Once Upon a Blog . . .: horror

Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts

Friday, September 6, 2019

Gypsy Shadow Turns Ten

Ten Year Celebration

Gypsy Shadow Publishing celebrated TEN YEARS in publishing September 1, 2019! To commemorate our tenth birthday this month...all month long, buy ANY eBook at regular price from the GSP website (http://www.gypsyshadow.com), email me (cholley@gypsyshadow.com) with proof of your purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Smashwords and tell me which other eBook you want to receive for FREE (must be equal or lesser value than the one you buy), and I will send it to you in the format of your choice. Happy birthday, GSP!

Thomas Pillar surfaces to stop a sword-wielding madman bent on igniting a demon apocalypse. Exit Us, Book 2 of The Pillar Saga by Ben Larken. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#ExitUs

Winter has come to Railston.

Shattered from the loss of his old life, Thomas Pillar hides, chilled by the past as much as the falling snow. Ross Medford, more media sensation than detective, knows his days as head of the Pillar taskforce are numbered. Both men have hit a standstill—but that’s about to change.

After a failed suicide attempt, Pillar finds himself in the condemned hotel Elysian Falls, living amongst Railston’s homeless. Vagrants are being picked off by a mercurial stranger wielding a sword, their bodies carved with an otherworldly message: EXIT US. No one knows what it means, but Pillar realizes the hunter is searching for something he possesses, a key that will open a doorway to another realm. As Ross and his team draw near, demonic forces clash and a trail of murder blazes through the city—a trail that leads straight to Pillar.

Can Pillar stop a madman obsessed with igniting a demon apocalypse? How can he defeat an opponent who knows more about his purpose than he does? One thing is certain. If Pillar fails, the world may never see another spring.

Word Count: 123700
Pages to Print: 410

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

Chapter Three

December

Sunt lacrimae rerum

There are tears for things. Life is tragic.

—Virgil

Sunlight broke over the canyon wall, illuminating the wooden monolith in the center of the rocky plain. Thomas Pillar lay crumpled on his side, his forehead resting uncomfortably on a large stone, three feet from the upright rectangle. His eyes flickered open, unfocused. He stared blankly at the brown door, at its simple frame, at the rusty hinges. Pink light reflected off the knob’s tarnished silver. Everything was quiet here. The wind was a forgotten whisper. Animals were nonexistent. Just the sky and the ground and the door—a land of bare minimums. Sometimes that was comforting. There were times, coming with more frequency lately, when Pillar needed the solitude. He needed to pare away the unnecessary excess and clutter of the world. He needed a place as vast and empty as his soul.

Other times, like now, he longed for something else—when he caught himself wondering what would happen if he opened the door.

He sat up, his arms resting on his knees, facing the door. A single word sat at the edge of his tongue. It had wanted to be uttered for weeks, ever since the thought hit him, but he hadn’t been brave enough. The implications were too ominous. His eyes skipped over the barren crevices and withered walls. He knew it was time. He opened his mouth, trying to overcome the urge to hesitate.

“Charlotte?”

His voice came out small, but he didn’t care. Volume didn’t matter much in this place. “Charlotte, are you in there?”

He waited. Regret seeped into the fringes of his mind. She wasn’t in there. Of course, she wasn’t. Why had he been stupid enough to think—?

“Tom?”

His eyes widened. He scrambled towards the sound. Soon his hands were on the door’s chilly veneer. “Charlotte! I’m here.”

“Tom,” she said. “Oh Tom, where are you? I can’t see anything in here.”

“I’m right here, baby, on the other side of the door. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“God, Tom, where have you been? I’m scared.”

Pillar ran his fingers down the door, seeing her face in his mind. “I know you are. I am, too. I miss you bad.”

Something ran down the other side of the door—fingers. “Tom, let me out. I don’t want to be in the dark anymore.”

He turned his eyes to the old knob, the pink sunlight still beaming off it. His fingers drifted toward it and then stopped.

“Tom,” she whispered, right on the other side. “What’s wrong? Open the door.”

“I—I’m not supposed to.”

“What? Tom, I just want out. You can close the door behind me.”

He rested his forehead against the door, closing his glazed eyes. “If I do, bad things will happen.”

The voice came back wounded. “Do you not want me anymore?”

“Baby, no,” he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I want you so much, it hurts. I need you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nobody.”

“Then open the door,” she sobbed. “Let me hold you.”

His fingers drifted again. He looked down and saw them resting on the knob. His jaw clenched. Another tear broke free. “I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. What if something else gets out?”

“There’s nothing else here. But you have to hurry, because they’ll be back soon. Hurry and open the door. I want to feel you against me.”

He was silent, choking on his own emotions. His fingers grazed the knob. All he had to do was add a little more pressure. He could turn it quick, and she’d be here again. Charlotte would be back in his life. He—

“Damn it, Tom,” she cried. “Why won’t you open it? First you shoot me, next you trap me in here. Let me out already!”

He pulled his head back. One thought came to the forefront.

“You’re not Charlotte,” he whispered.

“Tom,” she pleaded, but her voice changed. The light, warm tone he knew so well shifted. It deepened. It gargled. It sounded horrible. “Tom, Tom, Tom,” the slimy voice croaked. “Fucking Tom. Fucking bastard Tom. I’m going to get out of here soon. And when I do, you will feed on your own excrement.”

“Go away,” he said, his voice dwindling. “Leave me alone.”

A raspy laugh came through the cracks. “We’ll never leave you alone, Pillar. Not until you open the door. Turn the knob already.” Something pounded the other side, making the dust fall from the frame and the hinges squeal. Then a second pounding came, booming through the canyon, and he leapt back as the door bent outward.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Tom’s head jerked up and a cold spasm riveted his body. “No!” he cried, and the word bounced from every direction, sounding like a disapproving parent. For an instant, Tom thought he was still in the canyon. No, he was awake, lying alone in a darkened shower room. The cruel part was he couldn’t tell which place was worse.

He sat up, scrutinizing the shadows. The single grate mounted at the top of the wall across from him, a foot in length, normally remained shut to keep the winter draft out. He staggered to his feet and hobbled to it, opening the slats. Gray sunlight filtered in, reflecting off the intricate tile work. His face hovered close to the grate, basking in the achromatic light.

Everything’s okay. The canyon isn’t real. Only a dream, something constructed out of subconscious fears. The words ran through his head like a mantra. It was. He thought the same thing every morning.

He turned from the grate as another tear dripped to the floor. He touched his face, smearing the wet lines on his dusty cheeks. He had been crying again. His hand dropped to his side, and he straightened his back, glancing at the ten showerheads surrounding him like vultures. He stood in the center of them, ignoring the biting wind that flowed through the grate. A chill wrenched his insides, along with the realization that had circled every thought and emotion for weeks.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, glancing at each of the showerheads like they might talk back. “I’m going to—find Charlotte.”

Detective Thomas Pillar finds the test of a lifetime when a spate of killings lead back to a child—and the demon hiding within. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#Pillar

Detective Thomas Pillar had no premonitions of the day ahead. He didn’t know he was about to clash with a sadistic lunatic on Railston’s only suspension bridge. In one gut-wrenching moment, Pillar was forced to make a life-or-death choice that left the entire city shaken and set a madman’s plan in motion.

Now, months later, it’s starting again . . .

This time, Pillar is investigating a string of rage-filled murders, and all of the clues point to the most unlikely suspect—a twelve-year-old named Seth Morrissey. The child seems nice, if a bit lonely, but something malevolent and demonic lurks beneath his surface. While Pillar searches for answers, the thing inside Seth prepares for a showdown that will rip Pillar’s life to shreds and pave the way to hell on earth.

As the body count rises and Pillar’s marriage begins to unravel, he races against time to stop the force that is pulling all the strings. But how do you destroy the demon without killing the innocent child? This is Pillar’s dilemma. This is Pillar’s story.

