All the Dark Corners

by Emerald O'Brien

  Contents

  Preface

  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

  The Crimson Falls Novella Series

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Emerald O'Brien

  Cover designed by Alora Kate of Cover Kraze

  Interior designed by Jade Eby

  Edited by Mountains Wanted Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Printed in the United States of America.

  The worst place to be in early October is the town of Crimson Falls.

  In the late 1800’s, two brothers stumbled upon an unnamed village, surrounded by thick forest and fresh water to keep them protected and alive. The brothers were cruel men who wanted a home to call their own. In their darkest hour, the brothers slaughtered the villagers, dumping their bodies over the waterfall at the edge of town. People say the water ran red for weeks, giving the town its terrible name.

  Ever since that horrible anniversary, Crimson Falls is haunted by its past with a present filled with violence and danger.

  Every October is filled with fear...and for good reason. On October 13th, the dreaded Founders Day, all the town’s crime comes to a head.

  And by the 14th, fewer will be alive than before.

  Crimson Falls is a fictional town, created and shared by 8 mystery, suspense, and thriller authors. Each novella paints a picture about life in Crimson Falls and the insanity that takes place leading up to Founders Day.

  Do you dare to read them all?

  For Ashley McNown and Emily Silk.

  The screeching cry of a vulture from my dream transforms into a ring, vibrating on the night table beside me. I reach across it as it rings again, knocking over an empty wine glass before my fingers find the phone with an urge to make the noise stop.

  The glowing blue 2:01 on my alarm clock comes into focus, and a flutter rises from my chest to my throat.

  Something’s wrong. Who would call this late?

  I work to clear the lump in my throat as I grip the receiver.

  Something’s happened. Something bad.

  I sit up in bed, and my back presses against the cold wall behind me, shocking me awake as I tug at the curled cord and pull the receiver toward me.

  “Hello?” I press it to my ear, gripping it tightly.

  I wait for the words to hit me, but wet breath catches in my mom’s throat. I could never mistake it. Is she crying?

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m scared, Sam,” she huffs, her robust tone returning as she says my name. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  Is it finally time? Could she have actually come to her senses?

  What day is it? October ninth. Just a few more days until Founders Day. I want to hear her tell me she wants out before then.

  “…and he’s been stalking us. Driving up and down our street—”

  “Who?”

  Her wet breath crackles in her throat on the other end. “The man who killed your dad.”

  I swallow hard and push my hair away from my face, behind my ear. “You don’t know who did it. Not for sure.”

  The last time I spoke with her, she told me she knew who it was, but wouldn’t tell me the name. To her credit, I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

  I still don’t.

  No one’s been held accountable. No one will be. There’s no proof, as far as I know, and there’s no point in talking to her about it because it was their choices that led to this. Mom and Dad chose to stay, and with that comes the well-known risks associated with living there.

  I got out.

  “Oh—I know,” the gritty, rasp of her cigarette-soaked vitriol spews out. “We all know it. He killed your father in cold blood, and he’s just driving around while we wonder who’s next, and I—I just can’t do it anymore.”

  I inch the phone away from my ear and take a deep breath. She’s not blaming me. That’s a start. Maybe she’s ready to take responsibility for her safety…

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I say. “You can get out of there before something bad happens again. You can live a different life away from that town. You’ll be safe. It can be better.”

  You can be a better person.

  I am—in a way.

  “Yes, yes.” She clears her throat, bringing on a coughing fit. I pull the phone further from my ear. “…and I’m ready.”

  The words soothe me and loosen my grip on the receiver.

  “Good, Mom.” The word feels foreign coming from my mouth. It’s been years since I called her that. She needs comfort, and she’ll need a push to actually go. “Today will be the ninth—”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  I roll my eyes, ignoring her. “And if you start packing your essentials, just for the next five or six days, you can get outta there before the shitstorm hits.”

  “Oh, it’s already begun, Sam. You know that better than anyone… Or have you forgotten where you come from by now?”

  Here she goes.

  “How could I?” I ask through a clenched jaw before opening my mouth wide and stretching my muscles, rubbing at my cheeks to rid myself of the old, familiar soreness of contempt. “Listen, you get yourself out of there. Go to Aunt Linda’s in Arbordale. I’m sure she’ll understand, or hell, even come here. If you do that, after the thirteenth, I’ll help you make arrangements to sell the house, okay?”

  I tilt my head, staring at the ceiling as the silence grows stale.

  Why am I trying? She’ll never leave that place. She’ll die there, just like Dad.

  “Sammy,” she whines, “I need your help. I need you to come home.”

  I rub the goosebumps away from my arm before they even begin, and shake the shivers away as they come, wave by wave. “No, Mom. I’m not coming back.”

