FIRST EDITION
Black Mercy Falls © 2011 by Christopher Fulbright & Angeline Hawkes
Cover Artwork © 2011 by Daniele Serra
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DELIRIUM BOOKS
P.O. Box 338
North Webster, IN 46555
www.deliriumbooks.com
For Dean Andersson and Nina Romberg
Acknowledgments: The authors would like to thank John Everson, Joe McKinney, David Niall Wilson, Hank Schwaeble, William Schoell, Jeanne Stein, Kathy Ptacek, Norman Rubenstein, and Larry Roberts.
Prologue
Rick sat in the holding cell hoping that Sherri wasn’t pregnant. Not that there was anything he could do about it even if she was. He might not be going anywhere for a while.
Back against the wall, he wrapped his fingers around the cold edge of the fuck-sorry excuse for a bed. It was little more than an iron shelf jutting from the concrete wall. This time they didn’t even bother to throw the sandbag that passed for a mattress on top. A new layer of dark green paint had been applied to the interior of the five by ten cell, scarcely covering the deep-etched graffiti, scrawled cries for justice and declarations of guilt. A stainless steel toilet was bolted in the corner. The toilet paper roll next to it had about enough tissue for one good shit. The sink was mounted on the wall next to a funhouse mirror of hammered steel barely shiny enough to see the shape of himself in its reflection. Somebody had kicked the hell out of the edge of the sink; the front lower side was dented in, but it sure looked like it won the fight.
Rick rested his head against the cool brick. With a tired sigh, he looked at the iron door. Its rectangular window about six inches by four inches was the only window in the cell. This was quite possibly the worst way he could think of to come down off a two-day-long meth binge. Sitting in a holding cell, hoping his girlfriend wasn’t pregnant.
Sherri, his girlfriend.
Sherri, the sheriff’s daughter.
He hoped she’d kept quiet and the sheriff didn’t know they’d been seeing each other.
Somewhere down the short hall, an iron door creaked on century-old hinges. There wasn’t anyone here except him and whatever asshole got stuck on guard tonight. His dad would’ve bailed him out if he’d been in town, but he was in Denver on business and wouldn’t be back for two days. Rick didn’t have the heart to call his mom. At least he still gave a damn about her, even if Dad didn’t.
He’d have to do another day and night in this jail cell. The most entertainment he could hope for was watching spiders slip through the crack in the bricks near the bottom of the door. The place should be condemned it was so damned old. Old as Mercy Falls itself probably.
Rick flopped onto his back on the iron bed, letting his hand trace grout grooves in the brick wall. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming his way. He waited for them to stop in front of his cell.
“Rick Ford,” a familiar, but muffled, voice said.
“Yeah, who’s asking?” The sound of keys jangling in the lock caught him by surprise. Rick bolted upright on the iron bed. “My mom post bail?”
“No. Made other arrangements.”
Rick looked at him with suspicious eyes. The man was dressed from head to foot in black, with a black knit ski mask pulled tightly over his face—but he had keys. So that meant he must have connections. “You here to bust me out or something?”
“Or something.”
“My dad send you?”
The man didn’t answer, just indicated that Rick should step into the hall. When he spoke, his voice was old, authoritative. “Put out your hands.”
Rick frowned, but did as he was told. The man slapped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists and clicked them shut. “What the hell are those for? Sheriff Perry never handcuffs my ass anymore.”
The man took Rick by the arm, leading him toward the back door that led to the small parking lot behind the jail.
“Is my dad back?”
“Keep quiet.”
Rick scowled. “What’s with the mask?”
“Well, it ain’t fucking Halloween. What d’you think, kid?”
“I don’t think anything. I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“Enough. Be quiet.”
The man guided him across the parking lot to a black SUV. Looked like an unmarked cop ride; there weren’t any lights anywhere that he could see. The man opened the door, and Rick got in. “Aren’t you going to tell me to watch my head?” Rick laughed.
The man shut the door and went around to the driver’s seat without a word. They pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the street, turning onto a back road. Rick watched out his window. It was late. Probably early morning. Not a soul in sight.
“Where are we going?” he asked the man. He still wore the mask.
“Mercy Falls.”
“The fuck? Why we going there?”
The man didn’t say anything as he guided the SUV onto a dirt road canopied by heavy trees that blocked the few slivers of moonlight illuminating the night sky.
A few minutes later they drove over a rutted road and parked in a narrow grove of pine trees. He turned off the vehicle. When the engine died, Rick’s heart sank. He was getting a bad feeling, like poison in his guts. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense being out here.
“Time to go.” The man got out of the car and opened Rick’s door. Rick got out.
“Go where?”
The man laughed and took Rick by the arm. He was pulled from the car and forced into the forest. He stumbled a bit, getting his footing. Black trees loomed around them, the air cool and a little crisp. The man led him toward a dirt path, a single beam from his flashlight leading the way.
“Man, my dad better have a damn good explanation for all of this hokey horseshit.” Rick tramped along beside the black-clad man. The roar of the falls grew louder as they approached.
