inability to recollect anything until waking up in a hospital bed two days after her mother’s death.

  What happened that night four years ago was a blank, a part of her life blackened from her mind as if by some magic marker. The doctors believed it was a case of short-term amnesia brought on by trauma. They said the memories might resurface but they never did, much to the ire of the investigators working on her mother’s case.

  They never found any clues to the killer’s identity. No fingerprints, no DNA, no hairs or fibers.

  It all resided within Amy’s head, locked in a place not even she could access, no matter how hard she tried.

  Dr. Massie once told her that some people force themselves to forget the details of a particular trauma in order to escape the pain the memories of that trauma could create. Amy, however, wished she could force herself to un-forget those details.

  Especially after suspicion turned to her father, no thanks to her maternal grandparents— Richard and Jane Barrett.

  Amy despised them for getting that particular wrecking ball in motion. It didn’t matter that her father, a former narcotics detective, was raiding a crack house when the murder took place. No, such technicalities did not extinguish their suspicions. Even as the case grew colder and the odds of getting behind the truth of the tragedy diminished, they continued to persecute her father, making him into the Nightmare Man.

  Her grandparents planted that thought in Amy’s mind. According to Dr. Massie, Amy projected the Nightmare Man onto her father, even though she refused to believe he had anything to do with her mother’s murder.

  My father’s not a monster!

  But sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder—What if?

  What if her father did have something to do with what happened to her mother? In her dream, the Nightmare Man said he was at the house to collect. Collect what? He said it wasn’t money.

  Then what was it? Did her father know anything about it?

  Those were just a few of the unanswered questions that haunted her mind ever since it happened. Gnawing angrily on her lower lip, Amy shut her diary, climbed out of bed, and slipped it back into the bureau.

  She didn’t want to pick at those unhealed wounds anymore tonight. It did nothing to ease her mind. It just raised more ghosts, more terrors, and more bogeymen.

  Snatching her iPod from the bedside table she turned out the lamp, laid her head down, plugged i
n her earphones, and located Romeo in the twisted tangle of sheets.

  With melodic piano music playing in her ears, she closed her eyes and prayed that tomorrow would be free of the usual crap that troubled her mind since her mother’s death.

  It was her only birthday wish, but she knew from experience that some wishes just don’t come true.

  Chapter 2

  After Adam tied Eve to the apple tree, he pressed the serrated edge of his buck knife against her throat and slit it open.

  Eve’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Blood poured from the incision and flowed down her naked breasts in long scarlet ribbons.

  Stepping back with a triumphant smile, Adam drank in the final agonizing moments of his temptress and chuckled as she struggled against her restraints in one last act of defiance.

  It was silly and sad, yet delightfully entertaining to watch. Adam’s smile broadened.

  He never tired of it— watching a woman die by his own powerful hands. The feeling he got from it was intoxicating.

  When Eve convulsed for the last time and bowed her blond head in submission to death, Adam closed his eyes and spread his arms out wide as he basked in the euphoria of his accomplishment.

  Tilting his face up to the early autumn sun shining through the interlaced pine boughs above, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly and shuddered in ecstasy.

  However, he knew the feeling of absolute bliss was temporary. His mission to right an ancient wrong was not yet over. He still had plenty of work ahead.

  The Father told him so. This particular Eve was not The Lost One. She was one of many decoys placed in his path by the Devil, who did not want to see this divine mission completed.

  Laying down his arms, Adam opened his eyes, grabbed a dead leaf from the earthen floor, and wiped the blood from his knife. He then peeled off his leather gloves and stuffed them into his olive-green Salvation Army duffel bag.