HORROR & HORIZONS
Five tales of horror, science fiction,
and the supernatural
A short story collection
by
S. E. Lee
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Copyright © 2011 S. E. Lee
Cover copyright © 2011 S. E. Lee
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Crescere Publishing
on Smashwords.com
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"The Ghost Girl" Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Cover copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee
"One Last Look" Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Cover photo credit: Magnus Rosendahl | Cover copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee
"Fray" Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Cover copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee
"The City in the Desert" Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Cover copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Desert Image © 2011 Dreamstime
"Spider-Cursed" Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee | Cover copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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When a ghost haunts the mountain getaway of a doctor recovering from a gunshot wound, he thinks he's going crazy until he starts to dig deeper and finds the truth. Will he be able to find her body and the killer and bring the murderer to justice, or will the killer succeed in making the doctor the next victim?
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"HELP ME", someone had painted on the wall facing the door. The letters were in blood-red paint, and two blood-red handprints started with a clear crisp imprint and then streaked to the floor.
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Dan Collins knew that the rental agent had been a flaming incompetent, and as he white-knuckled the steering wheel on the rain-drenched road, he grimly hoped that today was not the day that his soft heart was going to get him killed.
The agent had needed a commission on a rental. He'd needed a place to recuperate from a gunshot wound and burnout from years of work and the same grinding routine, a place to just let go, and perhaps, give up the career and vocation that had defined and shaped him from childhood on. Somewhere away from guns, cities, and the stress of his daily routine. Somewhere other than his claustrophobic little social circle.
It had made sense at the time.
Now he'd be lucky if he made it to the shack in one piece, but there was no way—and literally, no bloody space—to turn around on this narrow mountain pass, clinging as it did to the sheer drops of the mountainside.
If he made it up in one piece, he promised himself he'd charter a helicopter to take him back down. If he survived that, well, he was going to stick to beach vacations from now until forever, amen. He made a sign of the cross and kissed his hand; old habits died hard.
He peered through the windshield and pressed the gas pedal gingerly, inching forward. First, he needed to get to the cabin. His GPS unit was useless in the downpour, and if he hadn't printed out extra-large turn-by-turn directions he could read at arm's length, he'd be screwed. Then again, in his profession, it paid to be meticulous and prepared and redundantly prepared. Otherwise all he'd have were vague directions from the rental agent that the cabin was the "first right on the mountain road, can't miss it".
Once he got to the cabin, which would be dry, warm, and most importantly, not moving, he could stop worrying about driving off the mountain and not being found for fifteen years.
To his relief, his turn by turn directions led him to the right address and a white gravel drive that, if possible, even steeper than the rest of the mountain road. He clenched his teeth and gripped the wheel tighter, and tried not to get sick as the four-wheeled-drive sloshed down the curved incline to the rain and fog-fuzzy building at the end of the drive. With the rate the water was pouring out of the skies, no umbrella was going to save him from a soaking, so he parked as close as he could get to the cabin.
He grabbed his overnight bag and cooler, fished out the right key, turned up the collar on his Burberry, and dashed to the door.
He wished it had a porch or overhang as he fumbled with the lock as rain flooded his head and neck, and then finally he was inside.
At first he was just glad to be indoors and out of the rain, shaking off the water as best as he could. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell, mentally cursing the agent, who had promised a fresh, clean cabin.
Then he looked up and froze.
"HELP ME!" someone had painted, high on the wall facing the door. The letters were in blood-red paint, and two blood-red handprints started with a clear crisp imprint and then streaked to the floor.
His skin broke out in goosebumps and his heart hammered in his chest. Was this some prank? Graffiti? His gaze shot left and right, but the dust on the floor and every surface was at least an inch thick, and the air inside stale and musty. Even the walls were fuzzy with dust.
Except where the paint was.
If it even was paint.
He took another step back and his hand landed on the doorknob. He had never run so fast in his life as in the short sprint to the SUV.
His hand shook as he took the key and jammed it into the ignition, cursing under his breath like a chant.
Red letters across his windshield said, "PLEASE HELP".
Every single hair on his body went straight, and he shivered, suddenly bone-cold. "What the fuck is going on?" he shouted.
It echoed in the hushed silence, and he suddenly felt stupid.
Dan smoothed a shaking hand through his hair. "I need to get out of here," he muttered to himself. "Get some sleep. I must be so tired I'm seeing things that aren't there."
The letters disappeared, and rearranged to form, "NO...HARM."
He laughed, a little too fast and high-pitched, before he caught himself. He was having a conversation with himself and his hallucinations now? He was either going crazy or he was dreaming. Something. There had to be a logical explanation for this.
His hand reached inside his pockets for the cigarettes he'd forgotten he'd quit last year and touched the metal pill case instead.
His shoulders relaxed. He'd forgotten he was on the painkillers. The drug interactions and exhaustion would explain his hallucination. He pulled it out now, and stared at the wall. "It's the drugs," he said to himself, as calmly as he could. "That would explain the hallucinations."
"NO..."
He opened the pill box and downed the three super-strong pills he was supposed to take, his hand shaking as he put them to his mouth. He was soaking wet but he didn't know if the water was on, and he didn't dare waste time trying to find water. He obviously needed the pills right away.
"TIME..." He glared at the windshield and the house beyond it. He swallowed the pills dry, one at a time, daring it to talk to him. Or daring his mind to come up with something else.
"KILLER...LOOSE."
The last pill caught in his throat, and his eyes watered as choked on it.
He didn't know whether to be amused or freaked out at his brain's creativity and inventiveness when it high on drugs, because if his brain wasn't making this up, then he wasn't sure what he'd do. Then the world went fuzzy and black, with blood-red letters dancing in the dark.
***
Dan woke up groggy, thirsty, and dying to find the bathroom. He found a bottle of water in his back seat, and a handy tree, and then contemplated the dark gray clouds in the sky, which were currently spitting down a little freezing rain and promising more cold and misery. He checked his phone for coverage and to check the weather; he got service, but just barely. It was just his luck that the bad weather was going to stick around for his whole stay here, which meant he had two choices, neither one good. He could try to drive back down, as the weather nixed his helicopter transpo, or he could sleep, eat, and live in the car for a week. Eat what, he wasn't sure, but surely he had some candy bars and power bars in his bag, or something.
His last, least appealing choice, was to try the cabin again, which the rental agent had promised to have stocked with food.
Or was he going to let a little hallucination scare him off?
Dan rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin, thinking the last night over. In the daylight hours—or what light there was through the stormcloud cover—he had a hard time believing that they'd happened. It felt more like a bad trip, a bad dream. Possible side effects of his drugs interacting with each other.
He'd never know unless he made sure.
He grabbed his keys and reached for his overnight bag, and then remembered he'd dropped it last night and run for the car. He jingled the keys and loose change in his pocket nervously as he walked towards the cabin.
He turned the doorknob and cracked the door open. He peered out at the wall.
Nothing.
He cleared his throat. "Right. Let's get on with it." The cabin's front parlor, as it were, led down to a hallway with a few doors that opened to reveal a bathroom, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The power and water was running, he found, but there was no food in the fridge.
A knock on the door and an indistinct voice called from the front door.
Dan froze, looking for a weapon in the kitchen, and trying to remember if he'd locked the car and locked the front door.
He hustled to the door and found that habits died hard; the door was locked. He felt some of the tightness in his chest ease when he heard another sharp rapping on the door. He tensed up again. "Who is it?" he said, sidling towards the window to see if he could get an angle on whoever was out there.
"The rental agent told me to meet you yesterday to drop off the food, but the weather was so bad I couldn't get out here yesterday," came the nasal voice.
Dan touched the screwdriver he'd found in the kitchen junk drawer and put in his back pocket, feeling only slightly reassured.
He dialed up the rental agent but the ass wouldn't pick up the phone.
He made a lightning calculation that the prospect of food was worth the risk of whatever else could happen. It wasn't like he had a ton of options.
He opened the door a crack. A wiry, flannel-shirted man in his late twenties to mid thirties in skinny jeans and a North Face parka and, unbelievably, Prada glasses, stared back at him.
He didn't believe it. A hipster, in the mountains, of all places, and stocking up for a rental agency. The man didn't meet his eyes, and held a couple of plastic grocery bags.
Interesting economic times, he guessed.
"Hi, you said food?" he asked with a smile.
The man's gaze never met his, and instead past his face to the cabin inside, darting from spot to spot. "Yeah, food. I hope you like pork chops and cornbread, since the grocery store was having a sale. I got you some frozen and canned veggies, too." He moved as if he wanted to enter the cabin. For some strange reason, Dan didn't want him to.
"Here," Dan said, "I'll take those." Seeing the man frown, Dan added, "not dressed for company right now, sorry."
