The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  An owl screeched as it impaled its prey with sharp talons. She looked all about for the source of the screams emanating from the dying animal. Her mind’s eye visualized the field mouse being torn apart. The screams ceased with the suddenness of death.

  The last of the moon, not yet full, but close, oh so tantalizingly close bade farewell to the rising run. Its ancient allure captured her soul. A sense of pleasure brought a smile to her lips. The moon was an important cycle, but she could not recall why. A new fear ripped her thoughts apart.

  Something told her to turn around. The sun! Why was she so frightened of the sun? The vacuum of desperation quickened her blood.

  A frighteningly real image of rose petals fell from her shaking hands to be covered by her rich, dark essence spilling from her body to become a river of gore engulfing the lane before her. The trees moaned to her with dry creaking voices. Their darkly twisted bark transformed into angry wooden faces, mangled branches bore long, bony arms stretching over the lane. The wooden faces moaned lustfully, tentacle-like roots screamed from their open mouths and dipped into the pools of blood to suck with unearthly pleasure. The early morning mist tinged pink with blood spray and the puddles at her feet pooled black in a congealing gore.

  She screamed, shaking her head to clear the dark visions. “This cannot be happening ... I am not dead ... not dead!” Her body shivered uncontrollably as she splashed through the bloody puddles. A distant voice in her head whispered ever so sweetly – “I am Eternal.”

  Chapter 3

  THROUGH THE EARLY morning mist echoed the clip-clop of horse’s hooves. This was the only sound of man’s intrusion at this time of day. And that was just fine, Jean Busson thought. The middle-aged, robust farmer steered the cart. He wore his usual rough corduroy jacket and trousers tattered to fine strands as they hung limply around his muddy boots. His old black cap was heavily stained with sweat. Papillon, his black and white sheepdog, sat next to him on his regular milk run.

  Every morning at precisely five thirty, he filled two churns with the milk eagerly relinquished by his small herd of Friesians. The work often reminded him of Lisette Rousseau’s overly large breasts flowing beneath his eager hands. Luckily, he maintained his illicit affair with Lisette from the eyes of the busybody priest, Father Papineau.

  Six long years passed since his beloved wife had been so cruelly taken from him by the ’19 influenza epidemic. He had been left alone to tend to his adolescent daughter, Annette, for far too long. He smiled as he thought of making an honest woman of Madame Rousseau one day soon. That would certainly surprise Papineau. He chuckled, thinking how the bumbling priest would have a field day with his confession. He’d probably have him publicly flogged as an adulterer – so much for surviving The Somme with dignity and honor.

  These and many other random thoughts passed for entertainment on his lonely milk run. He rarely encountered another soul at this time in the morning and that suited him just fine.

  A crash of thunder jolted him with vivid memories of the Great War. He could not stop the flood of images. The shells exploded closer and closer. Bodies torn limb from limb, screamed for mercy. He was thrown across the trench. Blood seeped from his chest. He pulled the dying over him and prayed.

  Busson stared at the endless rows of beds in the military hospital. He could still hear the screams of the injured with the blank forlorn stares of shellshock, scoffed at by those strutting peacocks they called officers who never saw a day’s fighting in their cowardly lives.

  Coldly indifferent doctors peered into his blank staring eyes, shaking their bewildered heads. They couldn’t understand the cause of this new malady that ran unchecked through the battle-scarred infantry. But one doctor was different. Busson saw the doctor rant at a room full of generals sitting at a fine table gorging on roasted limbs. Human fat ran down their bloated cheeks while the pale armless, legless corpses watched with lifeless eyes.

  He shook his head to dispel these intrusive memories and thanked his lucky stars for Doctor Vernier keeping him hospitalized until the end of the war. He would surely have been stood against a wall and shot like so many other poor devils stricken with shellshock.

  Jean Busson, war hero and philanderer, spat a thick gobbet of phlegm in the face of every strutting peacock officer.

  Papillon erupted into a cacophony of raucous barks returning Busson’s attention to the leafy lane, and almost ran over a distressed young woman staggering towards him. He pulled on the reins to stop his horse from trampling her, spilling some milk from the churns.

