Grave Tales (eBook)

D. L. Brown (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
264 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-7677-1 (ISBN)

Infos

'Grave Tales' is a collection of five innovative, horror stories by D.L. Brown with compelling illustrations by Jon Stubbington. These tales on a theme describe how normal people are sometimes forced to deal with extraordinary situations.

D.L. Brown is a database designer/data analyst who is trying his hand at a second novel based on the stories that have haunted him for over thirty years. He lives in Whittier, CA with his wife of 35 years and four old cats.

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A county deputy reluctantly responds to a downed animal call and finds something far worse waiting for him. Two friends encounter an isolated grave during a hike resulting in a strange adventure across time for one of them. A curious tin box drives a man to extreme measures to see what's inside. New homeowners find the prior resident left something behind they cannot return. A long-anticipated vacation leads to an unexpected side trip which triggers a man to be pursued across New Mexico by a vengeful remnant.

Textauszug

In Amongst the Trees

Gerald Briscoe stopped his quadbike in a small dell located at the westernmost point of the vineyard’s land. He had come here a few times to eat lunch away from the filthy breakroom that the others used. A line of boundary bushes hid his bike and provided shade most of the year. The occasional breeze brought in the smell of the vines, making it a perfect spot for when he wanted to get away.

This was not one of those times. It was rare, at least for him, to get called into the CEO’s office, but to be summoned by his direct supervisor had him concerned that he might be laid off. It ended up being a silly concern since he hardly expected that the old man did any of his dirty work himself. His task, though, made no sense.

Briscoe walked out of the dell and hopped over the perimeter fence. After scrambling through the hillside, he waited below the crest because he thought he heard people talking. Besides this ridiculous task, Briscoe was told to absolutely not be seen. Seen? Seen by whom? No one comes here anymore, living or dead. He knelt and climbed the last few feet on hands and knees. A quick peek over the top showed a pack of wild turkeys ambling away through the graveyard. Damn, this place gave him the willies. Why the hell were soil samples needed here?

He set aside all logic and set about his work. If it guarantees an end of the year bonus, I guess it doesn’t have to make sense, he thought. He began his standard process of collecting five samples in a star pattern and marked the spots with small flags. The first hole was dug to an appropriate depth, the soil extracted and shoveled into a prelabeled plastic sandwich baggie. While digging the second hole, Briscoe struck and split a root. He filled the hole and realigned his flag formation.

He shimmied on his knees to the next spot, but as he stuck the small shovel into the earth, the ground beneath him shifted. That’s odd, he thought. He repositioned himself and stuck the small shovel into the surprisingly loose soil. Digging in a graveyard! I couldn’t be paid enough to do that for a living, he thought. He chuckled to himself at the irony of that thought because he was being paid to do just that. At least there were no bodies involved.

Briscoe inserted the shovel again and hit another root. “What the hell?” he said softly. He thought about moving to another spot, but he only had enough bags for five samples, and mixing them was against the procedure. He stood up and considered his choices. “Fuck it, one mound of creepy graveyard dirt is the same as another—nitrogen-rich soil. It’s the embalming chemicals that make this area a no-grow zone for the vineyard. The old man must know that. So, why test it in the first place?”

As there was no reasonable answer, Briscoe stayed focused on the samples and the sweet, sweet bonus he was promised. He pulled the flags and moved about twenty feet to his right. He jabbed the shovel into the dirt and the ground began to shift beneath him. He fell onto his side and tried to stand up. Was it an earthquake? he wondered.

Just as he got to his feet, the ground shifted again. Dropping the baggies and shovel, Briscoe ran back toward the slope leading to the vineyard. Abrupt, excruciating pain filled the next few moments, accompanied by a screaming voice which he recognized as his own. Seconds later, Briscoe watched the ground pass underneath him for the briefest of moments before the world went away.

Later that same day, in the afternoon’s fading light, a county sheriff’s SUV pulled to a stop about twenty-five yards behind an old station wagon with faded cream-colored paint and faux wood paneling. Deputy Chris Dobbins looked over the two people standing near the tailgate. A middle-aged man and woman. The woman was crying while the man was consoling her. They were most likely the reporting party. The deputy stayed in his vehicle for several moments, fuming. This happened far too frequently, usually when Dobbins had a long weekend ahead, and always at the end of the shift, on the far side of the county. A downed animal, of all things. Dobbins hated these calls. The smell always put him off his next meal. The weather kept the flies to a minimum, although this provided little solace.

