Tag: horror

The Qliphoth

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Excerpt

“It was your choice. I can remember those lights in the living room. Who
are you kidding? “
She stubs out her fag and composes herself. “You know, Lucas, if you were a
single working mother with a little boy—just like you—who was trying to sort
out her life after divorcing a very destructive man, and somebody offered you
some really useful money to tell your side of the story, to help other people, I
think that even you would kid yourself that it was worth a go.”
She watches him squat down on the circular rug, amid the scattered video
cassettes. It’s sometimes best to play it cool with Lucas. Although she’s still hot
and cold all over, in shock, a very nasty after-shock. After all these years the
dread vibrations won’t stop, the business of Nick goes on exhuming itself.
Now Lucas starts to shift mechanically through his overlapping
papers—the exam results slip, his college prospectuses, the list of phone calls
he hasn’t made—as if some emerging permutation of words will spell out the
secret knowledge he’s craving, or dreading. But he’s not going to give up.
“Surely as your only child I have a right to know . . .”
“Lucas, I’ve told you all you need to know. I’d like it to remain my problem,
please. ” She’s keeping extremely busy and business-like, tidying away the
half-empty bottles of red wine, Lucas’s scattered socks, last week’s Guardian
and the new work-scheme she hasn’t even started. She must assert her control,
no more tears, keep up the balancing act.
Neither of them look at the telly, which now seems to exist in its own isolated
space in the corner of the darkened room. The shimmering image of
Pauline is suspended there like a watery reflection of the moon. There’s an
odd tang in the air, not the freshness of summer rain, but a faint ammoniac
taint. The storm rumbles on.
Lucas wanders around the furniture in circles. He’s both unpredictable, and
relentless, like the weather. “All you’ve said, in effect, is ‘Your father’s been a
horrible embarrassment to everybody, especially his ex-wife, but if you’re ever
so good you’ll be able to visit him annually and watch him taking his big purple
pills and going gaga . . .’ That’s been the idea, hasn’t it? Containment. A
father-free zone. What’s this creature you’re protecting me from? ”
Last year that gaunt bespectacled figure in pajamas was too doped to do
anything except grin vacantly on a cue from beefy orderlies. It was all
stage-managed. “There’s your fine upstanding lad, Nick. How about a smile
for Lucas, then? ” After fifteen minutes of watching that empty grin, those
wandering eyes, Lucas couldn’t take any more, he was close to screaming. But
Dad could still slur mysteriously in his ear. Which made them fellow-conspirators.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Jazz with Ella

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excerpt

“What do you mean by that?”
“Look, it doesn’t have your name on it.” She had the sensation of the floor moving away from her and decided to run for the door while her dignity was still intact.
Back in her cabin tears overwhelmed her. You give me hope. She missed Volodya more than ever. She sat on the bed and smoothed the crumpled paper, studying it, trying to understand what Chopyk had meant. True, it was not addressed to her but had been sent in care of Natasha Kuchkov as tour guide. A number followed—presumably that represented the bureaucratic Intourist agency’s official designation for the tour. If it had not been intended for her, then who? Did he really send it? Volodya was a very common name—and there was no last name. So how did Natasha know whom to check? And how did Natasha know the telegram was meant for her?
Her class that afternoon was conducted in a pall of discomfort. Most of the students had overheard the dispute in the dining room without knowing exactly what had transpired. She thought of having Paul lead the class instead of her but she couldn’t find him anywhere. The mood stayed with her through the formal dinner that evening, well into the hour of entertainment—several of the students had learned Russian poems or ditties and were amusing the Americans by reciting the translations—and it lasted on into the evening.
As she lay awake, she began to have doubts about her behaviour. Maybe Chopyk was only being a good guy, after all—meddlesome but showing genuine concern. Maybe Volodya was a dead loss. After some agonizing, she realized that Volodya must know Natasha. Of course. He must have known her when he had worked for Intourist. She had even said she was from Leningrad. They would have been colleagues. That would explain a lot. So maybe Natasha had known about Volodya and her all along. Could he have wanted Natasha to see the telegram—maybe to let her know that he was attempting to leave the country? Could it be that Natasha was helping? As Jennifer rolled on to her back in the cabin berth she felt the increased pressure from Volodya as if it were some live thing pressing on her chest. What a day! Even the strange comment from Hank in the hallway that morning. It all fit into the stew. She fervently hoped that sleep would give her some respite from her muddled thoughts.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