This is Pillar’s Fall.

Word Count: 108400

Pages to Print: 345

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

. . . Tom opened the door. Ross was already back in his gleaming silver car, revving the engine impatiently. Tom moseyed down the front steps, reminding himself not to call it silver. Ross preferred the technical term quicksilver. He climbed in the car, and the BMW 850CSi jerked into motion before Tom had shut the passenger door.

“We feelin’ anxious today?” Tom ventured, looking at his partner.

Ross Medford grinned, his eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses, his blonde Brad Pitt hair slicked back, his lips barely hanging onto a toothpick.

“No, I’m feeling the rails. What are you feeling?”

“Curious at the moment. You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

The BMW took a corner, screeching as it went, heading out of Tom’s middle-class neighborhood at a speed that would have Tom’s neighbors calling to complain later. Everyone in the surrounding blocks recognized the Ross-mobile by now. Tom saw it in the disgruntled faces of joggers and the frustrated gazes of children who had been restricted from street football because of a certain crazy driver. Not that Ross had ever caused an accident. He cared way too much about his V12 super car to let that happen. But if there was one thing Ross was good at, it was looking like he didn’t care.

“The subway,” Ross answered, wheeling the BMW out of the residential area and heading toward the highway, site of another favorite game: speed-weaving.

“The subway?”

“The subway.”

“Why are we going to the subway?”

“To feel the rails, of course.”

Tom rolled his eyes. Shoulda known. “Ever think of getting a new catchphrase?”

“Don’t need one. Already got the perfect one right here. I’m feeling the rails. I’m running on all cylinders. I feel the momentum beneath me. I’m at peak performance. I mean, come on, haven’t you ever sat on the subway and listened to the rails slipping by? It’s freakin’ poetic is what it is. Feel the rails, Tom.”

“You are so deep.” Tom laid his head back on the seat. “You know, the rails usually make me sleepy. And I’m feelin’ em now. Yes, sirree, I would say if I don’t hear some sort of stimulating information in the next five seconds, I’ll be out like a light.”

The BMW took another corner, forcing Tom’s head off the seat.

“That’d be too bad,” Ross commented. “Because then you wouldn’t hear about the terrorist I’m about to bust.”

“Is this the same satanic-cult wacko you’ve been talking to on the Internet for the last three days?”

“The one and the same.” Ross grinned again. “I told you I’d bank on this one.”

“You’re always telling me you’ll bank on something. Last month you announced you’d make detective early by banking on copper theft. Spent a whole week staking out a hotel under construction as I recall. And the only thing you really banked was a lecture from the boss on the misuse of overtime.”

“Copper theft was too small time,” Ross admitted. “We live in a post-9/11 world. If you want to make a name for yourself, you gotta aim for the higher threat levels. Bag yourself a backwoods militant set on blowing up a government building and you’re talking to Brian Williams by the end of the night. I’m finally in that ballpark now, and I’m almost at bat.”

“We’ll see,” Tom said. “What makes this one different?”

“The difference is that I made contact with the guy’s kid. I spoke to his son and the boy’s going to arrange a meeting. The bastard actually has his son doing his secretary work. He even emailed me a photo so I’d know how to identify dear ol’ dad.” Ross shuddered with nervous excitement. “He’s one creepy-looking fucker, too. Dark greasy hair, skin as pale as the moon, and a long trench coat—he might as well wear a sign that reads TACKLE ME. I’M A TERRORIST.” He flashed his conspiratorial smile at Tom. “So we’re going to the subway, where this guy is going to buy some illegal arms off of us.”

Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Illegal arms? Off of us? Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were riding close to entrapment.”

Medford shrugged. “Eh, maybe. I’m not worried about it. The moment we bust this guy, we get permission to search his house, and boom, there’s all the proof you’ll ever need.”

“This guy’s stockpiling?”

Another shrug. “Probably.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Probably . . . damn, you make me nervous.”

Ross snickered. “Hey, that’s half the fun of having me for a partner. I don’t think you’ll be complaining when Boss T promotes us to detective-lieutenants.”

Tom gazed at the world beyond the window, mainly guardrails and traffic cones, a few family vans with no families in them, several executives jabbering into their cell phones. As the car entered a suspension bridge, shadows sprinkled through the light. It was the only one in Railston, titled after some honorable fellow who had been saddled with the unfortunate name Woodward D. Fluxom—thus the Woodward D. Fluxom Bridge. No one ever called it that. Since Tom moved here, fresh from high school and years of living in a group home, he always heard it called the Flux. Now they were riding over old Flux, and Tom squinted at the sunlight reflecting off the foamy river.

“I think that’s the difference between you and me,” he said, scanning the web of rusty silver bridgework. “You’re looking for the next promotion . . . I’m happy where I am.”

Ross sniffed. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy being a full-fledged detective. Besides, I need you. You’re the one who watches my back.”

“I’m not saying I won’t enjoy it.” Tom looked at his partner, a smirk on his lips. “As long as watching your back doesn’t turn into kissing your ass.”

Ross laughed. This was the norm. Tom insulted him for being a prima donna, and Ross turned it into a joke. Ross would come back with some sly comment about how good Tom was at it. Or he would go ahead and promise him, acknowledging his desire to be the star to Tom’s sidekick. But Ross never got to make that promise. Because at that moment, Hell came looking for Thomas Pillar.

Midnight passed in front of the car, so silently and stealthily Tom only vaguely noticed the change. Just another morning shadow, like those coming from the suspension wires. Tom glanced forward, his eyes focused on a black spot in the road ahead, rapidly enlarging. A man in a heavy coat stepped into the street, less than fifty yards away. He lumbered into the traffic lane, using long legs to make slow but deliberate steps. Tom’s eyes veered to Ross, his body bracing for the quick swerve that would happen any second. But to his horror, Ross’s eyes were on his side mirror, a sly grin on his lips, as if checking out the driver behind him. Tom looked forward, hoping the man had already passed their lane. But he hadn’t. Instead, the lanky man had come to a dead stop.

“Ross!”

Ross snapped to attention. He saw the man, too, poised like a totem pole against the sunrise. He jerked the wheel, and the whole world jerked with it. Tire screeching ripped through the air like a record’s needle off its track. Colors shot around them like a tornado. They spun through lanes, chopping their way through the dense morning traffic. Other cars honked and swerved, barely missing the BMW. Then the guardrail found them and everything fragmented. A walloping thrust as Tom’s chest fused with the seat belt . . . a deafening bang as the BMW’s hood split open and peeled back . . . a single cry from Ross before the airbags overtook both of them.

And then silence.

In the minutes that came next, Tom noticed one thing. The air seemed thicker. Maybe it was the airbag—the harsh plastic smell his nose was buried in—or the chemical odor of leaking car fluids. It could have been any of those things, but as he slowly lifted his head, he realized it wasn’t. The air felt more than polluted. It felt unnaturally thick, a presence bearing down on him. He inhaled, and the atmosphere tickled his throat. Tiny fingers wriggled toward his lungs. Vibrations slithered over his entire frame, and his heart leapt in his chest. The charge in the air had him scanning beyond the broken windshield, looking for fallen power lines. He saw nothing, which should have made him feel better.

It didn’t.

“Ross,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracking. “You okay, Ross?”

Ross didn’t answer. Tom’s fingers quickly located his partner’s arm and then his partner’s wrist. The pulse was good. He was just unconscious. Tom was about to shake him awake, but heard the passenger door open.

“Mister,” a woman said. “Hey, are you all right?”

Her Chevy Suburban was parked a few feet away. Other cars were stopping as well. The whole bridge would be clogged in moments.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying. “Can you help me out of here?”