Dobbins watched the couple for a moment. Both stared anxiously at his vehicle. The man had his arm around the woman, and he occasionally spoke into her ear. She continued crying. She was probably an animal lover or something, but why cry over a sheep or a cow? So many of the downed animal calls ended up being livestock of some sort. They must not be from the area. He called in his location to the dispatcher before exiting his vehicle.

“Dispatch, patrol three-five,” Dobbins said into his shoulder-mounted mike. He pulled a small notepad from his jacket and stood next to his SUV’s open door.

“Go three-five,” came the reply from the small radio clipped to his belt, and the sound echoed from the speaker in his vehicle.

“10-97. Addison Cemetery, Orchard Road, mile marker 23,” Dobbins said.

The dispatcher repeated the location. Dobbins wrote down the vehicle description and license plate number and added a brief description of the couple before he walked over and introduce himself.

“Good afternoon. Did you report a downed animal?” Dobbins
asked.

“Yes, but …,” the man replied, but hesitated when the woman began silently sobbing into his shoulder.

Definitely an animal lover, Dobbin thought.

“But …. I … um … we don’t think it’s an animal,” the man
continued.

“Okay. Where is it?” Dobbins asked, not looking up while he made more notes.

“In the field across the road,” the man said and pointed toward the field across from their vehicle. Dobbins turned and stared into the field across the road but could not see anything.

“Where?” Dobbins asked.

“It’s about forty yards in,” the man said.

“Were either of you injured?”

“What? No,” the man replied, not bothering to mask his irritation. “We didn’t hit anything.”

Dobbins made a few additional notes before looking over the couple with greater scrutiny. He walked around the car looking for damage but there were no obvious signs.

“Can I get your names please?”

“Michael and Veronica Fehr,” the man said. So, probably husband and wife, Dobbins thought.

“Mr. Fehr, is your wife okay?” The deputy asked. Mrs. Fehr stopped crying but clearly looked distraught.

“No, she is not alright. Not after seeing …” Mr. Fehr began, but his voice trailed off again while he stared into the overgrown field across the road.

“May I have your address?”

Mr. Fehr rattled off his address, his impatience growing. “Are you going to check the field?” Dobbins ignored his question, and wrote down the address, before continuing his inquiry. Decidedly not a local, he thought.

“May I ask what brought you to the area?”

“We are visiting a relative, so to speak.”

“What do you mean, ‘so the speak?’” Dobbins asked, and Mr. Fehr looked at his wife before continuing.

“My wife’s uncle is buried here … up on the hill,” Mr. Fehr said and gestured toward the cemetery. Dobbins looked in the direction Mr. Fehr was indicating, made a note, and continued.

“What was your uncle’s name. If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Theodore Larch,” Mr. Fehr replied.

That name sounded familiar to Dobbins, “Where have I heard that name?” He said to himself.

“He sued the winery for clear cutting a grove of oak trees,” Mr. Fehr said.

“What was that?” The deputy said, as if not expecting an answer.

“My wife’s uncle. You may have heard his name in the news. He successfully sued the winery for …”

“May I see your driver’s license?”

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Fehr grumbled under his breath as he extracted his Driver’s License and held it out for the deputy. Dobbins took it and compared the address to the one in his notepad. They matched, so he added the license number, and handed it back to Mr. Fehr.

“Sorry about the questions. It’s just procedure. You and your wife can wait in your vehicle, but please stay put until I return,” Dobbins said.

He returned to his vehicle and called in an update to dispatch. He retrieved a pair of latex gloves and, before leaving his vehicle, flicked on his hazard light bar. He crossed the road, carefully hopped over the low barbed-wire fence, and scanned the overgrown field. About fifty yards in, he saw a dark, writhing shape. The crow buffet is in full swing, Dobbins thought. He grumbled after stumbling twice while he walked across the uneven ground. The field looked recently disked, but with nothing planted, weeds and wildflowers took over. He stopped about twenty-five feet away, stuck his arms in the air, and yelled. The crows...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 5.2.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-7677-5 / 1667876775
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-7677-1 / 9781667876771