Monarch: Chapter Four

To begin with the Prologue of this serial novel, Monarch, please start here. 

Chapter Four

Kevin heard the six words, spoken through the girl’s radio in her truck and his chest filled with dread. The frequency and pitch of the voice rattled in his teeth, hitting a nerve– a metallic, stinging sensation. The image closed in on the girls face, and the television turned off, casting the room into darkness. For some reason, the images he had just witnessed seemed like more than just a movie—almost real life, but not quite—so real that it passed into the realms of surrealism. The images were exactly how he’d have seen them if he had been standing right next to the truck, actually touching the broken glass and pooling blood. It was as if he had tasted her bruised lips when she screamed, heard with his own ears the strange, rasping voice, which came through the speakers of her car. He realized, all too soon, that the sounds did not come from within the car, but reverberating in his mind as well. He knew of no movie that captured feelings such as these. He had just seen a truck overturned by-

Kevin began to laugh.

It came out as a chuckle at first, then hysterics took over.  He stood up and held himself steady on the bed, as he laughed too hard to maintain balance. Once again, he allowed something to become more than reality. He shook his head, absolutely confused as to why he had thought the film on television represented anything more than just a movie. It was simply a cheaply made, Spanish movie on the Spanish channel the television turned too. The snow and static meant either an old television or a poor connection. 

 I’m nuts, he thought, absolutely, certifiably, bananas.

Kevin glanced at his watch, surprised to see that only a few minutes had passed, yet the weather outside had changed drastically. He stopped laughing when he realized that he sounded just as loco as he had felt after watching those few minutes on television. He walked over to the drapes and opened them at once, wanting a bit of sunshine to bleed into this little room. The clouds from the oncoming storm completely covered the remaining light of the sun and thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm, not quite upon this little town, but certainly coming fast, loomed upon them. He felt someone’s eyes on him, someone prying into his mind.

“This is silly,” he muttered to himself and pulled his soft briefcase onto the old desk. He pulled out his computer, his pads of paper, and stacked them on top of each other. Again, he stopped and looked around the little room. To think of that movie as reality brought him to the edge of his sanity. He wanted the thoughts to dissipate, but the uneasy feeling in the room simply would not leave. A dark, heavy cloud of apprehension and anxiety hung near the ceiling like rumbling clouds of smoke. He needed to get out of that room, and quickly. Wringing his hands and pacing he tried to decide where to go and what to do. The anxiety built, causing his stomach to dry heave, gags rising in his throat. He no longer cared where he went; he grabbed his dark blue jacket and baseball cap and walked out the door.

The moment he stepped outside the room, he felt a small amount of relief, but the uneasiness that accompanied his few moments in the hotel room remained strong. The storm seemed to be standing still, growing and gaining mass before it plummeted upon the city. Kevin watched it curiously, and suspected that it was the first real storm of the season, where the cool air would become even colder, to the point that it contracted your lungs and bit into your nostrils when you breathed. He shook his attention away from the dark clouds and walked down the building to the lobby. His footsteps thumped on the asphalt and he noticed that there were no other people or cars on the street. For a short moment, he felt alone, out in the open, seeming to be the only person willing to face the purple and black mass in the distance. The sun had almost completely disappeared and the breeze transformed into a steady wind, blowing the branches off the trees and making them creak and crack. Leaves blew around his feet and slapped at this legs as he entered the lobby.

The lobby felt warm and comfortingly guarded from the outside. Kevin looked across the empty desk into the back room, trying to see Michael. He called for the clerk, but received no answer. The door closed behind him, the bell jingling softly and he heard several thumps in the room above him. Kevin smiled as he heard Michael come running down some unseen stairs, imagining the man bumbling excitedly to meet him. He almost chuckled when the hotel clerk burst into the room, wiping his face and doing his best to remain calm.

“Mr. Johnson, hello.” He said, and then extended his hand for Kevin to shake. Michael’s shoulders slumped and he spoke quickly, as if he knew that Kevin teetered on the verge of getting the dodge out of this city and leaving the hotel for good. “I’m sorry about the wait, did you wait long? Is everything all right in the room?”

“No, everything is perfectly fine. I just wondered where a good place to eat would be?” Kevin asked, smiling as he watched the nervous little man in front of him sigh with relief and literally shudder with excitement. Michael responded, “I was just eating myself actually, and you’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like, but if not, which is totally fine, there is a diner just down the street, called Mabel’s. You can’t miss it. Just across from the church and next to the police station.”

Weird. Maybe this guy is related to Bates after all, thought Kevin. He shook his head and motioned to the door.

