Margga’s Curse
A Vree Erickson Novel, Book One
Text and cover art copyright 2013 Steven L. Campbell
Cover design by S.L.Campbell Graphics and Books
Originally titled Night of the Hellhounds, this novel is a work of fiction based on the author’s short story “Night of the Hell Hounds.”
All characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this book either are products of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead, locales, organizations, or events is purely coincidental.
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book is a licensed copyrighted property of the author. However, you are welcome to copy and share it for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support and respecting the hard work of this author.
This is for my grandchildren all.
You keep me young at heart.
May my stories keep you as young as well.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Connect with Steven L. Campbell
Other Books by Steve
Chapter One
FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD Vree Erickson was destined to die that summer. Although she was a healthy girl, all the fates pointed to her demise. But despite what the fates had planned for her, every decision she made over the summer could either change her destiny or leave it the same.
At 2:50 p.m. on June nineteenth, Vree dodged mowing over an exposed tree root, but she didn’t see her brother’s baseball glove until the John Deere riding mower was inches away. Then … BAM. The leather glove wedged inside the mower’s deck and stopped the blade.
Vree stopped driving and pondered what to do. All she knew about the mower was how to fill the gas tank, check the oil, and start it. After that, the mower went fast when she raised the lever toward the rabbit symbol, and slow when she lowered it to the turtle symbol. Just being able to drive the thing without killing herself was a plus.
A wet June breeze blew her long blonde hair across her face, covering her eyes while she sat for a moment beneath the oak tree in her backyard. She decided to look at the damage underneath. Not fix it—she had no idea how lawnmowers worked. But she needed to see by what degree her father would be angry with her.
She pulled her hair back, turned off the engine and yelped as the sky let loose another round of drenching rain. Rain had plagued most of Upper St. Clair all day, which left Vree with no other choice but to race finishing mowing the lawn before her birthday party that Thursday afternoon. Now it looked like the chore would go unfinished.
She had put off mowing the sizeable yard earlier in the week because of a dental appointment on Monday, a sprained right ankle on Tuesday after slipping in the tub while getting out of the shower, and spending all day at Kennywood yesterday where she and her family celebrated her brother and sister’s birthday. She was not going to disappoint her parents on her birthday. She had her heart set on that box set of hard to find classic movies to add to her growing collection, and her mom had taken the Barnes and Noble coupons from Dad’s study when she, Dave, and Amy left to go shopping at South Hills Village Mall an hour ago.
The rain soaked her red KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON T-shirt and chilled her back while she dismounted the mower, got on her hands and knees, and peered beneath the deck. She had no idea what to look for—she was never going to be mechanically inclined like her mom and brother. So, she stood and scampered to the tree trunk and kept dry beneath some heavy branches. Thankfully, there was no lightning like late last night. The flashes of light and booms of thunder had kept her awake past midnight. And when the storm had subsided and she fell asleep, she dreamed of being alone, lost in woods and looking for her dad, panicking until she made her way back to her parents’ spacious Craftsman home and found him standing in front of the garage. As she ran to him in that weird never-getting-closer way, rain fell and a flash of bright white light had engulfed him. When the light vanished, he was gone.
Stupid dream! It had awakened her in a panic the same moment a flash of lightning filled her bedroom with a few seconds of bright light, which left her cowering beneath her blanket afterward until sleep finally came to her.
Now, taking a deep breath to calm her anxiety, Vree fetched her iPhone from a front pocket of her blue jeans and glanced at the time. 2:59. Dad would be home any minute.
She refused to let either the ball glove accident or the rain dampen her spirits. She had campaigned to her parents all year not to celebrate her birthday on the same day as her triplet brother and sister who had been born before midnight on June 18, fifteen years ago. She had been born on June 19, seven minutes after midnight, so it was only fair that she celebrate her birthday today.
At 3:02, the rainfall turned into a hard downpour and the oak’s branches did little to keep her dry. She glanced at the house and saw her orange tabby cat sitting in a window, watching and waiting for her. Three o’clock was Mr. Whiskers’ feeding time.
She ran to the left side of the mower and began pushing it toward the garage. After three steps and nearly losing her footing, she looked up and saw that Charles Erickson, home from his lawyer job in the city, had pulled in the driveway. He hurried from his black Escalade, juggled his briefcase and umbrella when he took to the right side of the mower, and helped Vree push the mower. She hollered over the sound of rain and told him what had happened. He said nothing, stopped to adjust the umbrella that did little to keep dry his dark gray Brook’s Brothers suit, and returned to pushing the mower closer to the garage. He didn’t complain or scold Vree for driving recklessly and running over Dave’s ball glove, but she was certain the rain kept him quiet from giving her a good lecturing on lawnmower safety and care.
