She a horror novel, p.1
She: A Horror Novel, page 1
Copyright © 2015 David Kummer
All rights reserved.
Massacre Max: Part 1
About The Author
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FAMILY –ESPECIALLY MY MOM (SORRY FOR ALL OF THE DEATHS)- WHO TAKE CARE OF ME, MY FRIENDS WHO HELP ME, AND YOU, WHO ALWAYS HAVE AND WILL STICK WITH ME
I would like to thank my English teacher, Ms. Muldoon, for her extensive help reviewing and editing this book and all of my others. She is a true blessing to have. Also, I want to thank my teachers Mrs. Roberts, Ms. Dixon, and Mrs. Walker for all of their help installing a love for writing and reading in me at an early age. Without them, none of this would possible. I cannot ever thank you four enough.
As well, I would like to thank my dad, who served as chief editor and formatted the book, and published it independently through Amazon. He read an entire novel in less than twenty-four hours, which is no easy feat with this one. My mother, also, deserves praise and thanks, for somehow managing to live with me and all of my crazy ideas and ramblings. She also had to listen to my father and me discuss the work inside these covers. I love you, Mom.
I also want to thank a few of my friends for reading this book and being with me from the beginning until I had completed it. Juliana D., Lucas R., Madison B., and Katie G. all had to listen to my endless conversations about it, as well. Thank you all- it means the world to me.
Finally, my acknowledgement and thankfulness goes out to anyone who inspired me, encouraged me, or bought this book. Without you all, this would never have happened or been completed. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing and get to know the characters inside as if they were your best friends. Someday, maybe, you will be able to look back and remember the happy time when you saw her standing on your street at night. And She saw you…
“Anything to drink, sir? Maybe an iced-”
“No.” The man had a grim, annoyed expression on his face. Raising his head, topped with thinning, gray hair, he glanced quickly at her before returning his gaze to the smooth wooden table. “I’m just waiting on someone.”
The waitress was taken aback at his rudeness. Around her, the clinking of silverware and chattering voices said that none of the other people dining had noticed. Standing in a typical, smooth outfit, she held a small notepad and pen. Similarly dressed waiters and waitresses were all standing about the diner, taking orders. Composing herself, she again tried to extract an order.
“Well, while you wait, could I help you to a pastry? For today only, you can get a-”
“I’m just fine, thank you,” he cut in with a clear, back-off attitude. His tone of voice and the threatening scars from old age weathered onto his face, convinced her to leave without any remarks. After one last huff of frustration, she gave him a piercing gaze and made a rude gesture with her hand.
Turning her back, the waitress stormed away, towards another employee so she could complain. Most mornings like this, when the sun was bright, shining through a cloudless sky, the customers were kind and carefree. Lots of them were elderly folks, coming in for their morning coffee and talking with friends; a few were younger and ate more, occasionally tipping extra too. These were particular favorites of the waitresses, although the older folks held their own unique charm.
This man, dressed in a wrinkled, half-buttoned shirt that drooped from his shoulders and jeans that had been packed in a suitcase too long, was different. His face grave and hands shaky, he refused to talk with anyone. Instead, he sat in solemn silence, staring out of the window. Strangers passed by, and he saw them, but at the same time did not. What occurred around him was of no interest or importance; he looked only to the future, and with a wary gaze, uncertain and nervous. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he sat rigid and resigned to his fate.
“That man hasn’t moved in nearly half an hour,” one older lady named Beth said to her friend. With a prolonged nod in his direction, she convinced her crossword-solving companion to look up rather reluctantly from the daily puzzle in the newspaper.
“Are you certain?” she asked with a mindless, bored sort of voice. Moving the white hair back from her forehead, she stared for a moment, taking in everything she could see about the man, before deciding he was not worth her time.
“Quite. He’s hardly even blinked since he took a seat.”
“Why didn’t the girl wait on him?” said the friend in a bored tone, hoping to appease her friend’s curiosity. Returning to her crossword puzzle with a yawn, she began to scribble a word into the blank squares.
“She did; the man told her off,” Beth answered, not taking her eyes off the man. Sipping her early morning coffee, she stared at him for a while longer, wondering to herself why on earth someone would choose to sit inside on a beautiful day like this.
At that moment, he turned to face her. With a devilish smile, in one quick instant, he winked. Ten minutes later, the two ladies were gone, after tipping the waiter with shaky hands and leaving a half-empty coffee cup behind, along with the crossword puzzle.
Without peering around at the other people in the restaurant, the man stood up and crossed to that table, grabbing the newspaper and finding a pen in his pocket. Sitting back down at his original table, he set to work on the crossword puzzle. He was quite adept at solving puzzles, now that his whole life had become one.