“Thanks. I think I’ll head over there and see if I can get something to eat.” Kevin walked to the door, but turned and as an afterthought, "I’m looking forward to breakfast tomorrow morning though.” Michael’s eyes lit up and he almost burst with pride. Jeeze, this guy must really not get out, Kevin thought, or he probably just doesn’t get a whole lot of business. Michael rambled on about what they would have for breakfast in the morning. He smiled and nodded. Michael was debating with himself about whether waffles or pancakes would be better for breakfast. Kevin interrupted.

“I saw a movie on television earlier,” he said, “maybe the Spanish channel; in any case I’m curious to know which movie I saw. Do you have a TV guide or something?” Michael stopped his personal debate and stared at him curiously.

“Do you get cable on your lap top?” He asked. Kevin shook his head and chuckled, despite himself. The guy is a trip, so literally caught up with his own conversation and unable to put a couple of thoughts together.

“No. The TV in the room; it’s not a big deal, I just wondered because the movie was… interesting.” Kevin replied, afraid that Michael would develop a complex over his stay in his motel. Michael responded slowly, carefully, “Are you sure you didn’t watch the television at a hotel on the way here? At home maybe?”

“No, just a few minutes ago, before I came over here.” Kevin said, “Why?”

The little clerk looked him up and down, obviously confused.

“Because…” Michael started, “Television has been out for a few weeks here at the Alpine Resort. They don’t work.”

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© 2008, Derrick Hibbard. All Rights Reserved.

Monarch: Chapter Three

To begin with the Prologue of this serial novel, Monarch, please start here. 

Chapter Three

Kevin finished unpacking his things into the tiny chest of drawers. He liked the room, and it had a similar feel to the lobby—someone certainly tried hard to make this little motel clean and presentable. The room was just like any other you’d see at a motel with only six rooms. It had a small closet that housed a built-in ironing board and an old iron. The bathroom left little room for anything else but standing, but the tub seemed big enough for him to soak—a great time for new ideas, at least in Kevin’s opinion. A twin bed took up most of the space in the room, and a small couch sat under the window, leaving only inches to navigate between the two pieces of furniture. A television rested on top of the drawers, just opposite the bed, and a small writing desk snuggled nicely in one corner with a few postcards and envelopes stacked on top. The desk had long rivets and scars running down the surface.

He plopped down on the bed, exhausted. The drive from Charlotte, North Carolina, Kevin's hometown, took several more hours than he’d expected. It seemed like forever since he’d seen and kissed his wife, Cami,goodbye and his thoughts drifted to her. They had been fighting more and more lately, and this time away from each other would act as a mini-separation to help them collect their thoughts and make the relationship better. For a while, hell seemed to have taken board in their lives, ruining what they held most dear. He loved her though, and he conscientiously tried to make the changes in himself. He missed her already. Hopefully, the separation wouldn’t be long term, hopefully it would work—he simply couldn’t bear to be without her.

The phone rang, startling him from his thoughts. He picked it up on the third ring and said, “This is Kevin.”

Only static. The noise lasted a few seconds and then cut out, leaving Kevin in silence. He heard a voice. Someone, a woman, spoke very softly—but he heard the tone and knew it was a woman. Cami? For some reason, Kevin thought of the storm. The electric smell of thunder and lighting seemed to emit from the phone. A faint rotting smell made the sensation more complex and strange—and then it was over. He stared at the phone a few seconds before placing it back in its cradle. He immediately picked it up again without thinking, and dialed his home in Charlotte.

He had just dialed the number when the television clicked on. The machine looked several years old, so the tubes took some time to heat and produce a clear picture. A few seconds past, Kevin watching curiously as the channels changed on their own, stopping on a Spanish speaking soap opera. He chuckled and placed the phone back in the cradle, crossed the room and turned the television off. The switch jiggled too loosely and the television did not respond.

“Well, what did you expect?” Kevin muttered, and he reached for the phone again, this time to call the front desk.

The image suddenly changed and the angle now captured a long road, trees lining it completely. A single truck drove down the road, the leaves swirling behind it in little whirlwinds. In the east, a storm brewed, much like the one he had just seen outside, but even more dark and intense. The angle did not change, but followed the truck as it approached. Seconds past and the angle did not change. The truck just neared. Kevin had seen shots as long as this in other movies, and he didn’t think that this was French. The mind liked change on the screen, or it got bored, even subconsciously. The scene captured the beauty of this town and the surrounding areas—as if the film had been shot very near Mapleton. It almost seemed live. The colors and lighting were exactly as he had seen it when he drove into town.

The image changed again and the camera then moved with the truck. He could see two people sitting together in the cab, a man and a woman. They spoke to each other, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Kevin knelt close to the screen, looking down the street on which the truck drove. A sign stood on the side of the road announcing their arrival into Mapleton City limits. A shot of static blurred the image for a brief second and Kevin felt a twinge of panic followed by a chill. The picture regained its clarity. For a moment, Kevin thought that the film welcomed visitors at the motel—but a certain quality gnawed at the edges of Kevin’s mind. Something seemed unreal about the image. The picture was too clear for the television, and even if it had been a high definition television, the picture was still too perfect. It was as if Kevin were watching the event unfold himself.