  “You stupid bloody cow!” He shook his head in dismay as he stared down at the woman almost nose to nose with his horse, now snorting in frustration.

  Papillon leapt from his seat and harried the poor woman, barking and yelping excitedly.

  Busson frowned, weighing up the situation. She had a look of blank terror on her deathly-pale face. Dark mascara ran in long black streaks down her alabaster cheeks like tears of oil. Her face looked as though it had been through a thresher with crisscrossed scratches – the blood blending with mascara to create a grisly countenance. Long red hair lay in a shambles about her shoulders, covered with a profusion of leaves and twigs and dripping with mud. What was left of her bloody dress was obviously damp, making it transparent. It clung to her lithe body by a single remaining strap.

  Busson stared into that look of pure terror emanating from gorgeous almond-shaped brown eyes.

  She backed away from Papillon and seemed unsure what to do for a brief moment before continuing on her way, oblivious.

  Busson immediately recognized the look of shellshock. Apart from the dirt and cuts obscuring her beauty, this woman was certainly worth a second look.

  “Whoa, girl!” He pulled up on the reins as his horse tried to proceed.

  The horse fidgeted and snorted to get a move on for this was her daily routine as well.

  Papillon ran ahead of the woman, barking furiously, forcing her to stop.

  Busson eyed this macabre vision of loveliness wavering below him. A chill like a draught from a slaughterhouse came over him as he recognized the terror etched across her comely face. He let his eyes travel from her disheveled hair down to her see-through attire, gawping at her pert behind like an over-sexed adolescent. His glance lingered on those firm buttocks. This pathetic picture of perfection was the most enticing female he had ever seen in his thirty-seven years and three months. His fixated gaze followed the woman as she continued down the lane. He exhaled, lifted his cap and mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Hold on, miss.”

  The woman continued on her way.

  He replaced his cap and whistled Papillon back onto the cart. The farmer patted the dog’s head then urged his horse to turn the cart around.

  He drew alongside the distressed woman and slowed to her pace. She continued as if unaware of his presence.

  She started to chant in a monotone, listless voice. “Eternal ... I am Eternal ... he mustn’t find me.” She looked up, her terrified gaze slicing into his soul. “Please ... don’t let him take me.”

  Busson looked around nervously for whoever he might be. But he saw no one, for there never was anyone at this time in the morning. The cart drew alongside her and he leaned down to shake her shoulder.

  Busson frowned at the look of utter dread etched into her wild features. He removed his offending hand from her shoulder. “Please wait miss ... I’ll take you to the doctor.”

  The terrified woman paused, opening her mouth to say something, but all she could do was whisper, “Eternal.”

  She continued on her way, resuming her deranged chant, only to stop again as he caught up to her. She looked all around, as if in fear for her life. Those fiercely wild eyes struck a lightning bolt into Busson’s racing heart.

  Papillon resumed his barking.

  She screamed in terror. “No! Don’t take my blood!” She fainted.

  “Damn it to bloody hell!” He released the reins once more. He
turned to Papillon. “Stay!”

  Papillon whined pathetically, wagging his tail.

  He scrambled down from the cart and quickly stooped down at her side oblivious to the muddy puddles. He put his head to her chest and frowned for a moment for he couldn’t detect a heartbeat. Thank God, she was still breathing. Plucking her from the ground with strong arms, he placed her gently onto the back of the cart. She curled into the fetal position, her wild eyes darting this way and that.

  The farmer removed his sweaty jacket and covered her with it. He hopped over the seat, whistling the horse into action.

  He looked behind at the unconscious woman with concern. “Sweet Saint Madeleine … what has happened to you?” He whipped his horse to a canter as he made his way to the Douvrey Institute for the insane. Doctor Vernier may not know what the bloody hell he’s doing half the time, Busson thought, but at least he would take proper care of her.

  Chapter 4

  ON THE BACK of the cart, she struggled to recall her name, something other than that pet name He had screamed out. Nothing! Nothing else came to her. She clung onto the name – Delicate Rose, her only lifeline.

