FEAR MOUNTAIN
A thriller
Mike Dellosso
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form without prior written permission of the authors except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental.
Learn more about Mike Dellosso on his blog: www.mikedellossobooks.com.
Follow Mike on Facebook and Twitter.
Join the Dellossos on their adoption journey at www.dellossoadoption.wordpress.com.
Copyright 2015 by Mike Dellosso.
All rights reserved.
Published by Darlington House, 2015
Books by Mike Dellosso
The Hunted
Scream
Darlington Woods
Darkness Follows
Frantic
Fearless
Rearview
Centralia
(Written as Michael King)
A Thousand Sleepless Nights
A note from the author
We’re adopting. It seems strange to look at those words in print. For me, this adoption process began with an ambush. Let me back up and explain.
I never entertained the thought of adoption, nor the possibility. I thought adoption was for those who couldn’t have children. We had four girls; we had no problem having children of our own.
Admittedly, I was ignorant like I suppose so many are when it comes to adoption.
Weeks before the ambush my wife, Jen, had hosted a Trades of Hope party by a new friend. The friend and her husband had hosted two eastern European children through this organization called New Horizons for Children (NHFC) and was in the beginning stages of adopting them. She told Jen all about it. She was obviously excited. Jen got excited. That was the beginning.
Then, a few weeks later I saw Jen had posted on Facebook about her and the girls (our girls) looking at the NHFC website and getting excited about the possibility of hosting a child ourselves. The writing was there on the Facebook wall. I saw it coming.
Now, normally I don’t like change. I like routine, predictability (though sometimes change is routine and predictable, isn’t it?). Bringing a stranger into our home for five weeks is neither routine nor predictable.
My instinct was to balk but God had other plans for me.
Honestly, my first thought when I read Jen’s post was, Okay, why not? Let’s do it. It just kind of popped in there. I paused. Wait. What? Okay? Let’s do it? Did I just say that? I wasn’t sure I had but a feeling of real peace accompanied it. It just felt like the right thing to do on many levels.
When I got home I paused on the front porch. I knew it was coming, the ambush. I had prepared my heart. I entered our home, hugs all around, and sat with the family in the living room. They were serious but excited. Jen told me all about their idea and asked what I thought.
“Let’s do it.”
That was it. I think they were surprised at my lack of hesitation. What they didn’t know was that God had ambushed me before they did.
He’ll do that sometimes, you know. Sneak up on us. Drop thoughts in our head that we don’t remember originating. Put peace in our heart that we can’t explain. I think part of it is His way of directing us, nudging us in the direction He wants us to walk, and part of it is His gentle (or sometimes not-so-gentle) way of reminding us that He is in control. Like Proverbs 16:9 says:
The mind of man plans his way, but the LORD directs his steps. (NASB)
Throughout our hosting and into the adoption process I’ve been reminded of that truth many times. Seems we can be pretty stubborn about making our plans and asking God to get on board. After all, our plans sound pretty good. We’ve thought them through, weighed the pros and cons, calculated the return on investment, counted the risks and benefits.
But you know what? I think God sometimes laughs at our attempts to control. Or at the very least shakes his head. We’re like strong-willed children wanting to do our own thing regardless of what our Daddy wants.
I can be like that. Too often. But I’m learning to rely on God, to let Him lead and follow his cues. It’s not easy because in my stupidity I think I know best. Though He’s proven himself faithful and wise time and time again I’m still not sure He knows what He’s doing.
But I’m learning. I am. I’m getting it through my thick head. Trust. Rely. Wait. Humble. Submit. Wait.
He’s got it.
So here’s what I’m doing with this book. Adoption isn’t cheap, and adopting internationally is even farther down the not-so-cheap scale. So about a month ago I had the idea to publish a book independently and put 100% of the proceeds toward our adoption costs. I had a manuscript that I’d written several years ago but never published; it was perfect for the project. But I needed a cover and I’m absolutely not skilled in the graphic arts. I put the word out and four accomplished professional graphic artists responded and volunteered their skills. All four have come up with unique, special edition covers. Great work.
Please know, 100% of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be used to bring a teenage girl home from her eastern European orphanage. She will be part of our family and be loved unconditionally. And you can be part of that. Thank you.
Mike Dellosso
1
From the moment I peeled open my eyes against the thick darkness I knew I would not soon forget this night.
I don’t claim to have any paranormal abilities, no premonitory visions, no mind-reading skills. I don’t tinker with Tarot cards, can’t gaze into a crystal ball and portend the future. And I only have five senses.
But somehow I just knew.
As I lay in my cot, wool blanket pulled to my nose, burrowed into the warmth it provided, an unsettled feeling seeped into my belly and lingered like an unwanted guest. Something wasn’t right. I reached up with both hands and rubbed the grit from my eyes, the sleep cobwebs from my lids. Opening my eyes the rest of the way, I saw only darkness. I could hear my brother, just feet to my left, in a low, steady snore. I listened for the familiar rhythm of Dad’s deep breathing, like a bear in hibernation, but didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear Pop either.