The Circle

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excerpt

it’s best for their morale, for their belief in the rationality of what they do every
day, and for their steadfastness in moving ahead. He has been around these
people and this agency for a long time since leaving Baghdad, since the days he
thought he had a good future with the CIA. Time has passed along with his belief
in a good future. What went wrong? He has wondered many a time; Ibrahim is
right. Bevan knows deep in his heart that Ibrahim is right. The problem is what
the agency does and what his department does is often questionable. This has
troubled him for a while. He has a hard time understanding the reasoning
behind decisions taken that are based on a mounting fear in the psyche of the
American people. He has been abroad for many years in which he has come
across people of many different nationalities; Muslims and others and they are
seldom the way they have been portrayed by the administration and by the
Ameerican media at the best of times. Following the end of the term of the “war
president” the people elected a different party and the stand of the country
abroad softened a bit, but after a couple of terms they were back at the same old
doctrine of pre-emptive strikes whenever it felt right, and Bevan knows that’s
not the best approach. Sometimes it’s better to sit and talk to a person instead of
unleashing the power of the killing machine and later trying to find answers to
questions you never asked to begin with.
He knows something has to be done about all this. Yet there are times when
he doubts even himself, even the comments from Ibrahim, his good friend. Does
he doubt his friend? A number of times he has thought about that, as well. After a
while his mind gets stuck on the idea that something has to be done with this
department, something has to change; it cannot keep on going like this for ever,
it cannot keep on going on with the killings and the atrocities. Yes, he knows,
something has to change.
He has tried over the past five or six years to change the mentality of a
number of people whom he has talked to; but has found it difficult to convince
most of the people in higher positions that what they do and how they approach
things is wrong. Some seem to thrive on other peoples’ misery and cannot
suddenly change direction because Bevan Longhorn wants it. He knows the only
way something will ever change is when something dramatic happens. Bevan has
been thinking about that for quite a while.
Ibrahim is right; substantial change takes place only when dramatic events
precede, like the attack in New York in 2001. He takes a copy of the memo he has
issued to his personnel and puts it in his wallet. He closes the file and calls his
secretary to pick it up. Then he finishes eating his sandwich and asks Dorothy to
remove his cold coffee.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

“In one way they were right,” Michael interrupted.
“Yes, that’s true enough,” Caitlin agreed. “The doctor tried to tell the people it was epilepsy, but they said that epilepsy was just a doctor’s big word for seizure by the Devil. Then a fishing boat went down in a storm with the loss of all hands. The people in the fishing village blamed Padraig. They dragged him from the doctor’s house, but on the way to the harbour, where they might have drowned him, he suffered another seizure. He was writhing on the ground and foaming at the mouth when my father rescued him. The doctor agreed with my father that the best thing for his own safety was to let Padraig go.”
“What a terrible life that poor man has had,” Michael observed.
“Only the first dozen years,” Caitlin said. “He was twelve when he came here.”
“So he lived with the doctor and his wife for three years?”
“About that, yes. But he was mostly confined to their house. Children stoned him one day when he went outside.”
“Imagine being stuck in a house for three years.”
“It was a lot better than the house he came from. The doctor continued his education.”
“Padraig’s education?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘continued’ it?”
“His mother, the school-teacher, educated him herself as best she could under the circumstances in her brother’s house. She did a good job of it too. Padraig is a clever man. A very quick learner.”
“You should know, shouldn’t you?” Michael said. “You spent a lot of time over his books too, as I’ve heard.”
“I learned as much from Padraig as he did from me,” Caitlin said modestly, but honestly. “Old Shaughnessy, the schoolmaster, didn’t know what to make of Padraig. I did. I taught him what I could. Except for theology.”
“Theology?” This was a new word for Michael.
“The study of religion.”
“I see.”
“Padraig was quite well versed in that. The doctor or his wife must have known a lot about it. Padraig actually taught himself, Michael, in between the odd jobs he did for my father. He did well enough to get to university. After that there was no stopping him.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Water in the Wilderness

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excerpt

opened the door to the boys’ bedroom and crept across the floor to Bobby’s bed. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she whispered, “Bobby, get up.”
The boy came to, not with a start as she had feared, but slowly and calmly. Rachael couldn’t see his face well, but she could sense his smile as he yawned and stretched like a kitten.
“Bobby,” she said more urgently, “you have to get up. Hurry now.”
He stopped stretching, and peered at her in the dim light. “Why? I don’t want to get up.”
“Shh, be quiet. You have to get up ’cause we’re leaving.”
She sensed his bewilderment, and noted the beginning of a whine in his voice. “But it’s still night time; it’s still dark. Where we goin’, Rachael?”
She bent close to his ear, and whispered, “We’re going home – to find Daddy.”
Bobby needed no more coaxing. He reached out for his truck where it had been pushed aside during the night, then got out of bed and stood on wobbly legs.
Rachael groped in the darkness for his clothes, then gently but forcibly pushed him out the door into the hallway. In the kitchen she helped him dress, grabbed her doll and the bag of food, and ushered Bobby into the small utility room where she rummaged around until she found both of his high boots from amongst the pile on the floor. Finding her own boots, she pulled them on, then helped Bobby into his coat and shoved a woolen cap on his head. Next, she shrugged into her coat, stuffed the oranges into the pockets, and pulled a toque over her tousled hair.
She glanced around quickly. They were ready to go. Wait, they needed mittens. A few precious moments were spent sorting out two pairs from the mitten pile. Then she opened the door and pushed Bobby out ahead of her. The stinging cold hit Rachael in the face and she saw Bobby cringe and hunch his shoulders. She really should button his jacket up higher but she couldn’t take a chance on him making a sound until they had made it around the house and away from the bedroom windows. Lifting a finger to her lips when he looked up at …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Small Change