  She stared up at the sky as the cart rattled down the leafy lane in the gloomy early morning – a scrolling vision of tree tops and dark clouds. The trees transformed to hideous demons dripping drool from shattered faces. The clouds growled with anger, spitting streaks of fire like dragons.

  A strange tingling sensation became an irritable sting. She turned to see the golden orb of the sun. Cringing from the intensity, she tucked under the coat as best she could, yelping in pain as a shaft of sunlight caught some exposed skin. She dragged a stray foot back under the meager protection. Was that the reason for her fear of the sun – her skin burned so easily?

  Delicate Rose tried to delve deeper into the chasm of terrors lurking within, to discern reality from nightmare. Was this a waking nightmare where demons lurked behind every dark, gnarled tree with bony fingers for branches, reaching out to her? But the demons would not go away even in the snug darkness beneath her canopy.

  Busson’s cart rattled along the road lulling her into a troubled sleep by the gentle rocking motion.

  She dreamed of death-white faces drifting in a cloying, blood-red mist full of whispers and hysterical screams. The faces screamed down a dark tunnel. The tunnel widened, people were dancing, drinking, having fun.

  She seemed trapped with these people inside a magnificent room of gold, opulent and comfortable. She kissed a woman. The name eluded her. Her hand reached out and touched a red rose, a color so deep, so perfect she could not resist. She flinched in terror. His eyes met her hers. His hatred assaulted her. Her precious blood, dripping from her hand, forced her heart to pound like canon fire. The blood flowed in torrents as the cage disappeared down a long, dark tunnel.

  Her dream fragmented into chaos and confusion. Now a naked woman, bald and shimmering with ice, she ripped the backbone from a demonic gargoyle-like creature. She raised bloody hands to the obsidian moon casting grey-black light into the underworld abyss known as Oblivion. She tossed the bloody spine into the heavy mist shrouding the ground up to her waist.

  She stared down the deep ravine, snaking between towering cliffs of black ice, gleaming darkly under the lifeless glow above. The carpet of freezing mist billowed, creating a swirling tunnel. Something moved within its shroud.

  A putrid demon hopped along under cover of the freezing fog. The creature’s bloated belly crawled with slithering lice. Its breath clung to its hideous face. A whip-like tail slashed through the mist like a scythe through soft flesh. The demon spoke with a high-pitched hissing, clicking teeth in a staccato fashion. There came replies within the protection of the shroud. Its head whipped around in alarm and screamed out, ducking under the thick ice-fog.

  The woman of pure translucent white leapt from the mist and pounced on the repulsive demon cowering in terror. She opened her mouth with a snarl and tore out the creature’s throat with massive fangs. Her sharp claws ripped the demon’s festering heart from its ribcage. She raised the still beating heart to the black moon and screamed with triumph. With a sickening squelch she devoured the bloody flesh with relish.

  She used the demon’s vile essence to mark her face with the kill – her face now a bloody mask of death. She raised her hands to the black moon and called out, “I am you’re eternal offspring. Let me free! Let me continue the eternal hunt.”

  The moon coalesced into the face of the divine one –Sekhmet the Vampire of Destruction. Her beauty ushered forth the means of release from Oblivion.

  High above the dark crevasse a door opened. Intense light cascaded across the darkness. Her skin tingled and reddened with the intense heat.

  All around her, demons of every shape and size scurried away from the light. Some were not quick enough and burst into flames. Their awful screams were divine music to the naked woman.

  The moon dissolved into a flock of ravens and flew downwards in a swirl of black feathers and raucous calls. The ravens shed their feathers that spiraled down and clung to the woman in a cloak of shimmering black.

  Now protected from the divine light she walked through the Valley of the Demons, laughing at the pathetic attempts the inhabitants made to inflict death upon her. One by one, they perished. Disemboweled and beheaded for their feeble efforts.

