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Excerpts From:
Unearthed:
An Anthology of Suspense
--------------------
Last Fragment
by Shawn McPike
My name is Stuart Nichols, but most people call me Stu. I’m a
contractor—a fairly good one, as a matter of fact. The kind who would,
while doing other work, replace your broken faucet for free with one
left over from a previous job.
I hated Mondays—well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t hate
Mondays. I hated this Monday, in particular; because of the rain,
because of the unconventional circumstances of the job, and because deep
within my gut, a feeling of dread began to grow. My gut was seldom
wrong.
I slogged across the rain-soaked yard, each footstep resulting in a
watery pool gathered around it. The chill of an intense storm enveloped
my senses. A dozen more trips, I supposed, and I’d have everything I
needed inside. As I bemoaned my lack of a raincoat, I flung a bag of
mortar over my shoulder and ran toward the respite the front porch
provided.
The job, tiling the family room floor of this two-bedroom ranch on the
south side of Phoenix, should have been easy. Admittedly, it wasn’t.
Since starting out on my own, this had been one of the most peculiar
projects I had ever seen. Peculiar in my business typically meant
problems, and problems were, well…a problem.
For the next two hours, I carried the remaining materials into the
house. This took considerably longer than planned, as I had to wrap some
of them with sheets to keep from getting soaked. I should’ve worn my old
boots today, I thought, as I listened to the squish of my socks on the
front porch. I was relieved this was the last load, and I had very
little desire to go back outside for the rest of the day. Hopefully the
miserable rain would have moved on by then.
As much as I had a penchant for complaining, I loved what I did for a
living. Before I had started my own contracting company, I was a middle
manager in a manufacturing company. I had a cubicle, a headset, and a
life-crushing sense that I was wasting my life. My father had always
encouraged me to be a handyman, as he referred to it, and follow in his
footsteps. “Nothing gives a better feeling than when a man builds
something with his hands,” he used to say. Although, as a kid I didn’t
listen, as I got older it made more sense to me, and eventually I quit
my job. For two years I had been working as a contractor, when six
months ago I began taking bigger jobs and hiring employees.
We were still growing, so I continued to do one-man projects, fearful of
turning any work away in the current market. I was acutely aware that at
any moment incoming work could dry up. Consequently, I had recently
started taking small jobs, and ones I would’ve rejected in the past—like
this one.
The antithesis of my normal process. Even now I had yet to talk to the
owner of the house. My first and only contact, an e-mail seeking my
availability for the tile job, was followed two days later by another
email with a full project proposal. They had included drawings and
measurements, as well as a money order for six thousand dollars, with
the promise of another six thousand upon completion.
The owner, identifiable only as T.J. McDermott, lived in San Diego would
only be available by e-mail. Perhaps the most unorthodox part of this
request was to tile over the existing hardwood floor in the family room.
With ten days to complete the project, the letter acknowledged the
unconventional nature of the request. It stressed a premium was being
paid so the work would be “of high quality and on time”. It also stated
there were buyers interested in the house, necessitating the rush. These
buyers had requested the replacement of the wood floors as a
precondition of their purchase. I wondered what sort of people would
make such a request to demolish something that added such value to a
home.
Peculiar indeed, I thought, as my gut began to ache.
* * * *
Help Me
By David A. Stelzig
The call came shortly after midnight on what had been a long and hectic
Saturday. My quart of Jack Daniels on the kitchen table in front of me
was still three-quarters full, but I might have been slow on the uptake
because when I picked up the phone the caller spoke first.
“Mario?”
A woman. Not young. Sultry voice.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Mario, I need help,” the woman pleaded.
“Who’n hell are you?”
“Sorry. It’s Barbara. Barbara Stevens. Guess you know me as Barbara
Sabina.”
It took a couple beats for distant memories to fire the proper synapses
in my foggy brain. Then I spoke with surprise. “Barbara Sabina from
Rutgers?”
“Yeah. Hi Mars. Mario, I got me a problem.”
I jerked forward, alert. My drink sloshed, wetting my wrist, puddling on
the table. Last thing I wanted was a reunion with an ex-lover.
“Hey, Babs. What’s up?”
“Mario, you gotta help me,” Barbara answered, sounding desperate.
I swirled my drink. Took a sip. Waited.
"You’re a cop, right Mario?”
“Yeah.”
Specifically I’m Sergeant Mario Pinelli. I’m a narcotics division
policeman in this God forsaken Jersey town, and I have been for nearly
twenty years.
“I need protection, Mario.”
“What’s going on, Barbara?”
“This guy...some guy, don’t know who. Been harassing me. Calling all
hours of the night. Leaving flowers.” Barbara's voice broke. “Says he
loves me. Wants to....Oh, Jesus, Mario, I don’t know what he wants.”
“Easy, Barbara.” I enunciated carefully. Hoped I wasn't slurring. “You
gotta call the precinct. They’ll send a car.”
“Mario, I’ve done that.”
“And?”
“And they say they’ll swing by. Maybe they do. Sometimes they come to
the door, make sure I’m okay. But this...this asshole isn’t stupid. Not
gonna come when cops are here.” She started to cry.
“All right, Barbara. Gonna be okay. I’ll check into it,” I promised.
Took another sip of whiskey, asked for details.
Barbara told me the perp first contacted her shortly after Tom’s
funeral, a letter signed simply, “A Secret Admirer.” Guy claimed to have
known Tom, to know her, said he was sorry for her troubles. She
saved it. Reread it from time to time. Said she found it sweet. Couple
of months later the second letter came. This time he suggested she must
be lonely. That they should get together. That he could keep her warm at
night. Barbara said he included a phone number. She burned the letter.
She burned the first. After that, it was phone calls. Flowers and notes
left in the middle of the night. No more letters. At first, she tried
talking to him, to convince him to leave her alone. It didn’t work.
I wrote Barbara’s address and phone number and promised I’d get back to
her in a day or two. After disconnecting I sat, sipping whiskey,
reviewing old times. We’d met in college. Dated. Fell in love. Lived
together for a semester and a half. Nearly married. Then my grades fell.
Too much pot. Too much booze. Too little sleep. I got drafted, shipped
to Nam. We wrote for a while, both promised to wait. But Barbara married
Tom, her high school sweetheart, and I came home with a Vietnamese
bride. Tom died, victim of a hit and run. My wife, Kim-Ly, was...she
also died.
I sat quietly for another minute and then called the station. Mickey
Jackson answered.
“Hey Mick, Sergeant Pinelli here. You know anything about someone
harassing a Mrs. Stevens over in the Terrace Heights section?”
“That’d probably be Batty Barb. 708 Riverview?” Jackson asked,
chuckling.
“Yeah, that’s her,” I answered roughly, cutting off his laugh. “Why the
‘batty’ moniker?”
“Jeez, Sarg,” Jackson began, quieter, more politely, “we got a file two
inches thick on this broad. She’s been bugging us for a couple years.
Maybe longer. Claims some creep is after her.”
“And?”
“Sir?”
“Anything to it?” I asked.
“Don’t know, Sarg. Logged lotta her calls. Took one last night in fact.
Sent a car.”
“They get back to you?”
“Nah. You might check with Bradley. She did some follow-up a while
back.”
I suggested
that until proven otherwise Barbara was to be considered a victim, and
warned Mickey to not ever disrespect her to me again and rang off.
* * * *
Crown of the
Earth
by
Seth E. Lender
Heart pounding with fear, Nichole Marcos arrived on the murder scene in
five minutes after Danny had called her. It was a miracle she had even
made it there alive. Never before had she driven so recklessly, the
engine of her police car roaring, the sirens blaring.
This was her sister after all; not an ordinary homicide. Little Kate
lived with her fiancé, Richard, in York region’s Vaughan, dangerously
close to the City of Toronto—that hellhole of a place. Some part of
Nichole knew this was going to happen. She had always warned Kate of the
sheer lawlessness of the city. It wasn’t what it used to be. Not anymore
and hadn’t been for nearly a year now.
Still, why did this have to happen to Kate of all people?
Nichole got out of her car, leaving the engine running and the car door
open. Several other cop cars were there, parked around the vicinity of
the apartment building, their lights flashing in the night. There was an
ambulance and fire truck, too.
She found Danny by the ambulance truck with a handful of paramedics.
They had a stretcher laid out that the paramedics were preparing to lift
into the back of the truck. On it was a body covered by a white sheet
soaked in blood.
“Where is she?” demanded Nichole.
Danny stood in front of her, hands raised in the air. His face was
drained of its colour. This was the first time Nichole had seen the iron
hard detective tremble. He had worked in Toronto before it became home
to the lawless. He had seen some things.
“Calm down, detective,” Danny said, but his own words sounded strained.
“Get out of my way.” Nichole shoved Danny aside and lifted the
bloodstained covering. She caught her breath.
“I’m so sorry, Nichole.”
Her sister, Kate, or what remained of her, was mangled. Nichole could
hardly recognize the deformed body. Limbs were missing, and what was
left was covered in huge gashes. But it was her. It was Kate. Her
engagement ring she never missed a chance to show off was still on her
finger, stained now with crimson.
Who could do such a thing? What could do such a thing?
She lowered the covering and clenched her fists so tight her nails drew
blood. To keep tears from flowing, she bit her lower lip.
“Where’s Richard? Her fiancé. Where is he?” she asked Danny.
“The fiancé? Hm...”
“What, goddammit!”
Danny jerked. It was obvious he was at a loss of what to say or do in
such a delicate situation when a co-worker’s loved one had been the
victim. “Witness says he saw him. Or saw what became of him.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Where’s the witness?”
Danny folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head over to
where a man was seated moving back and forth in a toneless rhythm, a
cotton blanket over his shoulders, and eyes bleary.
Nichole stalked over to the witness, leaving the paramedics to load Kate
into their truck. There was nothing more she could do for her sister.
She was too late. But she had to know: who did this? And why?
A police officer was with the witness, who mumbled under his breath.
Nichole recognized the witness as Kate’s neighbour in the building. He
had a room across from Kate’s and Kate had introduced him to Nichole
once when she had gone by there for dinner. His name was Alex and he
seemed to Nichole a coherent man then, a high school teacher. But now he
sat by the curb like a person suffering from severe mental trauma. He
was ashen faced with tears streaked on his cheeks.
“Careful, detective,” said the officer. “The guy’s not all there. Keeps
on wailing on and on about...”
“Demons!” Alex screamed. “It was a demon! I saw it! With these two eyes
of mine I saw it! It had a horn on its forehead and hands as big as my
chest! I tell you it was a goddamned demon!”
Nichole grabbed the witness and lifted him off the ground.
“Detective!”
“What did you see?” Nichole demanded.
“I heard screaming across the hall,” Alex said, no longer shouting. He
blinked as though waking up from a trance. “They were in some kind of
fight, Richard and Kate, some kind of struggle. I went outside to see
what was wrong and that’s when a part of the wall was smashed through.”
He cringed, sobbing, saliva spilling from his mouth. “And I saw it. A
demon. A human turned demonic!”
“Do you know where it went?” Nichole asked, shaking Alex with a violent
shove.
Alex nodded his head.
“Toronto.”
* * * *
Illusion
By Edmond Chang
Chapter One
Hong Kong, 2:00 AM. One of the most
prosperous cities in the world where its dazzling lights continuously
breathe life into the city throughout the universal cycle of day and
night. Compared to a shining pearl located in the South East Asia, its
colorful neon lights from skyscrapers, in the roofs from which fireworks
would also be set off for festival celebrations, conquer the darkness
and serve as an icon of its prosperity in an aurora
borealis coating. This fantastic view becomes a bit distorted
when its reflections is cast on the wrinkled surface of the Victoria
Harbor, where ferries move slowly so that visitors can take their time
enjoying the night scene.
Just hours ago, this famous sightseeing spot was teeming with
throngs flowing in and out simultaneously. The whole harbor abounded
with joyful cackling and the clicking noises from the cameras. But at
this moment, no laughter was perceived and no light was shone from the
buildings. One could even hear the tide clapping towards the shore
joyfully as this “night-less” city just rested in motionless
silence for an entirely new day coming. Except one couple. On this
particular night, in the dark corners where some of its working citizens
were sleeping, a couple huddled close together, as they headed towards
the beach. Unlike any normal couple, they each seemed to be carrying
something mysterious. Also unlike any normal couple, instead of giggles
and quiet whispers of affection cloaked by the darkness of night, their
voices tended to be excited but under restraint as if they were afraid
to be heard.
The woman was in an evening gown, with a shinning pedant on
it. It was beyond expectation that
such a lady would appear in the beach at this late hour. As for the man,
he was in ordinary clothes—jeans and T-shirt. The sparkling light from
his earrings twinkled in the darkness. The woman’s hair became undone
from its previously precise placement and fell onto this mysterious
package. Upon careful observation, one would soon discover that this
mysterious “package” was not an object but a human being. A being
remained unconscious with multiple cut wounds bleeding severely. As much
as the couple tried to keep the bleeding controlled, a trail of drops
had begun to tell its own story in the sand. The couple resolved to drag
the body in the sand instead of carrying it. No words were passed
between the two as they worked together hauling the unconscious body
into a boat they had prepared earlier and left close by.
They rowed quietly out into the water. The thrill of
having completed a goal filled their eyes as they locked their gaze. The
boat struggled and crawled on the sea, soaring up above the curving and
roaring waves. Every now and then, the couple wiped away the salty spray
stinging their faces with their forearms.
The boat came to a halt at last in the middle of the
greedy and outrageous dark sea, with a reflection of the moon in stark
contrast, swallowing that unconscious man with a splash, which seemed to
roar that man was not enough for its voracious appetite. All at once,
the moon was trapped inside the cloudy sky and the wind suddenly turned
into fierce rage shrieking intensely. The couple was shadowed in a thick
fog and their faces were hardly visible even in a close distance. They
watched as the man and their secret sank with him into the water. The
small ripples from where the body sank filled the air with the scent of
betrayal and delusion. Bubbles of hope burst in the surface of the water
while the couple was not aware of it.
“We finally made it,” the woman said.
A slight sinister giggle underlined her low cold voice echoed
in the similarly chilly ocean breeze that chilled the beads of sweat on
her still face. The giggle floated above those bubbles on the tide and
sneaked into a pair of ears. Without giving her any response, the man
found himself busy rowing the boat mechanically while the moon shot its
light on his square, tanned face. The fierce chilly wind blew and made
his short hair dance. He was in his early thirties with a scar near the
end of his left brow. His small pair of cunning eyes rested on the woman
and told his satisfaction. The woman’s eyes locked with her partner’s as
her heart pounded loudly in her chest that the gruesome task was finally
over. In the restless night, against the ripples of the sunken body, the
couple quietly rowed the boat back to shore. In their secret
satisfaction, they did not suspect that someone in this busy city, even
in a remote, dark and sheltered part of the night, could possibly had
been watching them.
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