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excerpt

A shadow blotted the April sun for a moment, and Sister Margaret came
busting across the schoolyard.
“Stop that, Samuel,” she yelled. “Don’t you know better than to
pick on someone twice your size?”
Alexander made a face that looked appropriately put upon. My
heart was fluttering and jumping around like a shot squirrel inside me, and
the words came out in a silly rush.
“It’s not Sammy, Sister, it’s Alex, he beat up Skinhead and kicked
Samuel’s foot and Sammy didn’t even hit him.” I took a gulp of air. “Yet,”
I finished, hopeful that we might still get to see a pint-sized version of
Primo Carnera and the Brown Bomber re-enacted on almost holy ground.
Sister Margaret surveyed the schoolyard and when she saw all those
little heads nodding in agreement, she said, “Oh, Zander. Big Bully rides
again, eh? I heard about you, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Alexander was pinned to the fence. He decided to roar.
“He’s the bully. He won’t fight fair.”
Sammy laughed. Pushed the leg a little higher.
“Apologize like a nice moron, Alex.” he said. “Tell Skinhead how
sorry you are.”
Alexander kicked hard, his face all twisted and then he glowered
at Sister Margaret and made a big mistake. A litany of obscene street talk
jumped out between loose lips. We all stood there with our mouths open.
Sammy, however, took Zander’s words as a personal insult. He dropped
the giant’s boot and stepped back, his legendary left arm coiled, his fist so
tight you could see the white knuckles under his dusky skin. When Sister
Margaret put her hand on Sammy’s shoulder he looked up at her with a
kind of confused puppy love.
“It’s not your fight, Samuel,” she said.
Sammy smiled and stepped aside. Alexander didn’t know what
was about to happen, so he indulged himself in some more bad language.
Something about how nuns have to have their tits cut off because Jesus is
too faggoty to marry a real broad. Sister got that look in her eyes. And she
was smiling her Railroad Avenue leather-jacketed smile. Then she slapped
the Giant. Not hard, just like a kind of introduction. He looked insulted,
like he was going to go home and tell his Mommy. Then he lunged at
her and she clipped him a good short right. It rocked him, no lie, but he
kept coming. He took a left hook on the ear and grabbed the rope of holy

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

Swamped

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excerpt

However, Mario wanted to have a bigger
piece of the pie than his partners, so he made a side deal with a shady
promoter and the trustee released all the stock to the new purchaser
on Mario’s instructions alone, and without the deposit that was customary
in any financial deal. The promoter ended up running around
downtown Vancouver with a briefcase full of certificates that didn’t
belong to him, and after he wasted a few certs on some of the scummiest
people in VSE circles without being able to raise the funds to
pay for the shell company, he went back to Mario and together they
concocted a story that the certs had gotten lost.
One of the scumbags the promoter dealt with was Jimmy Hall, a
character Eteo had met once, who was probably the shadiest promoter
in Vancouver. Eteo remembered how this man had called him
son when they met like some kind of mafia don, and he had not been
too surprised when Hall was later gunned down for unknown reasons,
like another famously scummy Vancouver promoter, Bobby
Hanover, who was also killed a few years later.
When, after this debacle, the three partners met to discuss their
next move with Richard Walden, another investor on Robert’s side,
and coincidentally the current president of Golden Veins, Walden had
been furious and threatened to go to the authorities. Eteo had argued
for keeping VSE officials away from the issue and instead going after
the trustee who had “lost” the certs. Mario had vehemently objected,
not surprisingly, since he was the one who had instructed her to release
the stock to the promoter in the first place, though Eteo only
discovered this later. Walden had continued to insist they go to the
VSE and report their share certificates stolen and had almost persuaded
the others until Eteo asked, “What do you expect the VSE to
do? Issue new certs to us?”
Nobody knew what to say to this.
“Look,” Eteo explained, “there’s a way to get all our shares back,
though it will take time.”
“Okay, how?” Walden demanded.
“We declare the certs lost one at a time and issue a new cert each
time, but we can only do this gradually, one cert at a time.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Poodie James