  Before her, appeared steps of black ice covered in freezing fog. Far above, the welcoming light offered her means of escape from Oblivion. She slowly ascended the stairs to embrace her destiny. Frantic to escape, demons attacked with disregard to the searing rays emanating above. She kicked them to a screaming death far below. The higher she went, the more feathers fell at her feet. And with each discarded feather a dark lullaby of celestial design filled her soul.

  The woman entered the light. The last feather dropped from her naked, bloody body. She bowed to Sekhmet.

  Sekhmet’s beauty was a sight to behold. Her translucent skin was unblemished by age. Her small pointed ears, bald scalp of smooth skin and hairless body gave her the appearance of neither man nor woman. Her breasts were small and between her legs dwelled nothing at all. Proof of human birth was also missing.

  The woman held Sekhmet’s hand and immediately she understood her duty as a demon slayer. She stepped into the awaiting sarcophagus and lay down with arms across her chest.

  “Now rest my daughter ... until the Eternal Moon has aligned with her celestial kindred.” Sekhmet leaned in and kissed the woman on her lips. She slid the cover with a scraping of stone obliterating the light.

  Sekhmet banished the light with a wave of her hand. She waited in darkness and sighed. The Eternal Moon shone with a liquid silver of divine destiny. The moon’s kindred, Orion, slipped across the vast heavens and aligned herself with her mistress directly above the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid. A beam of celestial light pierced the tip of the monument.

  The woman’s eternal birth was drawn from the stone sarcophagus now bathed in divine brilliance. Its cover slid open, revealing the woman, naked, bald and beautiful. She appeared lifeless with eyes shut tight.

  Sekhmet bit her own wrist and placed the wound to the woman’s lips. “I give my daughter life and her name shall be Eternal!”

  Eternal gripped Sekhmet’s wrist and drank with a terrifying thirst. Dark tresses appeared upon Eternal’s head. Fangs grew from her mouth. Her obsidian eyes gleamed with blood lust. She hissed and stepped from her birthing chamber. She raised her arms to the Eternal Moon sent on the sixth day of summer’s first awakening.

  “I am Eternal!” She looked around the small stone room and feared she was trapped. Her eyes settled on Sekhmet and begged for her wisdom. “What is this place?”

  Sekhmet smiled. “The gateway to Oblivion, my daughter. I am your eternal maker ... you have all my knowledge to do with as you so wish. Your blood was born of the Eternal Moon and can only be freely given to your one true love. If you ever return to Oblivion, you must await her return … it is you
r birthright.”

  “How will I know my true love, Mother?” Eternal begged with outstretched hands.

  Sekhmet turned and snarled. “Fear not ... you will know, my child. And now I must leave, for too much time has passed. Your mother is now the Eternal Moon, obey her urges and feed when she so desires.”

  Oblivion!

  An unearthly woman’s voice – yet her own – whispered a single word inside her mind – “Eternal.” Horrifying images of blood-soaked faces floating in a lake of bright red gore engulfed her, as the voice became ever more insistent, “I am Eternal.” The dream altered in intensity, becoming an almost solid memory.

  She saw a woman with a mane of red hair seated before a guilt mirror. The woman bowed to her majesty and lovingly brushed Queen Elizabeth’s hair. After applying ample amounts of chalk paste to her majesty’s exposed skin, Delicate Rose helped her into a heavy brocade dress with a high neck ruff surrounding her regal head. The Queen smiled with her eyes while Delicate Rose applied dark paint to her majesty’s lips. More chalk paste was applied to her face. The Queen gave a curt nod. Delicate Rose gleamed large fangs and opened a vein in her wrist. She poured blood into a gold goblet for her majesty to replenish her power and see her vast empire spread across the globe.

  Delicate Rose stepped through the mirror and appeared on the other side wearing a sexy white dress. She drifted gracefully across the floor, inspecting her guests, for they were her guests now. She spoke her other name, “I am Eternal.” And now she was Eternal and these guests were her playthings. Her tongue licked her lips, sliding over wickedly sharp incisors that grew longer as each enticing piece of sumptuous flesh came into view. Feasting time! But from whose neck should she drink first?