When they rounded the back of the garage, a flash of bright white light and tremendous heat engulfed them as lightning struck the oak tree, the house, and Vree and Charles, knocking Vree to the ground where she lay unconscious, even when her family returned home ten minutes later and found their house ablaze. The lightning had knocked Charles right out of his polished, black leather Florsheim wingtip oxfords. Until then, Charles Maxwell Erickson, Esquire, the man about Pittsburgh, had been successful as a private practice lawyer, earning as much as six figures last year. Now, he lay dead inside the same Tri-Community South ambulance that rushed a comatose Vree to the nearest hospital.
* * *
VREE HAD FALLEN into nothingness, she was certain of that. Warm blackness surrounded her, and she sensed she now floated in infinite space. She rolled and swam in the space, never knowing if she went anywhere. But she could breathe. And that seemed important.
She swam until her arms grew tired, so she rested sitting up. She sensed she sat on a plush seat—a sofa by the feelings that came to her while she stretched out her arms on either side. It made a comfortable bed, so she rested lying on her back. She stared at a pinpoint of gray light above he
r that seemed both close and far away. She needed to go there. And she would go there as soon as she rested.
Something had tired her; she needed to sleep.
She closed her eyes but the darkness and gray light remained.
An urgent need to go to the light overwhelmed her, so she sat up, stood, and readied to launch herself from the sofa and swim to the light that looked like a distant star.
“Let it come to you,” her father said from the right of her.
Vree squealed with delight to hear a familiar voice. She reached out a hand into the darkness, found one of his large and soft hands waiting for her, and sat, snuggling against him while the light above grew larger until it consumed them and bathed them in soft, white illumination.
The sofa, which was also white, split and separated into overstuffed armchairs that reclined. Charles wore his blue silk robe and matching pajamas and slippers, and Vree had on her long Bugs Bunny T-shirt she often wore as pajamas. Her feet were sans slippers and she waved them from the footrest, admiring the blue polish on her toenails. She and her dad floated in lazy circles around a third chair for several revolutions before Vree saw that a girl who looked like her occupied it.
The girl looked up from an open hardcover book, smiled at Vree, then closed the book softly and laid it in her lap of slim fit, skinny leg blue jeans—Vree’s favorite pair from Christmas. She even wore Vree’s oversized tank top with a print of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night on the front, which had also been a Christmas gift.
“Are you supposed to be me?” Vree asked.
“I am you,” the other Vree said. “Though you probably don’t recognize me because I’m not the reversed image you’re used to seeing in mirrors.”
Her chair spun in slow, lazy, counterclockwise circles, which made Vree dizzy. She looked away and focused on the vast whiteness around them.
“This is a weird dream,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one like this before.”
“’Tis no dream, girly-o,” the other Vree said. “Welcome to home away from home … the land of repetition and boredom.” She yawned audibly.
“Hush,” Charles said to her as his chair circled behind hers. To Vree, he said, “There’s a reason you and I are together. And I can only visit you once in spirit before I have to leave, so I need you to listen. You are seeing one of death’s many realities.”
“Did you say death?” Vree gripped her chair’s armrests and sat up. She kept her eyes focused on the white void to keep from getting dizzy. “Oh Daddy, please don’t talk about that.”
“I’m sorry, baby doll. I know it frightens you, but I must.”
“This isn’t Kansas anymore, Toto,” the other Vree said. “You don’t have time to be frightened.”
Vree looked back at Charles. “Let’s talk about something else. Okay? I don’t want this to be a bad dream.” She closed her eyes from him and the rotating chairs. “I want us to have fun.”
“She thinks she’s dreaming,” the other Vree said. She laughed.
Vree’s eyes flew open. “Stop mocking me.”
The laughter stopped. “Stop being a baby and listen.”
“I’ll listen to my daddy, but not to you,” Vree said, folding her arms across her chest.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Vree glared at her other self until Charles said, “What I’m going to tell you will sound strange. But I need you to listen. I am one of death’s many realities.”
Vree shook her head. “No. You’re not dead.”
“I am. And what you’re seeing is a connection you have made to me in a way that makes sense to you—surreal as it may seem. This is your world and you control its behavior, baby doll. You can stop the floating chairs by putting your mind to it.”
“I just wanna wake up now.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to.”
Vree looked around. “Then why am I still in this dream?”
“You’re in denial,” the other Vree called out. “You think you’re dreaming all this when you know you’re not. You’re not ready to perceive the truth.”
“I don’t like you,” Vree said. “I wish you’d go away.” She scowled at her other self who smirked like a mischievous twin, still turning counterclockwise.
“Hey-hey, girly-o,” the other Vree said, “where’s the love?”
“Why won’t you go away?” Vree looked at her father. “Who is she? Why is she here?”
“She’s your subconscious … and the one to get you started on the path of your new life,” Charles said.
“What new life?”
“When the lightning struck you, it changed you.”
“Whaddaya mean, Daddy? What lightning?”
“You need to remember. But for that to happen, your subconscious needs to be a part of you, baby doll; not floating around you.” Charles turned and gestured an open palm at the other Vree. “As long as you remain separated, you will remain here. You need to pull her in so you can begin recovering.”
“But I don’t like her,” Vree said.
“There are things about ourselves none of us like. But we can’t deny who we are. Just reach out your mind to her and she’ll come to you.”
“But she’s like Dave and Amy; always talking down to me.”
“You’re personifying her as someone like your brother and sister. Try thinking of her as if she is your best and wisest friend—someone who says positive things about you, who will always have your back. Think of her as being the person you want to be for the rest of your life. Accept her and she will come. Just let it happen.”
Vree and Charles’s chairs stopped circling and faced each other. The other chair spun away and orbited them.
“Concentrate,” Charles said.
Vree moaned. Doubt seemed to flood over her; she shook her head.
“Believe,” Charles said.
Vree watched her subconscious circle around them. Then she held her arms out to the other Vree. “Be my … best friend.”
“Go on,” Charles said.
“Never be condescending like you were a couple minutes ago,” Vree said. “And always have my back.”
The other Vree flew from her chair—a streak of white light that rushed at Vree and entered her forehead. Vree’s body tensed; her grip tightened on the chair’s armrests.
The light vanished. So did the place and chair. Vree and Charles now stood side by side at a bed in a hospital room. Vree looked down at the girl laying there—another version of herself. This Vree lay unconscious, her head bandaged, and surrounded by life support machinery. A breathing tube came from her mouth and ran to a ventilator that made whooshing sounds in five-second intervals. Medicines, nutrients and liquids in plastic bags hanging on a metal pole entered her through feeding tubes.
With the knowledge that had returned to her from her subconscious, Vree remembered the lightning strike. “Daddy didn’t live,” she whispered. She wanted to cry, but she felt incapable of shedding tears.
“It hurts to know he’s dead and you’ll miss him so very badly,” Vree said to herself. She reached out and took one of Charles’s hands in hers. “But you’ll always have him in your memories. Be strong.” She looked up at Charles’s solemn face and said, “What happens now?”
“That’s up to you, baby doll. You can keep blocking and stay in a coma. Or you can keep remembering and live again.”
“How can I live without you?”
Charles kissed her forehead. “Like you said, you’ll always have me in your memories. As long as you do that, you’ll never be alone.”
Vree released her father’s hand and looked down at herself again.
The girl in bed opened her eyes and stared at Vree.
“She’s awakening,” Vree said. She recognized the fear in those green eyes—the fear of something terrible happening and being powerless to stop it. She had carried that fear around since she was three, afraid of something bad happening to her father. And now it had happened.
“She’s remembering,” Vree said moments before she and Charles vanished and returned to their chairs. Her subconscious self’s chair was gone.
“Now that you’re awakening, it’s time for you to go,” Charles said. “The path of your new life will be difficult, especially where you are headed. But your subconscious will be with you to help.” He raised a finger to stop her interruption. “You can do this.”
He vanished.
Vree closed her mouth.
What did he mean life would be difficult where she was headed?
She floated in her chair, reclined it back, drummed her fingers on the armrests, chewed at her upper lip, and looked from side to side.
“Breathe,” her subconscious self said, its voice coming from all directions around her.
“I am breathing,” Vree said to the surrounding whiteness. She sucked in a breath. “See?”
Her subconscious was silent.
Vree waited. This time she kept still. Sleep came and pulled down her eyelids. She felt herself doze.
“Say your name,” her subconscious said, its voice lifting her from her slumber. “Your full name.”
“Verawenda.”
“Verawenda what?”
“Verawenda Renee Erickson.”
“Breathe for me again,” her subconscious said. “I want you to take a deep breath this time. A really big breath.”
Vree did.
The pain in her throat caused her to cough, but the fire in her throat kept her from coughing more than twice.
“She’s awake,” a female voice said at her right side. “Can you hear me, Verawenda?”
“Air my?” Vree asked, her voice croaking. Though she recognized the hospital room, she was surprised not to see the sea of soft white illumination from the other world. She swallowed at the fire in her throat. The breathing tube was gone and she felt like she had the worst sore throat ever.
The woman, obviously a nurse by the white blouse and pants she wore, pushed a button on the wall while another nurse at Vree’s left side asked, “Verawenda, can you hear me? If so, speak to me, Verawenda. Can you hear me?”
“Eth,” she said. “Thirthy. Tho very thirthy.”
“It’s okay, Verawenda. Everything will be okay. Just relax and lie still.”
A whoop came from another room and someone shouted, “She’s awake.”
“Someone call her mother,” the left side nurse said.
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