Why was he inside on such a lovely day? It was a good question. He could have been outside; walking in Pine Tree Park would be comfortable and pleasant on a midday like this. In fact, Hardy was chock-full of interesting places to be and unique things to see. Being a small town with only a handful of bustling streets at its center, odd sights were bound to pop out at you, whether you went searching for them or not.
There was the handful of flea markets on the corner of Market Street and 1st Street. Lots of trinkets and toys could be found in the shady corners of that place, hidden for years and forgotten. The cashiers and, at times, customers were just as interesting, both drawing you near to them and frightening you away. Hardly ever as sinister as they appear, they are still people you do not want to catch you gawking at them, so let’s move along before they catch our eyes. Who knows what terrible things could go on in these shady corners.
First, Second, and so on streets ran vertically, while Main Street and a handful of others were horizontal, forming a neat-looking town, where every block was shaped in a square. This was the typical structure of roads for small river towns, like Hardy, and only a short drive away Marcy was the same way, with streets at intersecting at neat, right angles.
Just past Market Street, the northernmost road in
This particular intersection was not the busiest, but still far from empty. People hustled about at that corner, doing whatever they did and staring at whatever they saw. There would be a diner at this corner, with a handful of these people inside, and the number growing larger every minute. Inside the crowded building, at a table in the center, facing the street, would be two men.
The stranger stood there, looking quite relaxed compared to the man seated. “Good morning, Steven.”
“I’ve been waiting for over an hour, and I don’t even want to be here. I can’t believe you’d bring me back here, or keep me waiting for such a long time.” Despite his defiant voice, the seated man kept contorting his face, trying to appear more relaxed, but only looking uncomfortable
He had his palms clasped in his lap, trying to still his shaking fingers. Sweat trickled down the back of his gray-haired head, rippling down the inside of his shirt, where the fabric swallowed it. Steven had spent the last half an hour working on an impossible crossword puzzle, before ripping it to shreds in his frustration.
Since then, many customers had come and gone, leaving him alone, still watching, still sitting, and wishing he had kept the crossword puzzle. Brash decisions seemed to be his downfall; coming back to this town proved that.
Now, he had a companion. Familiar, loathed, and a former friend, the man wearing a black coat was an aberration he wanted to leave behind in the past.
“Wow, I really feel the friendship rekindling.” His companion chuckled. “You’ll hardly even glance at me.”
This companion sat down, appearing comfortable. He knew things this older, rude man did not, and would not, want to know. That fact gave him power and confidence.
A hat was pulled low over his -the companion’s- face, blocking his eyes from view. Wearing a dark coat, even though the temperature outside recommended a t-shirt, he sipped on a cup of bitter tea and focused on the man across from him, who was sweating nervously and wiping his forehead with a napkin that same waitress had given him with a growl.
“How are you, Steven?” the stranger asked calmly when the first man did not answer.
“Better before you sat down.” Steven placed a hand on the table, where it shook with such violence his partner’s teacup rattled.
“Oh, come now. What way is that to talk to an old friend?” The stranger ignored the sweat-beaded face across from him and smiled in a casual, relaxed way.
“That was a long time ago. Old friend or not, I don’t wanna get into this business.”
“But you don’t even know what happened, Steven.” The stranger said it as if whatever Steven had missed was something crucial. “You’ve been-”
“Out west, yeah. It’s your fault I was sent out there. And I know enough of what happened to want out. This isn’t good business, and I’d rather be alive still come Christmas-time.”
The stranger sipped his bitter tea through pursed lips. “Wouldn’t we all.”
“Why did you want to meet me, anyways? They’re done now; won’t happen again for twenty years. You missed your chance this time. She’s gone,” said Steven, his hands still shaking despite the rough bravado in his voice.
With the dark coat crumpling at his movements, the stranger shook his head with a sober expression and placed the tea cup on the table. “They’re not done for me, Steven.”
“What do you mean?”
The man with the dark coat folded his elbows. “Would you like to hear a story? The entire story? It’s really quite something ... ”
“No, I don’t. I want answers,” said Stephen. He gave the other man a stern gaze. “So give them to me, or I’m leaving.”
“You can only get the answers you asked for in the story.”
“Just summarize it!”
“You can’t summarize the story.”
“You know what I think of your story?”
The stranger grinned. “I know exactly what you think, but it changes nothing. Story, or no story?”
“Fine,” said Stephen, leaning back in his chair with a glaring expression. “Tell me the story. What’s it about?”
“It’s the story you never finished. The story you left in this town. About what happened, right here, not so long ago as you might think. I suppose in some ways the town held the story, but it is really more right to say that the story was the town, is the town, and always will be.”
“She was watching us, back then.
“I should have known it much sooner, but I guess that is my fault and not of your concern. Not recognizing it for what it was led to pain, and lots of it. Many people lost children to her; I suppose that if I went back in the history books and counted I could give you the exact number, but what use would that be? The only useful fact you can know, before I begin my story, is that she was always watching.