The truck continued to drive, and the camera followed along with it. He moved closer to the television, so close his nose almost touched. Perhaps a mile down the road, in the direction the truck drove, stood a lone figure, silhouetted against the sun shining through the trees. The chill that he had felt earlier, intensified to the point where he shivered. The figure, the shadow, stood there and watched the truck approach. A deep sense of foreboding filled Kevin’s chest. The film played on the television—if it was a film—but it had to be a film, he thought, what else could it be? The images appeared so real but random and illogical at the same time. It inspired more uneasiness than he had ever felt before while watching a movie. Kevin touched the screen with his fingers and continued to watch.

***

The sun faded quickly into the west, but still had the strobe effect as it shone through the trees and into the truck as it sped by. Jamie thought about their house, taken in to an almost hypnotic state by the flashing colors and light just outside the window.

“So,” Jamie said slowly, “are we going to build a one or two story?”

Tim cocked his head to one side thoughtfully, and then said, “I think two stories, with four rooms or so. If we have more than four kids then they can just share rooms or we can just build on.”

“Kids?” she said, her eyebrow raised slightly, “I thought you didn’t want kids right away.” He laughed and squeezed her knee slightly.

“I think maybe we could start sooner than later. I mean, we’ll have a house and all.” She took hold of his arm and snuggled close to him. He tried to change the subject, a little uneasy about how quickly she grasped at the idea of children.

“You want to watch a movie tonight?” he asked. “We could get a scary one.”

She started to answer but movement up ahead caught her eye. Someone stood just beyond the tree line, in the shadows, watching them. The person shadow reached into the branches, impossibly tall, and it silhouetted against the setting sun, making it appear black. She jumped slightly, pulling away from Tim and pointing off into the foliage, “do you see that guy over-“,

But she stopped when she realized that Tim wasn’t paying attention. The person stood too far from the road to be immediately visible, and they passed the shadow quickly—Tim not even noticing. She turned to look behind them as they drove, and realized that he had stepped out from the trees and stared at her from almost the center of the road. She faced forward, quickly. Tim put his hand on her leg and asked, “Did you say something?”

“Nothing… it’s nothing.” She said, slightly disturbed, “I just thought I saw something on the side of the road.” She had seen the guy, and he had been watching her. She doubted at first, but the fact that he had walked to the center of the road and stared at them as they drove off into the swirling leaves confirmed it. The man had been tall; enormous even, and though the sunlight blocked his features at first, giving the appearance of darkness, when the person stepped out of the trees he looked as dark and shadow covered as he had while standing in the dimness of the forest. The sight of him caused a lump of anxiety to build in her throat and cut off her rationality. What if the man followed them home, snuck into their house while they slept and did a smiley face number on their lips with a knife – the image of Tim in bed, his mouth cut open up the sides of his face… she put her fingers to her temples and massaged deeply, completely unaware as to where these thoughts came from.

What if it wasn’t a man at all, but some demonic creature that wanted not to bathe in their blood, but to feast on their souls? A monster. It was a monster, she knew without knowing. And it wanted them—it wanted her. To hunt. To kill. She thought that it would put a log in the road ahead, so they would have to stop. Or throw rocks. She shuddered at the thought, breathing heavily. She told herself to calm down, to think of something else. She knew that her grip on control and reality was slipping.

“Honey?” Tim asked, noticing her sudden withdraw from the conversation, “what is it? What’s the matter?”

Jamie began to answer, but before she could a jolt shot through her mind, much like she imagined it would feel like if she stuck her fingers into an electricity socket and recharged her body. The bolt caused a bright light to flood her eyes and thought, replaced by fuzz that melted into the edges of her vision. A sudden, pounding headache filled her head, but seemed different than any other sort of pain she had ever felt in her head before. It felt like someone trying to rip open her mind like a can of fruit without the can opener. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but couldn’t. Tim continued to stare at her, worried now. He massaged her leg gently.

“Baby? Are you all right?”

She screamed a horrible bellow and slapped his hand away. Instantly she looked up at him and began to cry. She said, “Tim… something is wrong with-“

Her sentence cut short as a large rock launched through the air toward their car. Tim saw it coming, but for the second and a half that it soared toward them, he watched it, as if it sailed in slow motion. He reached out, instinctively, to hold Jamie in her seat as the rock slammed into the windshield. The rock lodged in the glass, sending spider webs to the edges and obscuring any chance of seeing. Tim swerved to the right just as another rock crashed through the driver’s side window. The glass imploded into the car and the rock hit Tim in the head, splattering blood onto Jamie’s face. She screamed as the truck spun out of control and veered off the road.