"Are you sure? I thought I'd come in and see that everything was all right."
Dan's discomfort increased. Couldn't he take a hint? Besides, the man still wouldn't meet his eyes. "Uh, yeah. Look, I'll call you if I need anything, all right? What's your number?"
"The rental agent has it," the man said vaguely.
Dan understood; nobody gave out their personal numbers casually and the guy was probably not in a position to carry another phone for...whatever it was he did. "I'll call," Dan said. He was strangely reluctant to undo the chain on the door, so he just said, "Actually, you can leave the bags on the porch and get on with your day. I'll pop out and grab them in a sec."
"I'm not sure..."
"Please." Dan smiled and held up a hand, palm out, to shut the man up. "I insist."
The man frowned again, his mouth sullen, and then shrugged. The bags landed with a thud that had Dan wincing mentally, and he heard the crunch of what sounded like eggs and the thud of several cans hitting the floor and rolling away. "Whatever. I'll check back in a few days to see how you're doing," he said, and trotted off the porch.
"Asshole," Dan said under his breath once the man got into a mud-splattered Jeep. He watched it drive off and waited until it was out of sight before he undid the chain, but by then, the gunmetal gray skies turned black and the wind suddenly kicked up with a howl. Freezing rain started to come down with stinging speed, raining sideways and soaking him in the few seconds it took him to run out and grab the bags and the escaped groceries.
He slammed the door shut and locked it, checking the bags to scope out the damage from the drop. Crushed bread, and egg everywhere, and worse, a hole in the bag so the oozy mess was dripping everywhere. His clothes were wet and he was starting to shiver, too. "Fucking asshole," Dan muttered.
A flash of red in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
He looked up at the wall.
"KILLER...!"
Dan's stomach dropped, like before a rollercoaster ride.
"How do you know?" he said. Part of him couldn't believe he was talking to...whatever he was talking to. The other part just wanted to get to the bottom of this.
The wall was silent.
Or his brain was. Fine. He'd call and fact-check this ghost.
He gave it a valiant effort. First, it took him half an hour of walking around inside the cabin until he found a spot with the best reception: 1.5 bars out of 10.
He called the rental agent, to see if he could get any background on the location. He gave up after five "leave a message" prompts.
Then he'd call the cops.
They were stuck down the mountain and would be for the next few days, unless this was an emergency and an actual crime or danger was going on. If not, he would be arrested, so did he have an emergency or not?
No, he did not.
Dan was going to have to find out what was going on for himself.
The rain cleared up the next day, but the temps dropped even lower, so all the roads were frozen solid. No travelling, and, with the weather the way it was, he didn't want to be caught outdoors.
He'd start indoors. That hipster had been a little too interested in getting into the house. He hadn't had a key, and hadn't yet dared to break in. Was he returning to the scene of the crime? Or had he heard something and was trying to satisfy a morbid curiosity?
He looked around the kitchen. He checked the cabinets and pantry, and didn't find anything more suspicious than some dried mushrooms that he wouldn't touch if he were starving. He moved on to the bedroom, and it was a plainly decorated room with dark woods. The hardwood floors were covered with rugs, and he found nothing when he looked for spots where the floor was loose or more worn than the others.
He was looking for an extra towel to mop up some spilled tea when a flash of something shiny and sparkly caught his eye. He absent-mindedly reached for it, and found he had grabbed a jewel-eyed teddy bear in silver metal, tiny, and with a loop on its head, as if meant for a charm bracelet. He puzzled over it, then saw the barest bounce of light against something that wasn't carpet in the back corner. He dug around a bit and wrestled out a silver charm bracelet, property of Tiffany & Co, with a tennis racquet, a galloping horse, a book, and a tree.
He sat back on his heels. Sure, it could have been forgotten and lost by a previous renter. He would believe that, too, if he hadn't had to rip part of the carpet up to get the chain up.
There was a faint, dried dark patch on the lighter yellow wood of the floor under the carpet. Dark, dark red.
The color of faded blood.
With rising horror, he turned the silver teddy bear over in his hands and saw that the half of it that had rested against the floor was dulled by a dark, splotchy color.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He realized he'd probably just destroyed whatever evidence of fingerprints there had been on the thing, and that he'd put the ghost—or whoever, whatever it was—even further away from receiving justice. If this bracelet had had evidence that could have put the case to rest, he'd just destroyed it, and shot any chance of justice for her to hell.
He opened his eyes to find his hand was clenching the silver jewelry so tightly that it was nearly cutting into him.
He had to get to the bottom of this, or go crazy. Either there was a ghost, or there wasn't. The hipster's suspicious behavior, the bracelet, the blood—it would never see the light of day in court, or even get past a dusty archive file at the local precinct. It was up to him to find out what was going on, if only to make sure he wasn't going insane.
He needed to find the hipster. Then he would get his answers, no matter what it took.
He pocketed the bracelet and put on his coat to walk outside when someone started pounding at the door.
"Open up! Let me in!"
Dan paused, and his fists tightened, feeling adrenaline kick up his heart beat.
It looked like the hipster had come to him.
He stalked to the door as the pounding grew frantic, and wrenched it open to get a face full of stinging cold snow. The second after that, he got a solid punch to the face.
He staggered back, blinded and stunned, and the hipster rushed in, knocking Dan over and stomping his hand in the process with a hard lugged sole.
Dan grunted out in pain and kicked out, connecting on the hipster's back. The hipster yelled and then crashed to the floor. Dan flipped over on him and wrestled to avoid his flailing arms and legs before he got a clear shot at his jaw. Seeing his shot, Dan made it count, hard, and the hipster dropped.
Dan held on to him until he was sure the guy wasn't faking it, huffing and puffing and shivering. He realized he was bleeding and freezing at the same time. He fought the door shut against the gale-force wind howling in his face and chilling him even through his clothes, wondering where the sudden blizzard had come from. Then he set about finding something to tie up the bastard while struggling to use his numb fingers and stomp some feeling back into his extremities.
***
Dan watched the hipster came to slowly, blinking his eyes and then moaning as he started to feel the pain. He was tied with Dan's inexpert but extensive knots, with his hands behind his back and his feet tied to his wrists. He lay on the floor sideways, shivering and surrounded by towels. He had to be soaking wet, but Dan was going to get some straight answers out of him before he did anything.
Dan sat with his back to the fire, cradling the mug of hot coffee in his hands, with the thermal carafe in front of him. "First things first," he said. "Who the hell are you?"
"C-c-cold," the hipster stuttered, shivering hugely. "Help me."
Dan took a sip. It was too hot, but he pretended he'd enjoyed it, and studied the hipster carefully. He wasn't really in danger of hypothermia, but he was going to take a while to warm up if he didn't get dry and soon. "Unless you feel like freezing to death right where you are, you'd better answer my questions. Then maybe I'll give you a cup of this nice hot coffee, give you some dry clothes." He blew the wafting steam as if cooling it off, just to make his point.
The hipster shuddered. "So cold. What—happened?"
"I opened the door and you hauled off and tried to knock me out and break in." Dan sipped again, this time enjoying the heat working its way down.
"There's coffee," Dan said. "Towels. Dry clothes. Once you tell me who you are and what you're up to."
Comprehension was slow to dawn in the other man's face. "I'm...I'm Greg Santos." He convulsed with shivers, and Dan steeled himself to sit tight. "Was...sudden. Whiteout. Get out of the storm."
Dan darted a glance at the storm raging outside of the windows. The guy did have a point. "Why were you trying to get into the cabin, even before that?"
The hipster frowned, his processing speed obviously slow. "Amanda's missing...missing for a while now."
***
"The blizzard came out of nowhere," the hipster said, wearing Dan's sweats and wrapped in a blanket. He cradled a mug of coffee in his hands, having drunk half a pot already. "I really was trying to get indoors and out of the storm and didn't mean to hit you."
Dan stared outside at the powdery white landscape outside, not quite trusting the fellow yet but knowing he could take him on as long as he didn't turn his back to the guy, and felt disappointed tinged with dread. His gut said the guy was telling the truth.
Greg sipped his coffee and started his tale. "I'm in the cabin down the road, and Amanda was supposed to meet me there so we could edit our film together over break. Her last call to me was that she was on the mountain, she saw the cabin, and was almost there. I was supposed to make sure to stock up because she'd heard the weather was totally going to blow and we might get stuck up here." He stared down at his cup's contents. "She never showed, and she's been missing for a week and a half."
He drew the blanket closer to him and stared into the fire. "I called the police, but they don't have much manpower and the search and rescue team hasn't been able to come out, with the weather the way it's been, I don't know when they'll be out. This is the only other cabin I could find on the road, and well..." he trailed off, his face screwed up with worry, and he looked up to meet Dan's gaze. "I don't have high hopes."