We were on the annual hunting trip to the north woods and at seventeen, it was my first trip, my first tag-along into the wild outdoors, a place where I reckoned humans were as unwelcome as lions at a wildebeest reunion.
I’m no hunter. Killing doesn’t come naturally for me. It’s not that I think there’s anything fundamentally or morally wrong with killing for meat, I just don’t have the stomach for it. And besides, I’m not the outdoors type.
I’m a disappointment.
But as I lay there, awakened in the middle of the first night of our four-day trip, listening to the deep silence broken only by Henry’s even snore, I knew—knew—something was wrong. Call it intuition or extrasensory perception—I call it God’s voice, that still small whisper that speaks, not to the ears, but to the heart—but the absence of Dad’s bear-like respirations and Pop’s low, bronchial rumble told me I needed to get up and brave the chilly night air.
And I dreaded it. As I said, I’m no outdoorsmen. I prefer to spend my time in the comfort of a home, reading and filling my head with Bible stories, words of wisdom and comfort from bygone theologians, and facts about the natural world, God’s creation, His handiwork. My hands are soft, supple, my muscles mostly undeveloped. My lungs are weak. I’m not at all suited for tramping about the woods in the middle of the night. But, if pressed—and pressed hard, mind you—I will do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done.
I pushed back the blanket, swung my legs over the edge of the cot, and sat, breathed in the cooln
ess. Two days prior, a cold front had moved down from Canada, ambushing most of the northeast with unseasonably cool weather. The fire in the wood stove had died and a chill hung in the air like a bitter phantom, a gift from our northerly Canuck neighbors.
For a minute, I sat still, listening, trying to clear my mind of the fog that sleep had left. The cabin windows were cloaked in black, as if someone had sneaked outside and draped velvet curtains over them. The lack of light, even moonlight, and the absence of birdsong, said it was early morning. Mid-September, the moon bids farewell to the mid-Maine night sky and tucks itself into a shadowy sleepiness around the midnight hour. Maybe Dad and Pop went outside to empty their bladders. Maybe only Pop had to respond to nature’s urgings and Dad went with him. Pop’s bladder wasn’t what it used it be. I pictured Dad standing, thick arms crossed, hair mussed and wild, eyes half-closed with his back to his father while Pop did his best to bypass his enlarged prostate and water a young sapling.
I listened again and tried to pick out the sound of footsteps in leaves or the low broken hiss of a whisper. But heard neither. The only sound was the continuous, almost hypnotic rhythm of Henry’s sleep.
Running a hand over my jaw, feeling the soft, patchy bristles from a day’s worth of growth, I slid my feet into the slippers waiting on the floor. I reached down and grabbed the flashlight, a trusty Lightmaster lantern, and stood; my knees and ankles cracked in protest.
Leaving the light off, I shuffled over to Henry’s cot and knelt beside it.
I shook his shoulder and whispered, “Henry, wake up. Henry.”
My brother grumbled and snorted—sounds that would have been more at home in a bear’s den than in a civilized cabin—pushed my hand away in his sleep, and tried to roll over. I gripped his shoulder and pulled him back to face me. “Henry. C’mon, wake up.” I said it in a small voice, not loud but louder than a whisper.
Henry stirred again, shrugged off my hand and mumbled something unintelligible as if sometime during his stopover in REM sleep his tongue had swollen to fill his mouth.
I shook him again. “Henry, wake up. C’mon. Dad’s gone. So is Pop.”
Henry grunted and rolled onto his back. In the darkness I felt his hands lift to his face. “What? Billy, what’re you doin’?” His voice was thick and raspy, stale from sleep.
I hit the flashlight’s toggle switch and immediately blinded Henry with the brilliance of the bulb. Like a funnel weaver spider retreating into the dark recesses of his lair, he jerked back and shrunk beneath the cover of his wool blanket. “Billy, get that thing outta my face!”
“Sorry.” I redirected the beam of light to the wall.
Henry poked his head out from the covers. His hair was matted flat on one side of his head; his eyes were puffy with sleep. He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, what’s the time?”
I slid my watch under the flashlight’s beam. “Two-forty.”
Henry propped himself on one elbow and motioned for the light. I handed it to him, and he promptly aimed it at my eyes.
“Hey!” I shielded my face. “Knock it off.”
“See how you like it.”
He swept the beam around the small cabin. The rough-hewn table and four chairs sat undisturbed as we had left them before retiring for the night. The wood stove squatted quietly in the corner, radiating only a faint memory of heat. Our guns waited patiently in the corner, no doubt itching to do what they do best. And on the far side of the cabin, Dad’s bunk lay empty, as did Pop’s. Covers ruffled and pulled back, pillow still indented with the impression of his head, Dad’s looked like he’d left in a hurry. Pop’s didn’t. The down pillow appeared fluffed, the covers were pulled up tight enough to bounce a half-dollar on and folded back about six inches at the top.
That feeling was there again, in my gut, in my heart. The voice. Something was wrong.
“Maybe they went outside to go to the bathroom,” Henry said, still studying Pop’s queerly vacant cot. “You know how his bladder’s been shrinking. You can tell time by his peeing schedule. Every hour on the hour. It don’t change at night.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Look—” I pointed to the far side of the cabin, toward Pop’s bed, “—he left his slippers.”