  That place is not a home. It’s a feeding ground for the vultures that prey on their own town.

  “Sammy, please. I can’t do this on my own. I’m not strong enough.”

  I let out a huff of laughter. The old battle axe is stronger than any woman I’ve ever known.

  “If you make me, I’ll beg.”

  “You are already.” I run my fingers through my hair, scraping my nails against my scalp as I reach the top, digging them in deeper as they glide down toward my neck, until I feel the sharp pain that almost brings me back to the present, although never enough to rely on. Some memories always find a way to seep through.

  The town is everything that’s wrong with me.

  It crept inside me long ago and laid its eggs. All through my life, even after leaving for college, the eggs hatch, becoming host to my body, manipulating my thoughts and actions. Toying with my feelings until I don’t know which are mine and which are the towns.

  Although the townspeople themselves were always to blame, they managed to create an environment where anything good would be snuffed out and all bad things would thrive. I had to get out before I became one of them and couldn’t tell the difference.

  “I’m not coming.” I shake away the itchy feeling and pull my knees as close to my chest as they’ll go, wrapping my arm around the
m, holding them tightly.

  “Then you’ll have two dead parents.”

  Ha. Maybe that’s better. No. I shake the thought away as quickly as it formed.

  It’s not her fault. It’s the town.

  She’s trying to do the right thing. The thing no one in my family has ever done before, until me.

  Maybe there’s a chance for her. If there isn’t for her, there’s not for me.

  If she can get out and let down her guard, get a new perspective, maybe she’ll realize the hurt she has caused. Maybe we could heal from it all…

  “Fine,” I shout—an eager attempt to silence the voices, hers and mine, before I can’t take it anymore.

  “Yes? Oh, thank you, Sammy. I knew you wouldn’t leave me here to die—even after everything—I knew you’d understand.”

  And I do. You hurt for the ones you love, and no matter what she has done, I do understand.

  “I’ll be there by noon. I want you to have your things packed and figure out where you’re staying.” Please not my place. I’m doing enough by coming to get you. I’ll have suffered enough.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” I rest the receiver back onto the phone cradle before rubbing the tips of my fingers against my aching temples.

  A headache worse than I’ve had since Dad died is coming on, and I push the covers off, letting the cold, autumn air from the open window hit me as punishment for letting her talk me into going back.

  I dig through the small bathroom cupboard for Percocets and pop two into my mouth, pushing the pills down my dry throat on their own before slamming the cabinet shut and staring at myself in the mirror.

  My left eye twitches as I lean over the sink and inspect it.

  It’s barely noticeable, but a reminder that the town’s power over me will grow stronger while I’m there. It’s not the cursed town itself, but all the people in it who make it a living hell. The people who use Founders Day to settle debts, exact revenge, and entrench themselves in the devious culture of Crimson Falls because there aren’t enough law enforcers to catch them or hold them accountable. A great chance of getting away with their crime is all the incentive they need.

  They are the town.

  I am the town, or I will be once I return.

  I hang my head, rocking back and forth on my heels as the gravity sets in, pulling me down and making each breath hard labour.

  She’s finally come to her senses. Didn’t happen when Dad was murdered last year. Four more days will be the anniversary of the town and his death.

  But it’s happening now.

  Get in and get out, that’s what I’ll do.

  She wants to get away from there, and it won’t be the answer to all her problems, but it can be a way to escape the pain. Not the torture that will live inside her forever as she remembers the things she did. The way she justified all those people she hurt.

  Her pain stays, just like mine.

  But she can stop hurting people.

  I know it’s possible because I’ve done it. I’ve stopped adding to the weight of regret that lies heavy on my chest every second of every day, threatening to suffocate me if I don’t find a way to bite it back.

  I have my ways, and so does she.

  Pushing off the sink, I turn around, fling the cheap, plastic shower curtain open, and twist the tap until water pours out of the faucet. I yank the metal pin up, and water splashes down onto the tub floor as I pull my tank top, drenched in sweat, over my head, and my flannel pants down to the ground, kicking them off until they slide across the floor.

  I step under the hot water as it burns at my side and then my back as I turn, but I hold myself in place beneath it, letting it scorch me full force until my muscles relax under the pressure.

  She can do this.

  Yes.

  It can be better.

  Yes.

  Any place is better than Crimson Falls.

  The wind plucks blood red and golden leaves from the forest of trees beside the road. They swirl through the air, across my windshield as I pass the welcome sign.

  Crimson Falls. Pop. 821

  Haven’t seen that side of the sign in what seems like forever, and I can’t wait to see the other side I passed by almost four years ago, promising myself I’d never go back.