The figure stood on the side of the road and just beyond the trees, watching them. Jamie felt her sanity slipping, no longer certain it was a person, though it looked and felt like a human being. The eyes could not be seen but she still felt them boring a hole into her like a scalding-hot nail being pushed through her soul. Jamie stared for only a second longer before the truck smashed into a tree. Her head rocketed forward into the dashboard, slicing a large gash across her forehead. Blood flooded her eyes as she turned to look at her husband. He lay motionless in the seat beside her, blood pouring from a slash in his head and pooling on the seat below him. His once blond hair matted in red globs against his head – she could see his skull under a torn flap of skin.

“Tim!” She screamed, grabbing his head and pulling him into her arms, kissing him not out of passion, but out of the fear of losing him. Kissing brought him close to her, unified them. “Tim! Wake up!” She suddenly remembered the figure in the woods and jerked her head up, looking wildly into the forest surrounding the truck.

Nothing. No sign of the figure or who ever had thrown the rocks at their truck. The person smiled at me, she thought. Jamie shook her head and focused again on her unconscious husband. His chest heaved with breath—in and out, and she heaved a sigh of relief. But a red stream of blood now ran off the seats to the floor of the car. Blood from his body—she knew that if she didn’t stop the bleeding, he would lose too much. Bleed out and die. Tears rolled down her face, mixing with the blood and dripping onto Tim. She held him tightly and closed her eyes.

It watched her, staring with a vivid and piercing look that almost made her vomit. She felt a sensation like she had never felt before, as if the thing had suddenly become a part of her, searching the darkest corners of her mind and body. A sickening, rotting smell filled her nostrils, causing that strange muscle in her throat to quiver. The smell reminded her of time when an animal somehow got between the drywall and the outside of her house and died. The sick, rancid odor of death with a slightly sweet twist, as if someone had recently doused a dead animal with sweet bath oils, floated through the air. Her dying husband in her lap, their truck totaled, and yet she could think of nothing other than this thing that stood somewhere beyond their twisted-metal cage.

The radio burst to life, exploding with static and a jumble of songs and commentary, then grew suddenly quiet. From deep within the speakers, almost created by the magnets themselves, came a gravely, guttural voice that stung her eyes and the smell intensified.

“What do you fear?” the voice asked. Jamie listened, her entire body shaking. She spit blood and tears from her mouth and it rolled down her chin. She cried harder.

“Answer…” it said through the speakers. Static again burst, drowning out the awful potential of further conversation with this voice.

“Leave me alone!” she screamed, slamming her fist into the dash. The radio fell silent. Suddenly, something hit the side of the truck and sent a deafening, crunching sound into the tiny cab. The truck lifted off the ground and tumbled across the street. It rolled several times until it smashed another tree and stopped, resting on its roof. The metal creaked and groaned under the weight of the truck. Julie undid her seat belt and crashed to the roof of the car. Outside, shattered glass spread out over the road. She maneuvered herself next to her husband and held him close, kissing his cheek and pressing her head into his shoulder.

Glass crunched outside the truck as someone walked toward them. The speakers sparked to life once again, “I am coming. I am here.”

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© 2008, Derrick Hibbard. All Rights Reserved.

Monarch: Chapter Two

To begin with the Prologue of this serial novel, Monarch, please start here. 

Chapter Two

The air was cool and brisk, spiked with the faint smell of smoke from the fireplace – the kind of air you wait all summer for and miss when winter finally arrives. The leaves changed into a brilliant array of color, signaling the arrival of autumn. It was that time of year when jack-o’-lanterns started to make their first appearances. Ghosts, vampires and werewolves became a staple in any decoration. Apples were being harvested and made into pies that were set on windowsills to cool (you could smell the pie from a mile away). The apples that survived the pies were made into spicy apple cider and given to friends and family. It was autumn country.

Mapleton was a small eastern town, nestled in heavy forests and rolling hills, the kind of town with white picket fences and old churches—where every season is fully exploited and enjoyed. The center of town built around one main street and a single intersection. Small businesses lined the streets for a couple blocks before the streets led off into the deep forest, winding through the hills and trees. Like the places you read about in travel magazines at the dentist office, much like Washington Irving’s sleepy abode for witches and headless horsemen. Like other small towns, Mapleton existed in its own world, separate from the more crowded, rushed life of everyone on the outside.