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excerpt

“Seen Ray Thompson?” the man said.
“No, I expect he’ll be back in a few minutes. Anything I can do
for you? I’m Pete Torgerson.”
The ranger gave no sign of recognition.
“I have a message for Ray. Got a call up at the station. Only
phone around here. Know where I might find him.”
“He’s over at the dining hall.”
“Thanks,” the man said, and left.
Torgerson sat on Thompson’s bunk and leafed through a tattered
copy of Life, trying not to think about the boy. Five minutes
later, Thompson was back.
“Pete, I have a problem. The ranger station got a call from my
neighbor in town. My wife had an appendicitis attack. She’s in the
hospital. I’ve got to go down there right now. It’s going to burst if
they don’t operate. I want to be there when she comes out of the
anesthetic. There’s no one up here but kid counselors, and I can’t
leave one of them in charge. I hate to ask because I know how
much you’ve got on your hands, but….”
“You don’t have to ask. Go on. Just stop by the garage. Tell
them what’s happening, and have them give Sue-Anne a call.”
“If I can’t get back up here tommorow, I’ll have the Y send
somebody to take over. Noon, at the latest.”
“Run along, Ray.”
“Razor and all that stuff above the sink. Sorry I don’t have pajamas
for you. Don’t use ’em. Lights out at ten o’clock. You might
have to quiet ’em down.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. Scoot.”
In the log dining hall, Torgerson lined up with the children and
the counselors to shuffle past the steam table. A solemn woman in
a hair net and a white uniform ladled chipped beef on toast and
canned peas onto their trays. He thought of the army. After dinner,
he wandered over to a corner of the hall where a counselor sat
at an old upright piano playing a sonata he recognized but could
not name. She looked fifteen, maybe sixteen, he thought, and from
the back a little like Sue-Anne. When he came home, his wife was

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Poodie James

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excerpt

He tried to raise up, but they jerked him backward down the
step and onto the ground. The clubbing began. He wrapped his
arms around his head and tucked into a ball.Two of them straightened
his body by pulling his hands and feet while the biggest man
alternated kicks with blows from a length of wood. The clubs and
boots battered his arms and legs, his torso, his shoulders. The pain
was like fire on his skin. The ache went to the center of his bones.
They let him go, then knocked him off his feet when he got up,
laughing at his contortions when he twisted and thrashed to evade
their clubs.Theywere killing him, he thought.Hewas going to die.
Suddenly, the big man was on his back and Engine Fred was on
top of him with a forearm bearing down on his windpipe. Poodie
sat up and saw the other two running down the lane. His head
throbbed. Three more hobos came down along the path from the
jungle. The man on the ground got an arm free, knocked Engine
Fred off balance and was up and running away. He disappeared
into the orchard, headed toward the river. Two of the hobos ran
after him, but came back shaking their heads. It all happened in the
space of a few minutes. The Thorps slept through it, but Engine
Fred told Poodie that he heard a scream. Poodie didn’t know that
he was capable of screaming.
Dan Thorp called the police the next morning. By then, the
hobos had hopped a freight. Poodie could not identify the thugs.
The bruises on his face and body took weeks to heal. Thorp put a
lock on the cabin door. The attack was the worst thing that had
happened to Poodie since his mother died. He lived it over in his
dreams night after night for months. Years later, he still awakened
in fear that the men would come back.
Alice Moore looked up to see Poodie James’s face floating just
above surface of the checkout desk, a stack of books next to it. She
had never seen that face without a smile. She looked at the books;
Howard Carter’s The Discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamen, three
books about whales, a collection of de Maupassant stories.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

Just as they had spent that first evening on the street, Jennifer and Volodya spent the next afternoon mostly on the street, in the peculiar privacy that Soviets find in large crowds. She bought him cognac and cigarettes at Beryozka the foreign currency souvenir store. He bought her Russian language books, stories of the city, and corrected her sentences. She showed him her contact lenses and how they worked. He marvelled. Such things were unheard of in the Soviet Union, he told her, but he had seen some Japanese tourists use them. That night Jennifer returned to the hotel, Volodya to his home.
The next day as they were passing the Hotel Europe, another accommodation reserved solely for visitors from the west, he grabbed her hand, glanced around to see if they were being followed and walked into the lobby, saying in English, “I want to show you something. Go along with me to the restaurant.” They strolled to the elegant restaurant portal and waited in the foyer. There was no one in sight.
“Hey, if you’re pretending to be an American, you’re holding your cigarette all wrong,” she whispered. “Don’t curl it under your hand. Just let it sit between your fingers. Like so.” She surreptitiously straightened his fingers, rearranging the cigarette. He grinned at her. She felt the warmth of the smile and let her hand linger on his.
“Thank you,” he said in English. “Now look over at that table under the light. I will not point. You see?” Jennifer peered. “See the centre arrangement? That is a microphone—how they listen. Only the ones with that arrangement—and some of the others there, that table and that one.”
Jennifer stared but couldn’t see the difference in the various tables.
“How do you know?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246