“Maybe—”
“And his boots. And I didn’t hear anything outside.” Pop’s boots sat at the foot of his cot, side by side, laces tucked inside. He was either barefooted or stocking-footed, but he was definitely shoeless.
Henry threw the covers back and sat on the edge of his cot. He handed me the light and rubbed his face again. “Okay. Let’s get changed and go outside. See what they’re up to.”
As I hurriedly slipped into a pair of trousers and pulled on my canvas field jacket, a sense of fear crept into my chest, and my heart picked up its tempo. Maybe it was nothing, maybe they were just watering saplings, maybe Pop just needed some fresh air, or got sick, or anything. I tried to be positive, fill my head with logical reasons why two grown men would vacate a semi-warm cabin in the middle of the night, leaving their cots in such odd shape. One looked like its occupant planned to leave, like two o’clock in the morning was a perfectly natural time to exit a cabin and brave the outdoors in near pitch darkness. The other was left in a hurry, like nature had called and wasn’t taking no or wait or later for an answer. But no matter how hard I tried to be optimistic, no matter how many scenarios I conjured in my mind, one kept coming back to me, a freight train of doubt looping through my head—someone was in trouble. Cold fingers of fear tickled the back of my neck, and my throat suddenly tightened. I clenched my fists then blotted my hands on my pants. My palms had taken to sweating.
“You ready?” Henry asked, standing beside me, shotgun in hand.
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“You man the light, I’ll handle the gun.”
Whether he meant it or not, which I doubt he did, the command came off as degrading. As if I couldn’t handle the gun. As if I was only man enough to bear the light. I didn’t take it personally. Henry wasn’t the antagonistic type—that was Dad. Henry was more brawn than brain, and all heart. At six-two and nearly two hundred and twenty pounds, he was wound tight and thickly muscled. With wide hands and broad shoulders he was proportioned like Dad—built to work. Problem was, Henry was a bit of a lug. Strong, yes. Coordinated, no. His movements were usually slow and determined, concentrated, as if coordinating the various muscles to perform even a simple task was a chore of immense proportion. I, on the other hand, with my long, slender fingers, narrow shoulders and hips, and lithe five-ten frame, took after Mom’s side of the family: Grandfather was a doctor, Uncle Mitchell a lawyer. I dreamed of being a preacher or theologian one day. Doctoring people’s souls, counseling their spirits.
But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wished I were built like Henry and Dad, that imagined myself with shoulders like stone blocks and hands like baseball mitts, that secretly fantasized about braving the wild outdoors and taking down a black bear with a barrel full of lead.
Henry opened the door to the outside, turned and looked at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice quavered a bit. “I’d be more comfortable with a gun in my hands, though.”
Looking at me as though I had asked for a bazooka, Henry shook his head and said, “No, Bill. I need you on the light. If we get into trouble, how will I know what to shoot at if I can’t even see it? Besides, when’s the last time you fired a gun? I don’t want you going and mistaking me for the boogeyman and blowing a hole the size of a cow pie in my back.” He nodded at the electric lantern in my hand and when he spoke again his voice had upped a couple of notches on the serious scale. “You man the light. It’s as important as pulling the trigger. Maybe more so.”
Henry wasn’t a philosopher by any definition of the word, he wasn’t a contemplator, wasn’t a logician, and would probably be on the losing side of a political debate with a monkey. But he was a farmer a
nd farm folk have a unique brand of common horse sense, homespun philosophy, which academic types pass off as being hokey or trite but secretly envy though they could never hope to understand it nor acquire it. The wisdom of farm folk is learned and honed and sharpened through hard work and keeping their noses to the grind when life throws all kinds of manure their way. The value of family and bonding and good living is taught and learned from the time they can carry a pitchfork and muck out a horse stall. Their wisdom is the wisdom of the ages, not gleaned from some heavy-minded, big-headed academic in a stuffy, ivy-encased university, but harvested from experience, from pain, from love, mistakes and victories—the stuff of life fully-lived.
Henry was right, I probably would blow a hole the size of a cow pie in his back if I mistook him for the villainous boogeyman. I hadn’t held a gun to my shoulder and squeezed the trigger in close to four years. And someone had to hold the light. We certainly couldn’t go traipsing around in the wild outdoors in the middle of a moonless morning, blind as deaf bats, with two loaded weapons, one handled by a trigger-happy, weak-bellied, boogeyman-slayer.
“Okay,” I said. “Point made and taken.”
Steadying my hands against the seismic tremble that had overcome them, pushing saliva down my throat, willing my heart to resume a moderate rate and even rhythm, and manning the light like it could spit flamethrower fire, I followed Henry outside into the untamed darkness.
2
As I stepped outside, I drew in a deep breath of the cool air. It was full of the musky scent of dirt and pine and decomposing leaves. It was cold but not bitterly, enough though to tighten my skin. Above us, the early morning sky was murky black, and I could no sooner separate the ink-stained woodland canopy from the vacant universe beyond as I could differentiate between Martians from Mars and those from the dark side of the nomadic moon.
Fear Mountain Page 1