“Not everyone in Mercy Falls is wrapped around your dad’s finger, kid.”
They came to the pool at the bottom of the falls. White sheets of water roared over the granite cliff side. Jagged rocks outlined the frothing pool below. Everything looked black in the ebony night.
“Well, he’s paying you. You should give a shit about him,” Rick said, stopping and scratching his head with his cuffed hands. He felt a spider web fluttering in his hair.
“Your dad isn’t paying me. In fact, I’m the one that’s paying. Not the other way around.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rick looked around for someone he recognized to emerge from the forest. He’d begun to get the distinct impression that all was not right with this guy. And if this man hadn’t been hired by his father, then that meant someone had it in for him. Maybe Jon finally cracked and came to collect on the $8,000.00. Meth had a way of going bad for you. But he was going to tap the trust fund in three months for sure…if they could just wait.
“Hey, did J-Jon hire you? Because, if so, I can come up with the money—”
The man ignored him. As if in a trance he said, “There’s an…energy that exists here. It runs through the rocks you’re standing on, the sands at the bottom of the pool, through the ebbing flow of water, it comes in a rushing torrent over the falls. A long time ago, that energy tried to extinguish me, but I bargained for my life. And now I have an obligation.”
“What?” Okay, now Rick was pretty sure—the guy was batshit crazy. He strained to see beyond the dusky outline of the forest for any sign of sa
lvation. The night was cold. There were no lights in the trees. No sounds of civilization.
“It’s been hard meeting my obligations. But, every so often I find a way. If it’s any consolation, kid, I didn’t get you cheap.” The man laughed. “Daddy’s not getting you out of this one, you little shit, not this time.” He shoved Rick backward—hard. Rick fell and busted his ass on the wet rocks. He scrambled to stand.
“Hey, fucker!”
Like a piston, the man’s right fist punched into the kid’s chest. This time, Rick fell back into the water. Hands cuffed, he flailed for the nearest rock. His feet didn’t touch bottom. “Come on, man! I can’t swim. This shit isn’t funny!” He choked on a mouthful of water.
“No, it never is.”
Rick coughed and twisted in the cold water. He splashed with his cuffed hands, catching a handhold on the edge of the shore. The man ground his heel on Rick’s white, clutching fingers.
Rick let out a shout of pain, reflexively yanking his fingers from beneath the boot. He went under, black water engulfing him. Gasping for air, he bobbed, re-surfacing for a moment. The man stood, silently watching. Rick kicked as hard as he could, but only managed to drive himself farther into the water, away from the lifesaving rocks.
Around him, from the corners of his eyes, he began to catch flickers of darkness. Pockets of complete absence of light. From Rick’s perspective they looked like dark figures, mere shadow silhouettes gathering along the shore, coming toward him across the water. He was about to cry out to them when he realized they were faceless. One was very close, a humanoid blur with amorphous features. Beyond that one, others came. The shadow shapes were very small…like dwarves or children gathering around the black-clad man. They had little hands that dripped tarry ooze as they caressed the man’s legs. They made no sounds, just circled the man as if happy to be reunited, like eldritch pets welcoming him home.
Then, one by one, they too entered the water, gliding effortlessly toward him, their little faces ripples of reflected light and shadow. Rick kicked and jerked, slapping the churning waves with his shackled arms, trying to get away. What the hell were they? He resisted the urge to scream to avoid swallowing more water. He was just trying to breathe. Trying to stay above the roiling undercurrent that sucked him beneath.
Beyond the smoky flow of swarming black spirits, he saw the man remove his mask. His features were dim in the scant moonlight, but clear enough for Rick to recognize him.
“You!” Rick said, water gurgling into his throat.
The man silently watched him go under.
Rick gulped water, and was drawn to his death.
1
Lance Evans stared at the pile of job slips in the inbox on his desk and thought about looking for another job. It was a passing thought but not an infrequent one; he’d been here for seven years now and the itch to move on had set in.
All that kept him here was the fact that his vacation and salary had accumulated over the years to a point beyond anything he could walk into starting anew. And he did have a pretty nice office here. A polished wooden executive style desk, a ceiling fan, a window looking into the parking lot, and French doors that opened into the lobby.
Plus, this job was all that survived, other than their son, from the time before Anna died.
He glanced over at the place where their family picture had once been. Now there was a picture of Jeremy two years ago in his baseball uniform, posing with a bat on his shoulder during the season that he and his team, the Tigers, had gone to Little League playoffs. Next to that, a picture of he and his new wife Colleen on their honeymoon trip to Cozumel a year ago. In the picture, both of them were smiling, stretched out in lounge chairs beneath the shade of a straw umbrella, both with Pina Coladas, paperbacks on their knees, and sunglasses reflecting the perfect turquoise blue of the Caribbean. He grinned at the memory.
Back to reality, pal.
Lance reached across the desktop and pulled out the new slips, stacking them next to his keyboard. He grasped the computer mouse and opened the inventory software on his screen. He was ready to begin entering data when the phone rang. He looked at the display. It was his home number. His throat constricted and mouth went instantly dry. His heart tightened and made short, quick beats.