The lady nodded and let him hook an arm around her shoulder. Tom pushed away from the airbag, every muscle in his chest groaning. Sounds came into sharper focus now. The rumble of dozens of engines filtered through the air, joined by a similar rumble coming from the river below. That’s all it is, he told himself. The cars . . . the rushing river . . . they’re making me even more jumpy. Nothing unnatural about that. As his feet hit solid ground, his vision began to spin. He grabbed the roof of the BMW to steady himself.

“What happened?” the lady asked, her hands shaking worse than Tom’s. “I watched you guys veer off the road.”

Tom stood up straight, his spine cracking. “There was a man,” he mumbled. His eyes widened. “That man.”

In the midst of the lines of cars stood the man in the heavy coat—no, not just a heavy coat, a trench coat. His frame shifted back and forth like a pendulum, though his eyes were fixed squarely on Tom. Wispy black hair fluttered around his shoulders. His face was long, and his complexion—dear God, his skin looked gray.

“Don’t worry,” the lady said. “I called the police already. They’ll be here soon. Why don’t you sit down and take it easy until they get here?”

The man’s eyes—bloodshot with clammy white pupils. They drilled deeper into Tom with every passing second, and he had the immediate sense that he wasn’t looking at something human. Those slimy white pupils belonged to a sea monster pulled from the darkest crevices of the ocean.

“Just a second,” Tom said, ignoring the fading dizziness. He stepped into the throng of cars, wishing Ross had shown him the photo the boy emailed to him. He had a terrifying suspicion that the image would match the man in the street. His .38 was still in its holster, but his fingers were around the grip, ready to draw. In all his years on the force, he had never gone for his gun. Yet something about this man’s crazed stare told him he was going to need it this time. The certainty of it chilled his insides.

He got in line with the man and stopped twenty feet away. For a moment, his gaze was pulled from the man’s face to his trench coat. The coat was too long on him, stretching to the ground and hiding the man’s feet. Every button was buttoned, and it looked thick on him, as if the man had several layers of clothes on underneath. Tom thought about pulling his badge, then decided not to. He had the man’s attention already, so Tom spoke.

“Why did you step into the street?”

The man smiled, revealing a set of half-decayed yellow teeth. “Do you know how long I spent preparing the sacrifice?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Three years I prepared the sacrifice! Three years I used the serum. Three years I performed the ceremonies. Yet the master had no use of my sacrifice. The master had already chosen another.”

Tom pulled his badge and held it up. “I said why did you walk into the street?”

The man clicked his teeth, baring purple gums. “So what good am I now? If I cannot provide the vessel of the master, how can I serve him?”

He’s a nut wandering the street. Tom couldn’t buy it, no matter how much he wanted to. This man was calculating. Tom’s fingers tensed around his weapon, but he resisted the impulse. They weren’t alone here. People watched through their car windows. A young family with a baby in a stroller had stopped on the walking path to stare in curiosity. A man driving a fuel truck spoke into his CB, probably giving a scoop to other truckers stuck on the Flux. They were all here, all trapped for the moment on this gleaming steel bridge, and Tom didn’t want to set off a panic. But as he looked into those predatory white pupils, he realized he might not have a say in the matter. This man wanted something, and whatever he did to get it might inevitably lead to panic.

Or he might want nothing, Tom told himself. Because he’s just a wanderer. Just a mental-case wanderer.

“Who is the master?” Tom tried, hoping to take over the conversation.

The man’s eyes blazed. “The master! The eye of the storm. The center around which all darkness orbits. The master is almost here, and when he arrives, he’s going to kick the shit out of this world.” The man cackled. “He’s going to kick the shit out of you too, Officer Pillar.”

The gun came out of its holster, pointed at Mr. Trench Coat in less than a second. In his periphery, he noticed people ducking inside their vehicles, but he couldn’t focus on that yet. “Who are you?” Tom yelled. “How do you know my name? Were you waiting for us to drive by? Who are you?”

The man’s eyes turned skyward. His hands rose in the air, palms up. Tom noticed the inside of his wrists. Black syringe holes dotted pale skin like swarms of gnats. “How can I serve the master now? How can I make my sacrifice worthwhile?”

“Damn it! Who are you?”

“I know!” the man cried. “I can give the sacrifice to my master’s enemy. I can give my sacrifice to the legendary Pillar. My lamb will not be wasted.”

The man’s hands dipped to his chest. “Hold it!” Tom yelled, but the man began unbuttoning his trench coat. Tom stepped forward. He was going to take this bastard down. Sirens clanged in the distance. They would be here in minutes, and they could cuff the madman and take him downtown. Tom only had to hold him until then. Keep him from doing something cra—

The man flipped open the trench coat.

Tom froze. Huddled against the man was a small boy, no more than seven. His back was to Pillar, his arms clinging to the man’s legs like a lifesaver. Large blue eyes squinted at him. Tom wasn’t focused on the boy’s face. His gaze was stuck on the row of sticks duct-taped around the boy’s midsection.

Dynamite.

A car honked, making Tom’s heart skip. Cars all around him broke into motion, reversing away from the epicenter of unfolding madness. But they only caused a string of fender benders behind them. It was bumper car havoc, everyone scrambling, but getting nowhere. All three lanes were at a standstill. Most of the drivers weren’t seeing the boy and the lunatic holding them. They were all absorbed in their own little worlds, yelling at the closer drivers who had gone insane. Radios were turned up and cell phones were in use. Even the woman who had helped him from the car was busy inside the BMW, trying to rustle some consciousness out of Ross. But no one was coming to help. For all intents and purposes, Tom was alone.

The man’s grotesque smile quivered. “Go to him, my son. Go to the Guardian.”

The boy trembled, but turned like a trained animal, and moved toward Tom. His heart froze as he saw the boy’s chest. An electronic readout hung over the dynamite. Numbers ticked away on it—00:58, 00:57, 00:56.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom asked, his voice feeling small.

“He’s yours,” the man offered. “He’s your sacrifice.”

“No, he’s not,” Tom said, pleading. “Come on, turn off the bomb. We don’t have to do this.”

“Oh we do,” the man insisted. “The whole world has to do this.”

00:41, 00:40, 00:39 . . .

Tom lifted his gun. “I said turn it off! Do it now!”

The man cackled again. His arms lifted upward in worship. “Master! Look to me and let my act please you!”

00:32, 00:31 . . .

Tom’s eyes jumped from the rows of log jammed vehicles to the fuel truck four spaces back to the child with his arms outstretched, walking toward him. He had realized a moment ago that he was alone on this one. Now he wished he could be so lucky.

00:25, 00:24 . . .

“You’ve got one more chance!” Tom yelled desperately. “Turn it off!”

The man dropped to his knees, his hands still raised. “Let the Jesottunea begin.”

00:17

Tom ran forward, scooping the child up in his arms. He heard a car door nearby open. As he passed the man in the trench coat, he heard a deep, foreign chanting. It barely sounded like a real language.

“Hey, what’s the problem over there?” the woman pushing the stroller said.

Tom ran, weaving through the cars, moving out of the lanes, across the walking path. He reached the railing and glanced down at the readout.

00:10

“Close your eyes,” he whispered to the boy. “When you wake up this will all be better.”

Tom lifted the child above his head. God, forgive me. Then he flung the boy, tossing the child with everything he had. Nearby a woman screamed. That scream was quickly matched as the young boy found his voice. The child’s face flashed through the air and then disappeared beyond the railing. The tiny scream pitched downward, toward the sun-drenched river below. Tom stood petrified, listening to the sound fade, waiting to hear the splash or the explosion—whichever came first.

A splash. The terrified cry of a seven-year-old snapped off in an instant.

Thomas Pillar didn’t move. As the seconds went by, he stayed right where he was, the walls of his mind imploding. The timer. It had already run out. It ran out before the boy hit the water. The truth—the truth that punctured his heart—was much simpler. The bomb had never been armed. The timer had only been there to fool him. The boy had fallen needlessly to his death.

A tremor ran through Tom’s soul. He couldn’t move. His feet were dead, his lungs insufficient. His stomach was hollow.

And somewhere behind him a man in a trench coat cackled like a lunatic.

Thomas Pillar surfaces to stop a sword-wielding madman bent on igniting a demon apocalypse. Exit Us, Book 2 of The Pillar Saga by Ben Larken. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#ExitUs

Winter has come to Railston.

Shattered from the loss of his old life, Thomas Pillar hides, chilled by the past as much as the falling snow. Ross Medford, more media sensation than detective, knows his days as head of the Pillar taskforce are numbered. Both men have hit a standstill—but that’s about to change.

After a failed suicide attempt, Pillar finds himself in the condemned hotel Elysian Falls, living amongst Railston’s homeless. Vagrants are being picked off by a mercurial stranger wielding a sword, their bodies carved with an otherworldly message: EXIT US. No one knows what it means, but Pillar realizes the hunter is searching for something he possesses, a key that will open a doorway to another realm. As Ross and his team draw near, demonic forces clash and a trail of murder blazes through the city—a trail that leads straight to Pillar.

Can Pillar stop a madman obsessed with igniting a demon apocalypse? How can he defeat an opponent who knows more about his purpose than he does? One thing is certain. If Pillar fails, the world may never see another spring.

Word Count: 123700

Pages to Print: 410

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

Chapter Three

December

Sunt lacrimae rerum

There are tears for things. Life is tragic.

—Virgil

Sunlight broke over the canyon wall, illuminating the wooden monolith in the center of the rocky plain. Thomas Pillar lay crumpled on his side, his forehead resting uncomfortably on a large stone, three feet from the upright rectangle. His eyes flickered open, unfocused. He stared blankly at the brown door, at its simple frame, at the rusty hinges. Pink light reflected off the knob’s tarnished silver. Everything was quiet here. The wind was a forgotten whisper. Animals were nonexistent. Just the sky and the ground and the door—a land of bare minimums. Sometimes that was comforting. There were times, coming with more frequency lately, when Pillar needed the solitude. He needed to pare away the unnecessary excess and clutter of the world. He needed a place as vast and empty as his soul.

Other times, like now, he longed for something else—when he caught himself wondering what would happen if he opened the door.

He sat up, his arms resting on his knees, facing the door. A single word sat at the edge of his tongue. It had wanted to be uttered for weeks, ever since the thought hit him, but he hadn’t been brave enough. The implications were too ominous. His eyes skipped over the barren crevices and withered walls. He knew it was time. He opened his mouth, trying to overcome the urge to hesitate.

“Charlotte?”

His voice came out small, but he didn’t care. Volume didn’t matter much in this place. “Charlotte, are you in there?”

He waited. Regret seeped into the fringes of his mind. She wasn’t in there. Of course, she wasn’t. Why had he been stupid enough to think—?

“Tom?”

His eyes widened. He scrambled towards the sound. Soon his hands were on the door’s chilly veneer. “Charlotte! I’m here.”

“Tom,” she said. “Oh Tom, where are you? I can’t see anything in here.”

“I’m right here, baby, on the other side of the door. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“God, Tom, where have you been? I’m scared.”

Pillar ran his fingers down the door, seeing her face in his mind. “I know you are. I am, too. I miss you bad.”

Something ran down the other side of the door—fingers. “Tom, let me out. I don’t want to be in the dark anymore.”

He turned his eyes to the old knob, the pink sunlight still beaming off it. His fingers drifted toward it and then stopped.

“Tom,” she whispered, right on the other side. “What’s wrong? Open the door.”

“I—I’m not supposed to.”

“What? Tom, I just want out. You can close the door behind me.”

He rested his forehead against the door, closing his glazed eyes. “If I do, bad things will happen.”

The voice came back wounded. “Do you not want me anymore?”

“Baby, no,” he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I want you so much, it hurts. I need you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nobody.”

“Then open the door,” she sobbed. “Let me hold you.”

His fingers drifted again. He looked down and saw them resting on the knob. His jaw clenched. Another tear broke free. “I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. What if something else gets out?”

“There’s nothing else here. But you have to hurry, because they’ll be back soon. Hurry and open the door. I want to feel you against me.”

He was silent, choking on his own emotions. His fingers grazed the knob. All he had to do was add a little more pressure. He could turn it quick, and she’d be here again. Charlotte would be back in his life. He—

“Damn it, Tom,” she cried. “Why won’t you open it? First you shoot me, next you trap me in here. Let me out already!”

He pulled his head back. One thought came to the forefront.

“You’re not Charlotte,” he whispered.

“Tom,” she pleaded, but her voice changed. The light, warm tone he knew so well shifted. It deepened. It gargled. It sounded horrible. “Tom, Tom, Tom,” the slimy voice croaked. “Fucking Tom. Fucking bastard Tom. I’m going to get out of here soon. And when I do, you will feed on your own excrement.”

“Go away,” he said, his voice dwindling. “Leave me alone.”

A raspy laugh came through the cracks. “We’ll never leave you alone, Pillar. Not until you open the door. Turn the knob already.” Something pounded the other side, making the dust fall from the frame and the hinges squeal. Then a second pounding came, booming through the canyon, and he leapt back as the door bent outward.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Tom’s head jerked up and a cold spasm riveted his body. “No!” he cried, and the word bounced from every direction, sounding like a disapproving parent. For an instant, Tom thought he was still in the canyon. No, he was awake, lying alone in a darkened shower room. The cruel part was he couldn’t tell which place was worse.

He sat up, scrutinizing the shadows. The single grate mounted at the top of the wall across from him, a foot in length, normally remained shut to keep the winter draft out. He staggered to his feet and hobbled to it, opening the slats. Gray sunlight filtered in, reflecting off the intricate tile work. His face hovered close to the grate, basking in the achromatic light.

Everything’s okay. The canyon isn’t real. Only a dream, something constructed out of subconscious fears. The words ran through his head like a mantra. It was. He thought the same thing every morning.

He turned from the grate as another tear dripped to the floor. He touched his face, smearing the wet lines on his dusty cheeks. He had been crying again. His hand dropped to his side, and he straightened his back, glancing at the ten showerheads surrounding him like vultures. He stood in the center of them, ignoring the biting wind that flowed through the grate. A chill wrenched his insides, along with the realization that had circled every thought and emotion for weeks.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, glancing at each of the showerheads like they might talk back. “I’m going to—find Charlotte.”

Detective Thomas Pillar finds the test of a lifetime when a spate of killings lead back to a child—and the demon hiding within. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenLarken.html#Pillar

Detective Thomas Pillar had no premonitions of the day ahead. He didn’t know he was about to clash with a sadistic lunatic on Railston’s only suspension bridge. In one gut-wrenching moment, Pillar was forced to make a life-or-death choice that left the entire city shaken and set a madman’s plan in motion.

Now, months later, it’s starting again . . .

This time, Pillar is investigating a string of rage-filled murders, and all of the clues point to the most unlikely suspect—a twelve-year-old named Seth Morrissey. The child seems nice, if a bit lonely, but something malevolent and demonic lurks beneath his surface. While Pillar searches for answers, the thing inside Seth prepares for a showdown that will rip Pillar’s life to shreds and pave the way to hell on earth.

As the body count rises and Pillar’s marriage begins to unravel, he races against time to stop the force that is pulling all the strings. But how do you destroy the demon without killing the innocent child? This is Pillar’s dilemma. This is Pillar’s story.

This is Pillar’s Fall.

Word Count: 108400

Pages to Print: 345 /ALSO COMING in PRINT!

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

. . . Tom opened the door. Ross was already back in his gleaming silver car, revving the engine impatiently. Tom moseyed down the front steps, reminding himself not to call it silver. Ross preferred the technical term quicksilver. He climbed in the car, and the BMW 850CSi jerked into motion before Tom had shut the passenger door.

“We feelin’ anxious today?” Tom ventured, looking at his partner.

Ross Medford grinned, his eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses, his blonde Brad Pitt hair slicked back, his lips barely hanging onto a toothpick.

“No, I’m feeling the rails. What are you feeling?”

“Curious at the moment. You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

The BMW took a corner, screeching as it went, heading out of Tom’s middle-class neighborhood at a speed that would have Tom’s neighbors calling to complain later. Everyone in the surrounding blocks recognized the Ross-mobile by now. Tom saw it in the disgruntled faces of joggers and the frustrated gazes of children who had been restricted from street football because of a certain crazy driver. Not that Ross had ever caused an accident. He cared way too much about his V12 super car to let that happen. But if there was one thing Ross was good at, it was looking like he didn’t care.

“The subway,” Ross answered, wheeling the BMW out of the residential area and heading toward the highway, site of another favorite game: speed-weaving.

“The subway?”

“The subway.”

“Why are we going to the subway?”

“To feel the rails, of course.”

Tom rolled his eyes. Shoulda known. “Ever think of getting a new catchphrase?”

“Don’t need one. Already got the perfect one right here. I’m feeling the rails. I’m running on all cylinders. I feel the momentum beneath me. I’m at peak performance. I mean, come on, haven’t you ever sat on the subway and listened to the rails slipping by? It’s freakin’ poetic is what it is. Feel the rails, Tom.”

“You are so deep.” Tom laid his head back on the seat. “You know, the rails usually make me sleepy. And I’m feelin’ em now. Yes, sirree, I would say if I don’t hear some sort of stimulating information in the next five seconds, I’ll be out like a light.”

The BMW took another corner, forcing Tom’s head off the seat.

“That’d be too bad,” Ross commented. “Because then you wouldn’t hear about the terrorist I’m about to bust.”

“Is this the same satanic-cult wacko you’ve been talking to on the Internet for the last three days?”

“The one and the same.” Ross grinned again. “I told you I’d bank on this one.”

“You’re always telling me you’ll bank on something. Last month you announced you’d make detective early by banking on copper theft. Spent a whole week staking out a hotel under construction as I recall. And the only thing you really banked was a lecture from the boss on the misuse of overtime.”

“Copper theft was too small time,” Ross admitted. “We live in a post-9/11 world. If you want to make a name for yourself, you gotta aim for the higher threat levels. Bag yourself a backwoods militant set on blowing up a government building and you’re talking to Brian Williams by the end of the night. I’m finally in that ballpark now, and I’m almost at bat.”

“We’ll see,” Tom said. “What makes this one different?”

“The difference is that I made contact with the guy’s kid. I spoke to his son and the boy’s going to arrange a meeting. The bastard actually has his son doing his secretary work. He even emailed me a photo so I’d know how to identify dear ol’ dad.” Ross shuddered with nervous excitement. “He’s one creepy-looking fucker, too. Dark greasy hair, skin as pale as the moon, and a long trench coat—he might as well wear a sign that reads TACKLE ME. I’M A TERRORIST.” He flashed his conspiratorial smile at Tom. “So we’re going to the subway, where this guy is going to buy some illegal arms off of us.”

Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Illegal arms? Off of us? Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were riding close to entrapment.”

Medford shrugged. “Eh, maybe. I’m not worried about it. The moment we bust this guy, we get permission to search his house, and boom, there’s all the proof you’ll ever need.”

“This guy’s stockpiling?”

Another shrug. “Probably.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Probably . . . damn, you make me nervous.”

Ross snickered. “Hey, that’s half the fun of having me for a partner. I don’t think you’ll be complaining when Boss T promotes us to detective-lieutenants.”

Tom gazed at the world beyond the window, mainly guardrails and traffic cones, a few family vans with no families in them, several executives jabbering into their cell phones. As the car entered a suspension bridge, shadows sprinkled through the light. It was the only one in Railston, titled after some honorable fellow who had been saddled with the unfortunate name Woodward D. Fluxom—thus the Woodward D. Fluxom Bridge. No one ever called it that. Since Tom moved here, fresh from high school and years of living in a group home, he always heard it called the Flux. Now they were riding over old Flux, and Tom squinted at the sunlight reflecting off the foamy river.

“I think that’s the difference between you and me,” he said, scanning the web of rusty silver bridgework. “You’re looking for the next promotion . . . I’m happy where I am.”

Ross sniffed. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy being a full-fledged detective. Besides, I need you. You’re the one who watches my back.”

“I’m not saying I won’t enjoy it.” Tom looked at his partner, a smirk on his lips. “As long as watching your back doesn’t turn into kissing your ass.”

Ross laughed. This was the norm. Tom insulted him for being a prima donna, and Ross turned it into a joke. Ross would come back with some sly comment about how good Tom was at it. Or he would go ahead and promise him, acknowledging his desire to be the star to Tom’s sidekick. But Ross never got to make that promise. Because at that moment, Hell came looking for Thomas Pillar.

Midnight passed in front of the car, so silently and stealthily Tom only vaguely noticed the change. Just another morning shadow, like those coming from the suspension wires. Tom glanced forward, his eyes focused on a black spot in the road ahead, rapidly enlarging. A man in a heavy coat stepped into the street, less than fifty yards away. He lumbered into the traffic lane, using long legs to make slow but deliberate steps. Tom’s eyes veered to Ross, his body bracing for the quick swerve that would happen any second. But to his horror, Ross’s eyes were on his side mirror, a sly grin on his lips, as if checking out the driver behind him. Tom looked forward, hoping the man had already passed their lane. But he hadn’t. Instead, the lanky man had come to a dead stop.

“Ross!”

Ross snapped to attention. He saw the man, too, poised like a totem pole against the sunrise. He jerked the wheel, and the whole world jerked with it. Tire screeching ripped through the air like a record’s needle off its track. Colors shot around them like a tornado. They spun through lanes, chopping their way through the dense morning traffic. Other cars honked and swerved, barely missing the BMW. Then the guardrail found them and everything fragmented. A walloping thrust as Tom’s chest fused with the seat belt . . . a deafening bang as the BMW’s hood split open and peeled back . . . a single cry from Ross before the airbags overtook both of them.

And then silence.

In the minutes that came next, Tom noticed one thing. The air seemed thicker. Maybe it was the airbag—the harsh plastic smell his nose was buried in—or the chemical odor of leaking car fluids. It could have been any of those things, but as he slowly lifted his head, he realized it wasn’t. The air felt more than polluted. It felt unnaturally thick, a presence bearing down on him. He inhaled, and the atmosphere tickled his throat. Tiny fingers wriggled toward his lungs. Vibrations slithered over his entire frame, and his heart leapt in his chest. The charge in the air had him scanning beyond the broken windshield, looking for fallen power lines. He saw nothing, which should have made him feel better.

It didn’t.

“Ross,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracking. “You okay, Ross?”

Ross didn’t answer. Tom’s fingers quickly located his partner’s arm and then his partner’s wrist. The pulse was good. He was just unconscious. Tom was about to shake him awake, but heard the passenger door open.

“Mister,” a woman said. “Hey, are you all right?”

Her Chevy Suburban was parked a few feet away. Other cars were stopping as well. The whole bridge would be clogged in moments.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying. “Can you help me out of here?”

The lady nodded and let him hook an arm around her shoulder. Tom pushed away from the airbag, every muscle in his chest groaning. Sounds came into sharper focus now. The rumble of dozens of engines filtered through the air, joined by a similar rumble coming from the river below. That’s all it is, he told himself. The cars . . . the rushing river . . . they’re making me even more jumpy. Nothing unnatural about that. As his feet hit solid ground, his vision began to spin. He grabbed the roof of the BMW to steady himself.