“For all I know, she still is.
“This whole disaster started right here, in Hardy. Such a sweet little town, really, if you look at it on a map, or even if you walking through it. But that just goes to prove that any town, any person, any thing for that matter, can be haunted. Or evil. Or the source of evil. After all, if even a little town like Hardy, Indiana could be haunted, way out here away from the bright lights and drama of the big cities, then is anywhere safe?
“I’m still getting ahead of myself, though, and I’m sorry for that. I suppose this story doesn’t even start with me, honestly. No, the story starts a long, long time ago, way back in 1775, but you’ll learn that soon enough if you listen. The part I’m going to tell, and the part only I can tell, starts not long, back in 1995. How many years ago was that from now? Twenty, I think? Anyways, that’s when it starts, all this nasty business I’m going to tell you about.
“It started back then, with some kids; four of them, I think. Yes, there were four. The twins, first of all. Crystal and Christian Moore were their names, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such cooperative siblings in all my fifty years of life. Sure, they had their fights, and they had their moments when, just like any teenage siblings, they bickered over who-knows-what, but altogether, I think they were fine people and even finer siblings. They both had the same dirty blonde hair, too, although Christian’s was cut real short and hers was down a little below her shoulders.
“Crystal Moore was the only girl in this particular group of kids, but she fit in just as well as the boys. She was very passionate at times, as I might point out many times in my narrative, but that’s not all. She kept those boys in line, or at least that’s my opinion, and you could never find a better friend. Nowadays, she’d probably get made fun of for being a ‘tomboy’ or something like that, but back then, in that group of friends, she meant the world to each of those boys, in different ways, of course, one of them being her brother and all. The other two were attracted to her, at least a little, and I’m not surprised; to them she was the most beautiful girl ever.
“While she was quite talented when it came to sports, especially volleyball, her brother, Christian, was about the exact opposite. He would be considered a ‘nerd’ nowadays, though whether or not that’s a good thing, I’m still not sure. Even back then, his glasses got made fun of; big, chunky things that they were, always slipping off his nose. But he was quite a smart boy, with lots of good manners and good posture his mom probably taught him. There really isn’t much to say about him, though, because he never said much to me. The other I knew fairly well, for one reason or another, but Christian... He was an anomaly, and a puzzle I just couldn’t understand. But that’s that.
"Anyways, as I said, Crystal was the best friend you could ever find, and Chri
“Now, for the other two. I won’t tell you as much about them; you’ll hear all of that in the story for yourself. First off, there was Brandon Gray. He was the kid who started it all, or to whom it all started. Yeah, that’s a better way of putting it, because nobody would ever choose the things that happened to him and his best friend.
“Brandon was black, to put it plain and simple, and in 1995 Hardy, that was sadly unusual. I heard when he moved up here he and his parents had quite the accent from down south, but by the time I met him that was gone. His family has a strong heritage of African-American, and the determination was not lost in him. Brandon was also funny, I gotta give him that. Always quick to cause laughter and even quicker to join it, he was the life and soul of the group, keeping things from getting too dark when they altogether could have gone downhill real fast and real easy. He was never afraid to be the butt of anybody’s jokes, but away from his friends, he was a totally different character. When he was around strangers, Brandon wasn’t nearly as outgoing. He was quiet, resigned, and thoughtful. I still don’t understand him, to be honest, and I’m not certain I ever will. If I only I knew where he was at nowadays. I think his bipolar character all had something to do with his family, though, ‘cause his dad was pretty strict, and I imagine getting away with his friends felt like some type of dream-life. He once told me he wanted to grow his hair out a bit, but his dad would never allow it. He said... well, never mind; on to Michael.
“Michael Walker... now there’s a name I haven’t spoken in a good while. He was the youngest of the group, fourteen in the midst of fifteen year-olds, but that didn’t stop him. Maybe just a tad on the short side, he was about the same height as Brandon, although with that spiked up, messy hair he seemed to be taller. He and Brandon had been best friends for god-knows how long. They were inseparable, and as familiar with the town as anybody could be. Even though they were different races, different ages, and in different stages of life, they both had the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen. They cared about people, and protected people they cared about. It was that simple. Michael is different though; well, was different. He always had this air about him, like he was in control and knew it. It wasn’t a bad type of thing, though, because he was humble enough to relinquish control and smart enough to know when he was wrong. The thing was, he could have been in control, and I mean total, dictatorship control. But he didn’t. He didn’t beg for attention and fight for it, and he didn’t fantasize too much or get downtrodden too low. He didn’t fight unless necessary, and he didn’t want the whole world to belong to him. Michael was a stand-up guy, even as a teenager, and never let his emotions control him. Well, almost never. Like anyone, there were moments, but he hid them pretty well. I’ll never know all the thoughts he had but didn’t show.
by David Duane Kummer have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes