Monarch: Chapter Seven

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

Chapter Seven

The sun had set and the darkness had overwhelmed them several hours ago. The fog blanketed the ground in thick and heavy clouds. The sounds of the forest had returned to normal, a gift that comforted for a short while, but Jamie heard a strange quality in the sounds, as if listening to a recording of nature. The sounds of the birds and animals and crickets seemed false, somehow.

Blood flowed from the gash in her forehead, into her eyes and made it hard to see, but it didn’t stop her from searching frantically around the inside of the overturned truck. Her beautiful blonde hair was nothing but a mess of matted and dried blood, sticky in some areas and caked hard to the skin in others. As far as she could see, nothing lurked outside the truck but the forest and the normal inhabitants of the trees. In fact, nothing had been there since the last transmission through the radio-

(I am coming)

-but it didn’t shake that sickening, nasty feeling she had felt for several hours now. She rolled to her side to make sure her husband still breathed steadily. Blood pooled around him, but the bleeding had stopped. His breath sounded raspy and shallow, but she was grateful for the sound. It comforted her to know that although out of commission, he was here with her now. The night grew colder with each passing minute, however, and she knew that he needed medical help soon or he may not make it. Hell, she needed medical attention too, or she might not make it either. The cuts and bruises she had from the wreck were bad, but she felt like a psychiatrist would help the most at the moment. It felt like her sanity was slowly pulled from her mind, in long sinewy strands of coherence. At first she thought she had simply made up the feeling of losing it as a reaction to the accident, but was now sure that someone or something had searched the darkest and most secret corners of her mind.

“Impossible,” Jamie muttered, shaking away those thoughts and returning her attention to her husband. Even thoughts of him, though, reminded her of the man in the road. The shadow that had watched them as their truck careened out of control. Tim had wakened from his haze long enough for her to ask him about the man she had seen standing next to the road. He hadn’t seen him, but she was positive he had been there, and equally as sure that he had something to do with how she felt during the accident, very similar to her current feelings. Jamie’s mind and body and soul had been violated and she felt the pangs of terror in her bowels, despite how much she tried to calm down and be rational. Nothing helped to ease her mind, however, and the horror would not cease. So deeply afraid.

Tim coughed, spitting a fine mist of blood into the air and a sick glob of clotted blood onto his chin. He moved slowly at first, jerking his arms and torso as if to the beat of some song, but it quickly became a brutal pounding, his muscles convulsing violently. His legs here still pinned underneath the dashboard so Jamie had no idea if he was still losing blood below his waist.

Tears burst from her eyes as she watched the man she loved spasm and twist, subject to nature’s fury. More blood seeped from his mouth and nose and he stared up at the seat of the truck with a sick and dead look that made her decision for her, he needed help and she was the only one who could get it for him.

But the dark, she reminded herself, that voice.

The spasms lasted for a few seconds longer, then died down until he was silent and still again. He closed his eyes and returned to whatever hell he entertained on the stage of his unconscious mind.

She loved him more than anything; she had given him everything, and would not stop now. She refused to see him die because something in the night frightened her. For the longest time she had convinced herself that someone would notice them missing and come looking, or that someone would drive down this road, but she knew she just kidded herself, prolonging the inevitable. They both needed help badly she no longer cared what was waiting for her when she climbed out of this truck and walked the four miles or so to town. She crawled on her elbows until her face touched her husband’s cheek. She nuzzled against him, kissing his ear and smelling his skin.

“I love you Tim.” She said simply, and began to cry. “I don’t want to leave you, but I don’t know what else I can do. You’re hurt and you need help, you need to see the doc.” She kissed him on the forehead first, then moved her body closer and kissed him on the lips. Not a hard or passionate kiss, but one that conveyed enough feeling. She touched his cheek gently and pulled away slowly, inching her body backward toward the window.

“Baby… I love you. Please stay with me.” Tears spurt from Jamie’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks, carving streaks in the blood and dirt that caked her skin. She choked on a sob as she pulled her fingers from his face and pushed up on her hands to climb through the broken window.

Glass covered the ground outside the truck, cutting into her palm and fingers—blood oozed from the new gashes. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself completely into the open, out from beneath the over-turned truck. She yelped as she stood up, her hair pulling her to the ground. For a moment she thought that Tim had grabbed hold of her hair, keeping her away from the darkness, but her hair had just caught on a piece of jagged glass sticking out of the window sill.

Once untangled, she stood and glanced around, looking for some demon to come screaming through the fog out of the dark shadows of the woods. Thankfully the moon shone brightly onto the road in front of her, the shadows from the trees cast on the asphalt like long, boney arms and skinless fingers. She turned and looked back at the truck, regretting her departure from her husband. Her insides felt hollow and she had no idea how she would make it to town. She began to walk, not noticing the specter of a man standing in the shadows just beyond the road. The figure was huge and lurking, magnified by the darkness and the slight moonlight. His breathing was ragged yet deep. He watched the woman begin walking toward the refuge of lights in the distance. A low chuckle floated out of the shadows, sounding more like a rabbit stuck in a trap and dying. No refuge, not anymore.

***

The front door slammed behind the Sheriff as he stepped out onto the porch that surrounded the police station. Lettie, still inside the police station at her desk, tried to reach the Hacoms on the radio. Ever since the transmission, Lettie had been acting very strangely, nervous almost, as if she expected something bad to happen. Of course, the transmission had sent chills down Jim’s spine, unnerving him as well. But Jamie Hacom had laughed, and he didn’t think that a woman would laugh if she was in trouble. Lettie somehow knew that there was something more to it, and had tried calling their apartment and their families. She had also tried the radio multiple times, calling frantically and waiting for a response that didn’t come. The strange thing, Jim admitted, was that no one knew where they were. He figured that if no one heard from them in the next few hours, he and Mark would head out and run a quick search of the town.

Jim was not apathetic about his job or his town. Quite the opposite actually, he cared for the people in this town and their well being probably more than anyone else. But his wife had been right during their heated conversation earlier that day. Not much happened in the town; no disputes raged between families or other townspeople, and not many outsiders visited or even drove through. Everyone pretty much belonged to the same conservative political party and they shared mostly similar ideals. If a dispute arose, or even a fight (heaven forbid) it happened at the bar, after a couple of the more rough locals got liquored up and cranky. No, the transmission scared and unnerved him, but it certainly was nothing to get upset or lose sleep over. He was sure that it could and would be explained when they finally caught up with the newlywed couple.

Jim stood on the patio, sipping his hot and slightly burned coffee. The night grew darker than usual, and he assumed it was because of the storm that raged in the east. Every few minutes the charges in the air would ignite, lighting the bruised clouds at the center of the storm. A loud clap of thunder would rumble, barely audible from where Jim watched, but he knew that wherever the storm hovered, the thunder exploded monstrously loud.

The storm was coming, and Jim could feel the charges in the air deepening, smelling like the air did when a load of laundry was just taken out of the dryer, full of static electricity. His thoughts drifted to his wife and all thoughts of the radio transmission left his mind. He supposed he would call her back tonight. Deep down, he knew that he was the one that needed to change if his marriage was going to work. But that’s the real problem, he supposed, not knowing if he wanted the marriage to work at all. If it hadn’t been for his son, he would have walked away a long time ago—a horrible thought, but probably true.

He shook out those depressing thoughts, reminding himself that he had made promises to his wife and son, promises that he should keep the best he could, despite what he now felt. He took another sip and stared at the diner across the street where several people were just leaving. The diner seemed to be the only place where people were still up and moving around and it certainly housed the only lit windows in town, aside from the police station. The fog had rolled in thick and deep, and a fine mist covered the street, making it glossy in the moonlight. The flashing yellow light up the street only added to the surreal, dream-like appearance of the empty street. Carved pumpkins, their eyes flickering from the light within, were placed carefully on porches along the street to commemorate the coming of the day of the dead.

“Gonna be a cold Halloween this year,” he muttered to himself just as a single truck, its headlights cutting through the fog like knives, drove down the lonely street and pulled into the station’s parking lot. Mark jumped out of the car and marched up to the porch.

“What the hell was that radio thing about? Jeeze La Weeze, I thought the freakin’ depths of hell were opening up in my truck, and then she laughed, talk about creepy!” Mark heaved as he climbed the steps to stand with the sheriff.

Jim chuckled lightly—his deputy had a habit of adding a touch of drama to everything, talking so fast his words sounded slurred. Mark was a nice guy, a native to Mapleton with a wife and 6 kids, he was tall and skinny, lanky even, but he had a nice build, which helped him keep away from the Ichabod Crane look. As he walked up to the porch, upset and freaked out, Jim laughed heartily, thoroughly enjoying the scene and his own commentary in his head. Mark held out his hands, expecting an answer to his question.

“I don’t know what it was,” Jim stopped laughing, serious again, “but it sure has got Lettie uptight.” He took another sip of his coffee. The mug was almost empty and the remaining coffee was getting cold. A few more minutes of the night, he decided, and then he’d call his wife.

“Has anyone tried to call them? Or their families? I mean, Jeeze.” Mark sat on the top step, exasperated.

“Lettie’s been trying to reach the Hacoms but can’t get a hold of them, and their families don’t know where they are either.”

“Well good. I went over to where Tim works, but he wasn’t there either. Guess they went out of town?” Mark mused.

“I’m thinking that they were fooling around or something, and somehow their cell phone connected in with the radio. I’m sure they’re alright.” Jim said. He added, “I mean, we can’t know for sure until we talk to them, but I figure if they really do have some problems, they’d radio in again. Right?”

Mark nodded as he eyed the coffee mug and said, “Coffee at night? I thought you got off here 10 minutes ago?”

“I think I’m going to wait this one out tonight. I’ll stay here, and sleep on the couch if I get tired.” Jim finished off the coffee in his mug and set it on the railing on the porch. Mark fell quiet, knowing exactly why Jim was staying. He asked, “Trouble at home?”

“Yeah. We just can’t seem to work things out.” Jim said, and then glanced up at a particularly large flash of lightening. He nodded to the storm, trying to change the subject. “Got a big one coming in. Looks like it’ll be a whopper.”

“It’s kinda strange for this time of year too,” Mark said. He hesitated, and then said, “Everything seems strange today. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but the feeling I got when little Jamie Hacom came in on the radio just about summed up the way I’ve been feeling all day long. Something big is headed our way, I think.”

“The storm. I feel it too. It just sat there all day today, just building. I imagine when it does come our way, seeing that the wind don’t change, it’ll be a doozy.” Jim wrapped his coat around him a little tighter and turned to look inside. Lettie was crying again, frantically trying to reach someone on the phone. Jim said, “Listen, Mark. Why don’t you head on home? I got it covered tonight.”

“You gonna send Lettie home too?”

Jim nodded, “I think she needs to get home. The radio thing pushed her over the edge.” Mark stood up and started toward his truck, he turned and said, “If you need anything, Jim, even just to go home and see her. I can come back you know. Just give me a call.”

Jim smiled, “Thanks Mark. Get home and get some sleep. I’ll let you know about the Hacoms too, if I hear anything.”

They were silent for a few seconds, before Mark nodded and climbed into his truck. He started up the big diesel engine and pulled out of the lot, leaving Jim alone again with his thoughts.

Something different floated through the air and he knew that he wasn’t the only one to feel it. Mark had said so and Lettie was pretty near hysterics, probably having decided that the Hacoms were dead or something. Something was just not right, even on a beautiful and cold night as tonight. He shook his head, thinking that he just needed a good night’s sleep and some time to concentrate on his family. Maybe he’d take a couple of weeks off and go with his family on vacation somewhere. He smiled at the thought, knowing that his wife would be excited with the idea. It had been so long since they’d done something fun together. He sighed miserably, and turned to go inside and let Lettie go home and relax. Suddenly, the overwhelming feeling that he was being watched swept over him. He stopped and turned around. The diner was mostly empty, except for two people sitting at a table near the window. It surprised him to see Henri, the only pastor in town, sitting with someone else he didn’t recognize. Henri usually didn’t talk much with people he knew in town, let alone strangers. Jim shrugged and looked down the street, which was empty. The fog had gotten thicker, obstructing his view. He thought that the fog would keep people inside—and it was getting cold. He assumed most people would already be snuggled up in their beds, but the feeling was insistent. He was certainly not alone. He could feel eyes boring into him. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much, but it just added to the itchy dark feeling that had been growing inside him throughout the day. A low rumble floated in from the east, followed by several flashes of light.

It’s the storm, he thought, nodding to himself as he opened the door and stepped inside. If anything was ominous and foreboding, it was the mass of God’s strength building in the east. But the power that emanated from the storm seemed darker than anything from God, Jim thought. He brushed the thought aside and closed the door behind him.

To be continued next Friday, August 28, 2015, the full novel to be revealed in parts by Halloween.  

You also can pre-order the full novel here.

Follow this blog by entering your email address on the right side of the page -- get these chapters delivered straight to your inbox!

© 2008, Derrick Hibbard. All Rights Reserved.

Monarch: Chapter Six

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

Chapter Six

A loud burst of static erupted from the radio on Lettie’s desk, as well as the radio clipped to Jim’s shirt, interrupting their conversation about him and Cindy. Both jumped a little, startled. Lettie reached over to turn the volume down. Jim held his radio close to his mouth and spoke, “Mark? That you?” Mark, a young, single kid and his only deputy, had left Mapleton to attend a university, and then decided that the small town life suited him better. He’d been working with the small police force for almost five years now.

Through the radio, Mark answered back, “No, boss, I thought that was you. Must have been a cloud o’ static floatin-” Another explosion of white noise, even louder and more prolonged, sounded through the speakers, cutting Mark off in mid-sentence. The static sounded different from the normal, occasional static they sometimes heard on the radio, it had a deeper, more metallic ring to it—as if someone was rubbing a microphone against steel wool. Jim listened carefully and thought he heard people talking within the noise and then, suddenly, the static disappeared to nothing. No one spoke, all of them waiting for another burst of static to pour through the speakers.

“What was that?” Lettie asked nervously. Jim guessed that she probably heard the same voices within the sound that he had. Jim shrugged and held the radio to his lips again. He said, “Hello? Is there anyone on this frequency? Be advised that this is a police frequency, for emergencies only.”

They heard something very quiet in response to Jim’s statement: a woman crying softly. Lettie turned up the volume so the woman’s sobs could be heard clearly throughout the office. She whispered, “Do we know who that is?”

Jim shook his head, squinting his eyes in concentration. The crying grew louder and then stopped, leaving them listening hard for any other sounds, but none came. It must be a prank, Jim thought, these things just don’t happen in these parts. It had sounded like a woman hiding, crying despite her efforts to remain silent. The sounds were genuine but these things simply did not happen in these parts.

“Ma’am, this is Sheriff Halloway. What’s going on?” he asked into the radio. They all held their breath, waiting for a response. The woman spoke, fear choked in her throat. “I don’t want to be alone. Please come back…”

Lettie started to cry herself, “the poor thing,” she whispered. Jim spoke again into the radio, “Where are you, Ma’am? We don’t want to leave you alone, but we need to know where you are.”

Silence.

Then: “Please wake up, Tim. Tim, please. I don’t want to be alone.” The woman continued to cry. Lettie looked up, startled. She said quickly, “That’s Jamie Hacom. Tim’s her husband.” She reached over and pressed the ‘speak’ button on her larger radio system.

“Jamie,” Lettie said loudly, willing her voice to carry through the radio, “Jamie, can you hear me? Where are you? We can help. Jamie! You need to answer so we can send someone to help you; the sheriff is here and can be where ever- Jamie!” Lettie was slipping down a slope of panic quickly. Jim felt his stomach twist and turn, not knowing why this situation affected him this way. He struggled to accept the possibility that this may not be a prank, but he told himself that it had to be. This simply surpassed the norm in Mapleton—it was unbelievable. He felt a slight tinge of what Lettie must be going through, a nagging denial that they were experiencing reality. He walked over and put his hand on Lettie’s shoulder, trying his best to comfort her. He spoke again, “Jamie Hacom, what’s going on?

Static again spurted through the speakers, startling both him and Lettie. The voices he swore he could hear before were now completely gone: it sounded more like normal, electric white noise. They jumped again and where completely surprised to hear Jamie laughing into the radio.

“Tim! Stop Tim! That tickles!” She giggled as if he were wresting and tickling her at the same time. They couldn’t hear Tim through the speakers, but Jamie spoke to him as if he was right there, playing with her. The radio abruptly cut out and fell silent.

Lettie wiped her eyes and looked up at him, confused. She asked, “What just happened here, Jim?” He shook his head, his mind reeling and bewildered, then said, “You know, I don’t know. Maybe they were on a cell phone or it dialed on accident or something, I guess that could happen. Or maybe they were just playing a game with each other and we picked it up. Obviously we picked it up, so something must have been transmitting.”

But Jamie Hacom’s sobs rang in his ears and memory. She cried like she was scared, and she stopped as if whatever she was hiding from- He just couldn’t figure it out. Strange for sure, and they probably should send someone over to check on them.

Through the radio, Mark spoke, “Did you guys hear what I just heard? That a joke or something?”

“We don’t know,” Lettie responded, still looking up at Jim for answers. To Mark, Jim said, “Hey, why don’t you come on in. We can talk about it here.”

“Are you sure they’re okay?” Mark asked.

“No,” Jim said back, “I really don’t know what just happened, but I think it was probably a mistake or something. I don’t want to talk about it over the radio though, so come on in to the office.”

“Be there in a few.” After that, nothing but silence on the radio, Jim nodded at Lettie and went back to his office.

To be continued next Friday, August 21, 2015, the full novel to be revealed in parts by Halloween.  

You also can pre-order the full novel here.

Follow this blog by entering your email address on the right side of the page -- get these chapters delivered straight to your inbox!

© 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."

For the next chapter, click here.

© 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.