“What happened?” the lady asked, her hands shaking worse than Tom’s. “I watched you guys veer off the road.”

Tom stood up straight, his spine cracking. “There was a man,” he mumbled. His eyes widened. “That man.”

In the midst of the lines of cars stood the man in the heavy coat—no, not just a heavy coat, a trench coat. His frame shifted back and forth like a pendulum, though his eyes were fixed squarely on Tom. Wispy black hair fluttered around his shoulders. His face was long, and his complexion—dear God, his skin looked gray.

“Don’t worry,” the lady said. “I called the police already. They’ll be here soon. Why don’t you sit down and take it easy until they get here?”

The man’s eyes—bloodshot with clammy white pupils. They drilled deeper into Tom with every passing second, and he had the immediate sense that he wasn’t looking at something human. Those slimy white pupils belonged to a sea monster pulled from the darkest crevices of the ocean.

“Just a second,” Tom said, ignoring the fading dizziness. He stepped into the throng of cars, wishing Ross had shown him the photo the boy emailed to him. He had a terrifying suspicion that the image would match the man in the street. His .38 was still in its holster, but his fingers were around the grip, ready to draw. In all his years on the force, he had never gone for his gun. Yet something about this man’s crazed stare told him he was going to need it this time. The certainty of it chilled his insides.

He got in line with the man and stopped twenty feet away. For a moment, his gaze was pulled from the man’s face to his trench coat. The coat was too long on him, stretching to the ground and hiding the man’s feet. Every button was buttoned, and it looked thick on him, as if the man had several layers of clothes on underneath. Tom thought about pulling his badge, then decided not to. He had the man’s attention already, so Tom spoke.

“Why did you step into the street?”

The man smiled, revealing a set of half-decayed yellow teeth. “Do you know how long I spent preparing the sacrifice?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Three years I prepared the sacrifice! Three years I used the serum. Three years I performed the ceremonies. Yet the master had no use of my sacrifice. The master had already chosen another.”

Tom pulled his badge and held it up. “I said why did you walk into the street?”

The man clicked his teeth, baring purple gums. “So what good am I now? If I cannot provide the vessel of the master, how can I serve him?”

He’s a nut wandering the street. Tom couldn’t buy it, no matter how much he wanted to. This man was calculating. Tom’s fingers tensed around his weapon, but he resisted the impulse. They weren’t alone here. People watched through their car windows. A young family with a baby in a stroller had stopped on the walking path to stare in curiosity. A man driving a fuel truck spoke into his CB, probably giving a scoop to other truckers stuck on the Flux. They were all here, all trapped for the moment on this gleaming steel bridge, and Tom didn’t want to set off a panic. But as he looked into those predatory white pupils, he realized he might not have a say in the matter. This man wanted something, and whatever he did to get it might inevitably lead to panic.

Or he might want nothing, Tom told himself. Because he’s just a wanderer. Just a mental-case wanderer.

“Who is the master?” Tom tried, hoping to take over the conversation.

The man’s eyes blazed. “The master! The eye of the storm. The center around which all darkness orbits. The master is almost here, and when he arrives, he’s going to kick the shit out of this world.” The man cackled. “He’s going to kick the shit out of you too, Officer Pillar.”

The gun came out of its holster, pointed at Mr. Trench Coat in less than a second. In his periphery, he noticed people ducking inside their vehicles, but he couldn’t focus on that yet. “Who are you?” Tom yelled. “How do you know my name? Were you waiting for us to drive by? Who are you?”

The man’s eyes turned skyward. His hands rose in the air, palms up. Tom noticed the inside of his wrists. Black syringe holes dotted pale skin like swarms of gnats. “How can I serve the master now? How can I make my sacrifice worthwhile?”

“Damn it! Who are you?”

“I know!” the man cried. “I can give the sacrifice to my master’s enemy. I can give my sacrifice to the legendary Pillar. My lamb will not be wasted.”

The man’s hands dipped to his chest. “Hold it!” Tom yelled, but the man began unbuttoning his trench coat. Tom stepped forward. He was going to take this bastard down. Sirens clanged in the distance. They would be here in minutes, and they could cuff the madman and take him downtown. Tom only had to hold him until then. Keep him from doing something cra—

The man flipped open the trench coat.

Tom froze. Huddled against the man was a small boy, no more than seven. His back was to Pillar, his arms clinging to the man’s legs like a lifesaver. Large blue eyes squinted at him. Tom wasn’t focused on the boy’s face. His gaze was stuck on the row of sticks duct-taped around the boy’s midsection.

Dynamite.

A car honked, making Tom’s heart skip. Cars all around him broke into motion, reversing away from the epicenter of unfolding madness. But they only caused a string of fender benders behind them. It was bumper car havoc, everyone scrambling, but getting nowhere. All three lanes were at a standstill. Most of the drivers weren’t seeing the boy and the lunatic holding them. They were all absorbed in their own little worlds, yelling at the closer drivers who had gone insane. Radios were turned up and cell phones were in use. Even the woman who had helped him from the car was busy inside the BMW, trying to rustle some consciousness out of Ross. But no one was coming to help. For all intents and purposes, Tom was alone.

The man’s grotesque smile quivered. “Go to him, my son. Go to the Guardian.”

The boy trembled, but turned like a trained animal, and moved toward Tom. His heart froze as he saw the boy’s chest. An electronic readout hung over the dynamite. Numbers ticked away on it—00:58, 00:57, 00:56.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom asked, his voice feeling small.

“He’s yours,” the man offered. “He’s your sacrifice.”

“No, he’s not,” Tom said, pleading. “Come on, turn off the bomb. We don’t have to do this.”

“Oh we do,” the man insisted. “The whole world has to do this.”

00:41, 00:40, 00:39 . . .

Tom lifted his gun. “I said turn it off! Do it now!”

The man cackled again. His arms lifted upward in worship. “Master! Look to me and let my act please you!”

00:32, 00:31 . . .

Tom’s eyes jumped from the rows of log jammed vehicles to the fuel truck four spaces back to the child with his arms outstretched, walking toward him. He had realized a moment ago that he was alone on this one. Now he wished he could be so lucky.

00:25, 00:24 . . .

“You’ve got one more chance!” Tom yelled desperately. “Turn it off!”

The man dropped to his knees, his hands still raised. “Let the Jesottunea begin.”

00:17

Tom ran forward, scooping the child up in his arms. He heard a car door nearby open. As he passed the man in the trench coat, he heard a deep, foreign chanting. It barely sounded like a real language.

“Hey, what’s the problem over there?” the woman pushing the stroller said.

Tom ran, weaving through the cars, moving out of the lanes, across the walking path. He reached the railing and glanced down at the readout.

00:10

“Close your eyes,” he whispered to the boy. “When you wake up this will all be better.”

Tom lifted the child above his head. God, forgive me. Then he flung the boy, tossing the child with everything he had. Nearby a woman screamed. That scream was quickly matched as the young boy found his voice. The child’s face flashed through the air and then disappeared beyond the railing. The tiny scream pitched downward, toward the sun-drenched river below. Tom stood petrified, listening to the sound fade, waiting to hear the splash or the explosion—whichever came first.

A splash. The terrified cry of a seven-year-old snapped off in an instant.

Thomas Pillar didn’t move. As the seconds went by, he stayed right where he was, the walls of his mind imploding. The timer. It had already run out. It ran out before the boy hit the water. The truth—the truth that punctured his heart—was much simpler. The bomb had never been armed. The timer had only been there to fool him. The boy had fallen needlessly to his death.

A tremor ran through Tom’s soul. He couldn’t move. His feet were dead, his lungs insufficient. His stomach was hollow.

And somewhere behind him a man in a trench coat cackled like a lunatic.