  Promises aren’t meant to be broken—that’s bullshit—but they are seldom kept. The sooner I learned that, the better off I was.

  I turn onto Main Street, beginning my journey into the belly of the beast. Toilet paper hangs from the spruce trees surrounding the pavilion in town, signalling anniversary week is upon them. Upon me once again, now that I’m here.

  Turn around, Sammy.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and wince as another car approaches from the left lane.

  Can’t make a U-ey, so I press down harder on the gas pedal, letting the whole weight of my leg rest upon it, then I whizz past the library, a place I never visited of my own volition. Shelley Mills, the librarian unlocks the double doors to the front of the building.

  Maybe if I had chosen to escape into books around Founders Day each year, the reality of this terrible town could have hung around me, out of focus, almost distant.

  No. Blissful ignorance is too hard to come by in this town.

  Instead, I chose to participate in the celebration each year. Although, somehow, the specifics remain out of focus. It almost always began as a prank and ended with someone getting hurt. It never stopped me from doing it again—from using Founders Day to feed a void inside myself.

  The only thing that numbs the pain, quiets the voices, and provides something of a refuge from the memories are drugs and alcohol, habits I began back when I was barely a teenager. Mom and Dad had a loose parenting style, if you could even call it that.

  More than just providing the drugs and alcohol for me, they encouraged drinking binges most weekends. They were who I learned my coping methods from, after all.

  I step off the gas and hover over the brake pedal as I approach the turn off leading to the street I grew up on.

  Not yet. I’m not ready to go back.

  The neighbors—the ones my parents call family—and their judging eyes prey on all those who pass by and are fool enough to stay.

  I coast past the street, craning my neck and squinting as Amelia and Clifford Baker saunter down the sidewalk, hand in hand.

  A sweet couple out and about, but vile toward each other when they think no one’s looking. Who were they kidding? We could hear every word they shouted from across the street.

  I turn into the parking lot of Franny’s Market, and it’s frozen in time. Same worn sign on the front and same useless hours of operation on a Saturday, as if it wasn’t the busiest day of the week in town.

  I take the keys from the ignition, gripping the cold metal in my hand as I stare out the window, waiting for some young girl to rush to the front and flip the closed sign over.

  Is it worth the wait? Do I really need Tito’s?

  Absolutely, I do.

  Can never have too many back-up plans in this town.

  The front of the store radiates fluorescent lighting as a young blonde girl appears at the window, turning the sign over and unlocking the door.

  Like clockwork.

  I step out of my car and slam the door, locking it behind me as if it could shut the town out from not only stealing from me, but infiltrating me. My hair blows across my face, and I shake it away, turning against the wind as I jog to the door. Dark gray clouds overhead threaten rain, and I want to be out of Crimson Falls before a drop hits the ground.

  I yank the door open, and a bell rings. By the time it stops, I’m already in the liquor aisle, thankful that some things never change. I know right where to get my fix.

  Grabbing the small bottle, I sigh and turn for the checkout lane.

  “Sammy Tillman?”

  I freeze.

  “It is you,” the man’s smooth voice rings a bell.
<
br />   And I can hear it in his voice—he’s smiling. Who would be happy to see me?

  I turn around as Albert Smith stands before me in acid-washed jeans and a sweater I recognize from high school, with one of his lackeys gawking behind him.

  “How’s it goin’, Al?” I ask, nodding my head upward.

  Turn around, Sammy.

  I turn back around.

  “Hey, where are you going?” he asks. “You’ve been gone for years. Can’t believe my eyes.”

  I press my lips together and nod. “Mhmm.”

  My hair’s flat, my clothes are wrinkled, and, of course, this is what I wear when I see my old high school boyfriend for the first time in years.

  Why do I care what I look like or what he thinks of me?

  “Hey, you’re the one who actually got out of here,” his friend says, lifting an amber bottle of alcohol up. “Cheers.”

  I raise my brows in a half-hearted thanks before he walks the other way down the aisle, leaving me alone with Al.

  “Seriously,” he says, “where’d you run off to?”

  I can’t remember how our relationship ended, but I’ve tried to block most of it out because I know one thing: he, like the town, brought out the worst in me. Made me do the things I drink to forget.

  “College.”

  “Where?”

  “I gotta get going,” I say, turning away again.

  “Hey, I’m having a party tonight. Wanna come? We could catch up.” He smirks at me, and I remember his devilish grin all too well.

  It was the same smile he would give me before telling me his latest bright idea—what mess we would be getting ourselves into on any given night. But it always ended up being a dumb or dangerous venture. Even cruel. But that was his idea of a good time. I bet it still is.

  “Won’t be here,” I say.