Tim Hacom drove his old farm truck through the center of town and smiled at his bride. Though they’d been married for several weeks, he still considered her his bride, his near-perfect catch, and they still lived in their perpetual honeymoon bliss that newly weds often experienced for at least a couple of months after tying the knot. At least Tim tried his hardest to make her believe that. In reality, the honeymoon ended for Tim almost before it started. The shroud Jamie had so effectively worn during their courtship quickly fell, replaced by something else. He honestly didn’t like the way she treated him, or even the way she treated life. She took in life in deep breaths—not caring about much, ignoring problems and challenges and leaving them for Tim to deal with. She loved him, he knew for sure that she did, and he loved her.

Thoughts of her still caused butterflies in his stomach. He just wanted her to chill out and enjoy life—savoring it like Tim did, not gulping it down like the food at some fast-food joint. Both Tim and Jamie were attractive people, as both worked hard to keep up their appearance. Jamie did yoga with several women in town and Tim did his best to run every morning. Tim loved the outdoors while Jamie did not care for it as much. But then, Jamie hailed from a nearby city, while Tim had grown up in Mapleton on his father’s farm. While he enjoyed hiking and camping, she contented herself to sit in the only coffee shop in town and read for hours.

“I absolutely cannot wait,” Jamie Hacom said, nearly bouncing out of her seat with excitement. “How much longer?” Tim smiled, then rolled his eyes when she turned away, “Kind of far from town though, don’t you think?” he said.

“It’s perfect, Tim! When do you think we’ll be able to start building?” she asked. He shrugged, “It’ll take a few weeks to clear the trees and we’ll have to wait until spring, so the ground will be more soft, a couple of months or so.”

Jamie nodded and continued watching the passing trees. Every once in a while they’d get to an overlook on top of a hill and the forest would open up in a sea of vibrant oranges, reds and yellows. The sun began to set and the light blended the colors so it looked more like a painting than a postcard. A light mist had begun its trailing through trees, snaking its way through the branches and leaves.

Tim’s mind flurried with thoughts about the plot of land they’d just bought, big enough for a nice sized home, and he struggled with how he planned on paying for it all. He wanted to work for his father, a farmer. Tim had worked for him for most of his life and had planned on continuing his job on the farm—he liked it and it was good honest work. Jamie, however, wanted him to focus on other things: go to school, or open up a small web-based company. He’d thrown around a few ideas about some web-companies, one of which was for gourmet foods. His parents hated the idea though, and constantly reminded him that only homosexual males spent time cooking—backwoods, backwards folk, he knew, but it still bothered him. Jamie fought for the idea all the more, claiming that his parents stifled him. The drama drove Tim nuts, and unfortunately, he took it out on Jamie more than he should—at least in his thoughts. In buying the house, however, they stepped forward on their own turf, away from his parents. The first step in their independence—and both looked forward to the time when they would have a home to call their own.

Mostly, Jamie wanted a place where she could paint the rooms and not incur a fine for doing so. Tim imagined that once they moved in to their newly built home, Jamie would paint the rooms with all sorts of colors and designs, and she would probably change them often, using the paint as an outlet for her creativity.

All through her growing up years, Jamie loved the arts—especially painting. Her family didn’t have much money, and they could not afford to send her to art school, so she started out on paper and when she had saved enough money from odd jobs, she’d buy a canvas. The canvas would sit in her room for months without her touching it. Jamie would just admire the possibility and potential of anything at all being born from its whiteness. Slowly, however, a picture would form into a masterpiece. Several of her paintings hung in their apartment and they both looked forward to hanging them in the house.

Tim reached over and took her hand in his. He loves her very much, despite his confusing reaction to being around her all the time. He concentrated on not sighing, or rolling his eyes as she smiled and laid her head on his lap, looking up at him dreamily. She kissed his hand and nuzzled her head into his abdomen. She said softly, almost to herself, “I love you Tim Hacom.”

Tim ran his fingers through her hair and held her close as he pulled off the road into a small clearing. He said, simply, “we’re here.”

“What?” She sat up so fast it started him. She jumped out of the truck before he even came to a complete stop.

Sun shone through the trees, creating laser-like rays of light all around. Jamie stood in the center of the clearing until Tim climbed out of the truck. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“Do I like it?” she ran and jumped onto his waist, wrapping her long legs around him. She kissed him hard on the mouth and smiled dreamily, “I love it here. It really is like a dream, I mean with all the colors and everything.” She hugged him tightly and licked his neck, moving her lips to his ear.

“Build me house?” she whispered, her lips touching his ear.

“For my wife?” Tim whispered back, “a damn nice house…” He kissed her shoulder. He moved his hands across the small of her back and lifted her shirt. He fingered her bra strap and she played with the buttons on his shirt, toying them to open.

“Let’s go back to the apartment,” she whispered. He bit her lip and snapped open her bra. She laughed and pulled away from him, slapping at his hand. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go home, we can finish what we started here."