When a centuries-old vampire enacts a vendetta against a beautiful woman who has scorned him, he finds himself unprepared when the beauty becomes the beast. Metamorph by Stephen M. DeBock. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StephenDeBock.html#Metamorph

What happens when Beauty becomes the Beast . . . ?

A vampire who has slaked his taste for terror through centuries of history’s darkest eras puts a hold on his covert attacks on America in order to pursue a secret vendetta against a beautiful bi-racial woman who has scorned him.

But the woman has a secret of her own. She is a metamorph, a hybrid shape-shifter with the healing powers of the vampire, the heightened senses and strengths of the werewolf, and the needs that accompany both. Needs that conflict with her strong moral code; needs which compel her to conceal her extra-human identity from the mortal man she has grown to love.

Metamorph combines known history with speculative fiction, a strong female protagonist, and the pitting of a creature of unmitigated evil against a pair of unsuspecting lovers in a complex cat-and-mouse pursuit.

Word Count: 96100
Pages to Print: 313 /292 in Print
File Format: PDF
Price: $5.99 /PRINT $15.99

EXCERPT:

Chapter One

Friday, January 23, 2009

Hyattsville, Maryland

Suri Clarke shivered in the darkness as she carried her shopping bag from the mall to her car. Bitter cold as it was, and with lots of parking spaces since the Christmas exchanges had tapered off, she still parked as far away from the entrance as she could. Her Weight Watchers leader had stressed walking is good exercise, and you should get as much walking in as you can every day. Keep moving, she’d said. Suri even wore a pedometer to keep track of her steps.

And the regimen was working. She had lost ten pounds in twelve weeks, and the increasing amount of give in her clothes was a real motivator. Larry had already commented on how good she looked; as for the kids, well . . . even if she grew another head they probably wouldn’t notice.

One Friday evening a month, Suri drove in to Hyattsville from Olney to shop. Not that there weren’t a plethora of shops mushrooming there, but as a Silver Spring native and a former nurse at Washington Adventist Hospital in Takoma Park, she enjoyed revisiting her old haunts—though, truth to tell, they were barely recognizable anymore. What were once Washington, D.C. suburbs were now cities in their own right. Larry had been smart, she reminded herself, to relocate the family while the Montgomery County landscape was as yet unsullied by condos and cookie cutter communities.

The shopping center is showing its age, she thought, as the headlights from the few remaining hard-core shoppers carved through the darkness, leaving the lot virtually deserted. She knew where her own car was, at the end of this row, empty now except for the oversized van blocking her view of it.

She stopped. Oh shit, she thought, pardon my French. Alone, dark parking lot, strange vehicle . . . no way, José, you’re going to do that.

Suri walked back to the mall. From behind the glass double doors, she could see lights being extinguished, but the entry hall remained lit. When she arrived, she saw a middle-aged man inside, approaching with a key. With her free hand, she waved, and he opened the door.

“Help you?” he asked. The man wore dark blue slacks and a lighter blue long-sleeved shirt, creases ironed in police style. A utility belt supported a pouch of some kind, probably a first aid kit, and a flashlight.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Suri said, “but I wonder if I might ask you to walk me to my car?”

“No problem at all,” he replied and stepped out into the cold.

“Shouldn’t you get your coat? It’s freezing out here,” she said, the cloud of her breath punctuating her point.

“Real men don’t feel the cold,” he joked. “Besides, the jacket’s in my office, and that’s way inside the mall. This won’t take long. Where’s your car?”

She pointed. “On the other side of that white van. It wasn’t there when I parked.”

They began walking. “That’s one of those Sprinters,” the security cop observed. “So tall you can stand up inside it.” He took his flashlight from his belt as they approached, and when they arrived, he shone his light into the passenger’s side window, opposite Suri’s own car in the space beside it. “Looks empty,” he said. “Can’t see farther back, there’s a curtain behind the driver’s seat, and no windows on the side. Back door doesn’t have glass in it either.” He tried the doors and found them locked. Next he turned his light onto Suri’s sedan. “It looks like a commercial van, lots of them around these days. Probably parked here for the night.”

“Does that happen?” Suri asked as she pressed the remote twice. With a blink of the parking lights, her doors unlocked.

“Sometimes you’ll see an empty car parked here. Like when two folks happen to meet inside the mall and decide to go out for a drink together.”

She nodded. “Okay, then.” Turning toward the guard, she thanked him and told him to get back inside where it’s warm.

“Happy to help,” he said as he walked hurriedly back toward the building.

Nice guy, she thought as she opened the rear door and dumped her packages on the seat. Probably retired police or military, picking up some extra bucks . . .

Something clicked behind her, as if a door were being unlocked.

Suri spun around as she saw the side door slide open. A black-clad man leaped out and pushed her against her car, one hand pressed hard against her mouth. A second man followed him and yanked her pocketbook from her shoulder. Then a third man stepped casually from the van. This one carried a pistol.

“Not a word,” the gunman said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Or you die here and now.”

“Oh God, no,” she whispered, and he pressed the pistol to her forehead.

“I said no talking. Do you understand what that means?”

She nodded, hardly daring to move, and he withdrew the pistol but moved its muzzle against her chin, pointing up. He nodded toward the van. “Get in.”

Once inside, Suri whispered, “Please, no. Please don’t hurt me. I have two sons at home.”

One of the other men, silent until now, spoke. “She thinks we’re going to rape her. Relax. Not gonna happen.”

The third slid the door closed. The weak dome light showed them all dressed in dark clothing, two in insulated jackets, their leader in a black wool overcoat that reeked of cigarette smoke. All of them looked to be somewhere in their forties. Not kids, then. Professionals.

The leader emptied Suri’s purse onto the floor. The second man, the one who had pinned her to the car, produced a felt tipped pen and a notebook and handed it to her. “Listen to me, and you won’t get hurt,” the man in the overcoat said as he removed the cash and cards from her wallet. “I want you to write the PIN for your ATM card.” She began to scribble, her hand shaking. “And your social security number. And your email address and password.”

Incongruously, she thought: Not only are they stealing my money, they’re stealing my identity, too. My God, why didn’t we subscribe to LifeLock? She finished writing and handed the notebook to the man who’d given it to her.

The leader, still holding her wallet, looked at her driver’s license. “Suri,” he said, leaning forward so his hawk-billed nose nearly touched hers. “You and I are going to get out of the van, and you are going to climb into your trunk. Tell me you intend to comply.” She nodded. “Good. I will be training this pistol on you the whole time. It’s a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard 380, which probably means nothing to you, but in a nutshell, it’s a semiautomatic with a magazine of six rounds, plus the one already in the chamber. If you attempt something I don’t like, I will press the gun into your coat and fire all seven rounds into your body. The fabric of your coat will muffle the sound of the shots. Please understand I mean what I say.”

She nodded again. Her mouth was dry; she’d been breathing through it. Her throat was frigid. She wondered if her legs still even worked. What if she stumbled getting out of the van? Would he shoot her if she fell down?

“Once you are in the trunk,” the leader said, “my friend here will place a wad of cloth inside your mouth to prevent you from calling for help. Then he will run a length of duct tape across it and around your head. After that, we will take a little drive. If you do exactly as I say, no harm will come to you. Now get out of the van and open your trunk.”

Miraculously, Suri’s legs held up. She unlocked the trunk and climbed inside. The second man shoved the gag into her mouth and wrapped it in place with duct tape. Please let me live, she thought, eyes wide and watery, the tears beginning to crystallize in the cold. She blinked furiously. The man told her to turn over. When she complied, he used a cable tie to link her wrists. Then he had her turn over again, onto her back. When he was satisfied, he backed away, leaving room for their leader. The two accomplices stood just behind him, as if they were a pair of male OR nurses observing over their surgeon’s shoulder. The third man smiled and leaned forward, his face nearing her own.