Lance snatched up the phone. “Hello?”
“Lance?” Colleen’s voice came through the receiver.
“Hi, baby,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” She paused just a moment. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, good.” He breathed again. “Whew.” He laughed to ease the tension that had built up in him. Jeez, pal, lay off the coffee.
“Rough day?”
“No more than usual. Just got slammed with a stack of job slips, but it’s end of the quarter. It’ll be steady now for the next couple weeks. What are you guys up to?”
“Oh, well, I slept in a little bit. The baby was kicking and kept me up most of last night, and my back’s killing me. Jeremy’s been in his room all morning. He came out for some cereal but didn’t say much before he went back in and closed his door.”
Lance’s heart sank. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll talk to him if you want me to.”
“No, no, he just needs time. I can wait. We’ve got nothing but time—I’m not going anywhere.”
He could almost see her smile through the phone. He smiled, too. “Well, even if you tried, you couldn’t outrun me with that big old baby belly of yours.”
“Hey!” She feigned a hurt tone, but laughed.
He knew she was grinning. “Well, what’s up, beautiful?”
“A package came for you this morning. Sent express mail from Colorado Springs.”
“Really? Who’s it from?”
“It’s from a law office. Prescott Forbes. A package a little bigger than a shoebox.”
“Huh, that sounds familiar…oh wait a sec, I do remember that name. He was the lawyer that handled Dad’s estate when he died. Wonder what he’d be sending after all this time?”
“Want me to open it up?”
“Yeah.” He paused, listening to the sounds of Colleen rifling through the drawers, coming out with scissors, cutting through the tape on the box. There was the sound of crinkling wrapping paper. And then Colleen said, “Oh.”
“Well?”
“Uh, sweetie, there’s a letter in here. It says your Uncle Ballard died.”
Lance was silent. He hadn’t seen his Uncle Ballard in almost twenty years—nobody had. He was his Dad’s brother and there’d been a falling out between them. He was a little strange, too, as Dad explained it, but his earliest memories of the man were of a fun-loving guy more inclined to old-fashioned living than city life.
But why was he getting the letter?
“Lance, honey, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I just…God, I haven’t seen Uncle Ballard in years. I don’t know why they’d be notifying me, unless…”
“Says in the letter that you’re the only known surviving relative.” She continued, reading from the letter: “David Ballard Evans had no other known heirs and, as such, the responsibilities for executing his last will and testament fall to you. He had a small life insurance policy, which is sufficient to cover funerary costs. The estate consists of a cabin and property in Black Mercy Falls, Colorado, which—along with the contents of this package from a safety deposit box—comprise the whole of your inheritance. Please contact me at your earliest possible convenience…Prescott Forbes; and he gives his phone number.”
“Huh.” Lance said, leaning back in his chair.
“So, I guess this means you’re going to Colorado,” Colleen said, a grim tone to her voice.
“Me? We’re going to Colorado. Together.”
2
Lance spoke to Paul, his boss of seven years, told him the situation, then left the office, driving home from Dallas to Irving, stewing at how the conversation h
ad gone. He wouldn’t let it bother him now. After the trip, maybe he really would think about looking for another job.
He pulled into the driveway. The sprinkler was on in the front yard. Colleen was standing on the porch in the shade, hands on her hips, watching the water. She waved. She was in her pink chenille robe, draped over her bulging stomach. He went up the front walk and hugged her, giving her a kiss.
“Mmm,” she said, smiling. “Sorry I haven’t dressed yet. I just stepped out of the shower when the package came.”
“Nonsense. You have my eternal permission to be undressed.”
She smiled, and they went inside together. The house was cool, air conditioner fighting a preemptive battle against the heat and humidity at the dawn of a Texas spring. The shades were open in the living room, flooding sunlight into the dining room.
“The package is on the dining room table.” Colleen gave him a peck. “I’m going to get dressed.”
“Where’s Jeremy?”
She jabbed a thumb at the hallway. Lance peeked around the corner into the shadowed corridor. The second door on the left was closed, with a black and orange sign tacked up that read Keep Out!
Lance shook his head and rubbed his temples with a sigh.
Colleen gave him an understanding smile. “I’ll get dressed.” She pecked him on the cheek again and disappeared behind the door into the master bedroom.
Lance went to Jeremy’s room and knocked.
No answer.
“Jeremy?” Lance called. He opened the door slowly. He peeked through the crack. “Son?”
Jeremy had his headphones on. Lance could hear the music all the way across the room. Jeremy was propped on the bed, a stack of comics beside him, one of them blocking his view of the door as Lance came in.
When Jeremy noticed someone had entered he said, “Hey!” and dropped the comic. His eyebrows arrowed down in irritation and Lance felt the force of his anger like a palpable hit. Still, he tried not to react. At some point Jeremy would move beyond this. He had to break out of it. Otherwise, if he went into his last year of junior high school with this attitude, trouble might be on his horizon.
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