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© 2008, Derrick Hibbard. All Rights Reserved.

Monarch: Chapter One

To begin with the Prologue of this serial novel, Monarch, please start here. 

Chapter One

KEVIN JOHNSON climbed from his car just outside a dirty little building that appeared to be the town’s only motel. The place didn’t really seem like an ‘Alpine Resort’, despite what the sign in the parking lot said. As he walked, he noticed several large bugs, probably cockroaches, skirt into the shadows, away from his menacing step. Their sleek, brown bodies squeezed into the crack between the building and the cement as easily as if their shells had been coated with grease. He cringed as they disappeared from sight but even so, Kevin dreaded the idea of seeing those little buggers where he slept. Kevin shook his head and gave the motel a look over. A pool, covered with a blue tarp and closed for the season, nestled in the middle of the parking lot. The rooms (probably only 6 or 7 single bed rooms) surrounded the pool and ended with the lobby. The white paint on the outside crumbled off the walls in large flakes—the motel definitely needed a face-lift. Like most of the buildings in town, large trees, their leaves in the middle of making the transition to autumn, surrounded the motel and continued in thick forest behind.

The lobby door hung loosely to the frame, so when he pushed it open the door swung all the way around into the wall. A small bell hung from the corner and jingled loudly as it smashed between the door and wall. Kevin chuckled and glanced around the little room, but stopped short when he saw a large, stuffed bird sitting above the desk in the corner, not unlike the infamous owl that watched over Norman Bates’ dirty work. In the corner opposite the desk stood a bookshelf that housed several nice, leather-bound books—coupled together with a few pictures of who Kevin assumed were the family of the motel owner. A large painting of the forest hung on another wall, an almost exact resemblance, as far as Kevin could tell, to the world that surrounded this little town. A guy in his thirties sat behind the desk and flipped through a hunting magazine. The man looked up from his magazine and pushed his glasses further up on his nose, and brushed a few strands of hair from his face. The hair fell neatly into place, covering the large bald spot that spread down the sides of the man’s head and forehead. Sweat created dark stains around his armpits, which were made very visible when he reached to forward to shake Kevin’s hand. Kevin shook the man’s hand firmly

“Hello, sir. Welcome to Mapleton, Virginia—the greatest place on earth, except Disneyland. Name’s Michael Jones and this here is my establishment. Can I get you a room?” Michael tried to remain calm and collected—professional, but he jerked excitedly as he prepared the papers. Even his eyes jittered about with excitement. Kevin eyed the man warily. Michael’s smile still hadn’t faded and Kevin decided that the motel’s clerk either suffered from insanity or loneliness. But the smile seemed genuine enough and he certainly didn’t seem like the type to dress in his mother’s dress and wig and kill women while they bathed themselves. Kevin returned the smile and began to look through the forms Michael slid over the counter for him to sign.

“I’m Kevin Johnson and yes sir, I would like a room.” Kevin set his things on the floor and slid his credit card from his back pocket. “And you will probably be seeing a whole lot of me Mr. Jones. I’d like to book a room for a month, if that’s all right with you.”

Michael looked as if he might explode with excitement and Kevin grinned.

“Yes siree,” Michael said, taking the credit card, “if you don’t mind me asking, why would you stay here a month?” He asked, but then quickly clarified, “this is a beautiful spot and all, but there just isn’t much to do around here. We only got one movie theater and that only has one screen. You have to drive 30 miles or so for groceries-“

Kevin held up his hand to stop the clerk from continuing his list, chuckling as he did.

“I want it like this,” Kevin said, “quiet. I picked this town to work in specifically because of those unique qualities.”

Michael eyed him carefully over his glasses, suddenly suspicious. Maybe, Kevin thought, he thinks I’m making a joke—either that or he has his worries about serial bathroom killers too.

“What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a writer and I’m working on a few projects. Plus I just need some time to think, and thought that this would be nice area for that.” Kevin replied, returning a look of curiosity, “is it a problem to book a room that far in advance?”

“No, no, no,” the clerk corrected hastily, “it’s just that I have never, ever had a guest book a room that far in advance. And I’ve owned this motel for almost a decade now.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be the first then,” Kevin looked around, his eyes lingering on the stuffed owl, “I like it here. I think this motel will be perfect.”

“What kind of things do you write?” Michael asked.

“Horror novels,” Kevin responded simply.

***

Outside, Kevin pulled a few heavy bags from his car and walked to the room. He stopped, staring off into the East. A heavy storm brewed in the distance. Kevin stared at the bruised and bubbly clouds and shrugged. The massive storm swallowed most of the eastern horizon. The clouds, dark and ominous, rolled on windy chariots to this little haven in the wooded hills. Kevin felt the electricity building itself up in the air and let the feeling invigorate his mind and body. He loved thunderstorms, and kicked himself mentally for not noticing this storm earlier. Kevin loved to walk outside during thunderstorms, smelling the rain and feeling the thunder as it rumbled—but he wasn’t a fan of getting wet and had forgotten his umbrella.