What is this, she thought. Something isn’t right. She had cooperated, done exactly as commanded, and they had promised she would be unharmed. She saw the glint in the man’s eyes, reflecting the dim illumination of the trunk light. He opened his mouth, and she felt a drop of drool on her neck.

Suri’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head as the leader’s mouth opened wider, his lower jaw extending farther than a human jaw could possibly drop. A pair of needle-sharp fangs swung down from his upper palate, like those of a rattlesnake. She began shaking violently, twisting her head from side to side, struggling with the cable tie that bound her wrists. She screamed, but only a trace mewling escaped around the gag and through the tape. The two acolytes bent down and held her firmly as he lowered his mouth to the side of her neck and pierced it with his fangs.

It didn’t hurt as much as she’d thought it would. It occurred to the nurse in her, irrationally in light of her impending death, that there might be a topical anesthetic in the man’s saliva. He withdrew his mouth to allow the fangs to pivot back and his jaw to return to normal. He lowered his lips to the raw punctures in her neck.

Suri knew there was no point in struggling further, and she closed her eyes and folded her fingers together behind her back, as if in prayer. She felt the blood being sucked from her, as if by an aspirator, heard the repeated gulps of the man’s greedy swallowing, experienced the lethargy of her body’s ebbing vitality.

When the leader had drunk his fill, he applied a strip of duct tape over the wounds. The woman was undoubtedly dead, but he was nothing if not careful, and from inside his coat he drew an instrument that looked like an obscenely elongated icepick, inserted it into her nostril, and drove the point into her brain. He withdrew the pick and applied more tape over her nostrils. No coppery scent of blood would reveal the body in the trunk.

“Nice job,” said one of the man’s companions, and the other agreed. He didn’t bother acknowledging them as he stood. His thoughts were of Suri’s family, now bereft of their beloved wife and mother. He smiled. They would find themselves even worse off than she. After all, death is final; suffering lasts forever.

It felt good to be active again, and autonomous for the first time, after almost fifteen years of anonymity. This operation, a minor opening gambit, would conclude tomorrow, and then he would leave for home. Winter break was almost over, and he needed to be back by Sunday night at the latest.

Special Things

Friday, September 6, 2019

Thursday, July 24, 2014

http://www.amazon.com/Exit-The-Pillar-Saga-Book/dp/1619502259 (Print)

Thomas Pillar surfaces to stop a sword-wielding madman bent on igniting a demon apocalypse. Exit Us, Book 2 of The Pillar Saga by Ben Larken. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

Chapter Three

December

Sunt lacrimae rerum

There are tears for things. Life is tragic.

—Virgil

Other times, like now, he longed for something else—when he caught himself wondering what would happen if he opened the door.

“Charlotte?”

His voice came out small, but he didn’t care. Volume didn’t matter much in this place. “Charlotte, are you in there?”

He waited. Regret seeped into the fringes of his mind. She wasn’t in there. Of course, she wasn’t. Why had he been stupid enough to think—?

“Tom?”

His eyes widened. He scrambled towards the sound. Soon his hands were on the door’s chilly veneer. “Charlotte! I’m here.”

“Tom,” she said. “Oh Tom, where are you? I can’t see anything in here.”

“I’m right here, baby, on the other side of the door. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“God, Tom, where have you been? I’m scared.”

Pillar ran his fingers down the door, seeing her face in his mind. “I know you are. I am, too. I miss you bad.”

Something ran down the other side of the door—fingers. “Tom, let me out. I don’t want to be in the dark anymore.”

He turned his eyes to the old knob, the pink sunlight still beaming off it. His fingers drifted toward it and then stopped.

“Tom,” she whispered, right on the other side. “What’s wrong? Open the door.”

“I—I’m not supposed to.”

“What? Tom, I just want out. You can close the door behind me.”

He rested his forehead against the door, closing his glazed eyes. “If I do, bad things will happen.”

The voice came back wounded. “Do you not want me anymore?”

“Baby, no,” he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I want you so much, it hurts. I need you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nobody.”

“Then open the door,” she sobbed. “Let me hold you.”

His fingers drifted again. He looked down and saw them resting on the knob. His jaw clenched. Another tear broke free. “I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. What if something else gets out?”

“There’s nothing else here. But you have to hurry, because they’ll be back soon. Hurry and open the door. I want to feel you against me.”

He was silent, choking on his own emotions. His fingers grazed the knob. All he had to do was add a little more pressure. He could turn it quick, and she’d be here again. Charlotte would be back in his life. He—

“Damn it, Tom,” she cried. “Why won’t you open it? First you shoot me, next you trap me in here. Let me out already!”

He pulled his head back. One thought came to the forefront.

“You’re not Charlotte,” he whispered.

“Go away,” he said, his voice dwindling. “Leave me alone.”

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Everything’s okay. The canyon isn’t real. Only a dream, something constructed out of subconscious fears. The words ran through his head like a mantra. It was. He thought the same thing every morning.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, glancing at each of the showerheads like they might talk back. “I’m going to—find Charlotte.”

Monday, July 21, 2014

http://www.amazon.com/Pillars-Fall-Pillar-Saga-Book/dp/1619502232 (PRINT)

Detective Thomas Pillar finds the test of a lifetime when a spate of killings lead back to a child—and the demon hiding within. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

Now, months later, it’s starting again . . .

As the body count rises and Pillar’s marriage begins to unravel, he races against time to stop the force that is pulling all the strings. But how do you destroy the demon without killing the innocent child? This is Pillar’s dilemma. This is Pillar’s story.

This is Pillar’s Fall.

Word Count: 108400

Pages to Print: 345

Price: $6.99

EXCERPT:

“We feelin’ anxious today?” Tom ventured, looking at his partner.

Ross Medford grinned, his eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses, his blonde Brad Pitt hair slicked back, his lips barely hanging onto a toothpick.

“No, I’m feeling the rails. What are you feeling?”

“Curious at the moment. You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“The subway,” Ross answered, wheeling the BMW out of the residential area and heading toward the highway, site of another favorite game: speed-weaving.

“The subway?”

“The subway.”

“Why are we going to the subway?”

“To feel the rails, of course.”

Tom rolled his eyes. Shoulda known. “Ever think of getting a new catchphrase?”

“You are so deep.” Tom laid his head back on the seat. “You know, the rails usually make me sleepy. And I’m feelin’ em now. Yes, sirree, I would say if I don’t hear some sort of stimulating information in the next five seconds, I’ll be out like a light.”

The BMW took another corner, forcing Tom’s head off the seat.

“That’d be too bad,” Ross commented. “Because then you wouldn’t hear about the terrorist I’m about to bust.”

“Is this the same satanic-cult wacko you’ve been talking to on the Internet for the last three days?”

“The one and the same.” Ross grinned again. “I told you I’d bank on this one.”

“We’ll see,” Tom said. “What makes this one different?”

Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Illegal arms? Off of us? Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were riding close to entrapment.”

Medford shrugged. “Eh, maybe. I’m not worried about it. The moment we bust this guy, we get permission to search his house, and boom, there’s all the proof you’ll ever need.”

“This guy’s stockpiling?”

Another shrug. “Probably.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Probably . . . damn, you make me nervous.”

Ross snickered. “Hey, that’s half the fun of having me for a partner. I don’t think you’ll be complaining when Boss T promotes us to detective-lieutenants.”

“I think that’s the difference between you and me,” he said, scanning the web of rusty silver bridgework. “You’re looking for the next promotion . . . I’m happy where I am.”

Ross sniffed. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy being a full-fledged detective. Besides, I need you. You’re the one who watches my back.”

“I’m not saying I won’t enjoy it.” Tom looked at his partner, a smirk on his lips. “As long as watching your back doesn’t turn into kissing your ass.”

“Ross!”

And then silence.

It didn’t.

“Ross,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracking. “You okay, Ross?”