A poem that he'd recently read and marked for use in the novel he was working on suddenly popped in his mind.  One by the good Mr. Poe.  In particular, two lines at the end of the work stuck in his head, like an old song on repeat, about thunder and storms.  

How fitting, he thought as he shut the door to his car and started for his room.

For the next chapter, click here.
© 2008, Derrick Hibbard. All Rights Reserved.

Monarch: Prologue

The following is an experiment.  I wrote Monarch several years ago, while plugging away in college.  It has sat on my shelf, unpublished, for all those years, but I still think its a good story.   So, I'm going to do a web series over the next couple of months, leading up to Halloween.   Each Friday,  I will post the next chapter.  Give it a chance, and let me know what you think in the comments.  Here goes.  

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—

                                    -Edgar Allan Poe

Existence precedes imagination

                                    -Parmenides

Prologue

He heard scratching on wood—an irritating but melodic noise that pulled him from his sleep. Harold’s eyes fluttered open to a sleepy blurriness that enveloped his vision. The sound came from outside the front door of the cabin. At first it seemed like he’d opened his eyes underwater, and they weren’t focused, but as his eyes adjusted, the blurriness faded. The scratching on the door was so soft and barely perceptible that Harold wondered why he had woken up. He wondered if the faint sounds were real, if he wasn’t just attributing something to nothing—

Something pounded on the wall of the cabin, just once, and then, the scratching continued. Harold looked around the cabin and saw that his bunkmates, his fellow hunters, were still asleep. He fingered the zipper on his sleeping bag and pulled it open. A stream of cold air enveloped his legs and body and he paused, allowing his body to adjust to the cool temperature of the room. The October cold front seemed to be early this year, especially at night. Any other time, the coolness would be refreshing, but at that moment, the thought of being exposed to the cold night air did not appeal to Harold’s shivering body. Goosebumps uncomfortably prickled his exposed skin.

Harold swung his legs around and placed them on the floor. Though calloused, the freezing boards that made up the floor seemed to bite the bottoms of his feet. Harold slid his feet into the nearby boots, but didn’t bother to lace them. He again checked the others—still asleep. The scratching persisted. Harold thought the sounds came from an animal’s nails, maybe a fox or badger. He clumped over to the window and looked outside. A thin layer of frost covered the window. Night disappeared slowly into the gloom and he saw the morning sun struggling to peek through the dark forest. Deep shadows inhibited his vision, limiting his view from the window. He pressed his nose against the glass, his breath blanketing the window with a dense fog. For a moment, the scratching stopped and Harold thought that whatever had been scratching knew that he was looking through the window. The silence lasted only several seconds before the animal skittered along the outside wall, just around the corner and out of sight. Harold craned his neck and squinted against the shadows. The sound reminded Harold of spiders—though very big—crawling across the walls of the cabin. Spiders or something with claws… something that released air from its joints as it crawled, adding to the spongy popping and cracking.

A tiny arm reached around the corner, digging its claws into the wood and climbed to the roof. The claws clutched the wood for an instant then disappeared, but Harold saw the grayish-white color, the bony structure, and the claws; all of which he realized in horror were spider like in nature. His stomach twisted and he choked as he backed away from the window, rubbing his eyes. Not real—it couldn’t be. The thing was not an animal, at least it didn’t look like any animal he had seen or could even remember seeing. The skin seemed almost white, but glistened with a dark hue. And the claws were more like something he imagined on a sea monster, not a forest critter.

Scratching

Harold jumped as the thing scratched the wood right next to the window, though it kept itself out of sight. Even so, Harold looked away, afraid of what he might see if the monster decided to peer through the glass. The scratching stopped and the skittered crawling continued up the side of the cabin until he heard the claws digging into the wooden shingles on the roof. He heard the faint thumping on the roof as the creature darted back and forth, right above his head.

It’s trying to get in, Harold thought, clouding his thoughts. Dread sank within his bowels like a bitter lump of writhing worms. It’s trying to get in… and when it does, it will kill me. Something inside him whispers about the monster and he knows that it’s trying to get in and feed. The knowledge about this monster is almost instinctual—every move it will make, every person it will kill, plays out in Harold’s mind.

He grabbed his rifle from its case and crawled back into his sleeping bag on the bottom bunk. The creature’s claws dug into the shingles, tapping—its joints popped as it twisted jerkily around the roof, and then down the side of the cabin again. Harold whimpered slightly as silence filled the air like a deadly mist. He waited. A goat-like, rancid stench filled the air. Dry and rotted, yet somehow sickly moist.

The monster snarled, a deep and gravely sound that Harold felt, just as much as heard, in his brain. Harold pressed his ear against the wall and listened for the monster. It scratched slowly, as if toying with him, directly opposite his ear, right on the other side of the wall. Harold yelped and jerked away from the sound, nearly falling off his bunk in a tangle of body parts and sleeping bag. He thrashed until he freed himself and stood up in the center of the cabin. The creature skittered on the walls, darting over the window. Harold saw the shadow—much larger than he had imagined—as it disappeared toward the entrance. He stared at the door and saw that slowly, the doorknob began to move. It jiggled the knob, twisting and turning it, though not enough to cause the deadly click that would release the door from its frame. Harold could taste his fear, a bitter and metallic lump that clogged his throat and assaulted his taste buds. The fear hurt his clenched teeth, he felt as though he were chewing aluminum foil. The stench of his dread mixed with the rotting smell of the monster mixed in the air all around him and Harold knew that it could smell his fear too. Animals can sense fear; they know when you are afraid.

The monster screeched—maybe in rage at not being able to get inside the cabin. It slammed its body into the door. The wood shuddered under the monster’s weight, sending dust into the air, of which Harold was only vaguely aware. His thoughts were of the monster bursting through the cabin and ripping through his skull—eating his brain, his adrenaline, his dread. Somehow he knew that the creature not only relished the smell of fear, but the taste as well. The thing feasted on fear, savoring the spongy mass of brain soaked in fear. And once it gets me, he thought, it will kill the others, eating their brains as well. And then my family, he thought. He saw his family cornered in their house, watching the monster deftly approach them. The monster was different in this thought—it had grown, probably because it had feasted so well on fear. We are so eager to be afraid, to be scared, to feed the monster. Fear, bitter, taste—it’s coming! It’s breaking through the door! The thing slammed against the wood again and Harold’s thoughts jerked themselves into his reality. He lost control, no longer able to process and react to the thoughts that plagued his mind.

“Help!” Harold whispered, though it sounded more like a choke than a plea. He crouched in the corner and covered his ears—protecting himself from the sounds of the monster breaking in. The monster pummeled the door again so loudly that it woke the others. The crack in the door spread bottom of the door to the top. One more hit and the monster would have access to Harold and his brain—his fear.

“It’s coming in!” Harold screamed and the other hunters sat up in their beds fully alert. The men were confused at first, wondering what was happening, and why Harold was acting so strangely. The monster threw its entire weight at the door, breaking more wood to the floor.

“What is it?” The others shouted, “Harold, what’s going on!” They jumped from their beds and grabbed their guns. Harold covered his ears and tried to back further away from the door, squeezing himself into the back wall of the cabin. The monster growled, a screaming rasp that stung their ears. One of the hunters, rifle raised, walked slowly toward the door, reaching to turn the knob. The man had wildly thick hair that stuck out in all directions. He moved sluggishly, obviously nervous but wanting to assure the others that nothing was drastically wrong.

“Its just a bear, guys.” The man said nervously, his words drowned in the vicious snarling. The monster ripped at the door with its claws. The man turned the knob slightly and the room exploded with a gunshot. The hunter at the door slammed into the door, blood spreading on his back in a dark stain. The other men spun around to face Harold, who’s gun still pointed to the area where their fellow hunter and friend had stood—thin lines of smoke wafted from the barrel. Harold lowered his gun, shaking with sobs. He covered his eyes and ears and beat his head against the back wall.

“Please,” Harold whispered, “please don’t let it get me.” He pointed to their fallen comrade, “he would have let it in.” His gun clattered to the ground and he sank to his knees. “Please help me. Don’t let it get me.”

The doorknob suddenly fell to the floor—the monster had broken off the other end and pushed it through the hole. The door swung lazily on its hinges. Harold’s cries tore through the air. A low growl floated in from outside. The claws clicked on the wood as the monster entered the cabin.

Harold’s ears exploded with the sound of gunshots—all fired at once at the ghastly monster that walked straight from his mind into their little cabin. As his comrades fell, as they screamed and flailed toward the door, trying to escape. Smoke from the gunpowder filled the air, obscuring Harold’s vision, but he saw flashes of grayish white and felt splatters of warm blood on his face and arms. One of his friends fell next to where he crouched, part of his skull missing. Harold covered his eyes, not wanting to see the realization of the horrible pictures in his head. He blocked out the screams, though they were dying down already. He heard the clicking of the monster’s claws on the floor of the cabin, the slight popping of its joints. Harold thought he heard thunder in the distance. Felt the thunder, was more like it. But it was probably just his imagination.

For the next chapter, click here.

© 2008, Derrick Hibbard.  All Rights Reserved.