Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  We were sitting in a donut shop off Harbor Boulevard. Mid-day traffic crept by. The day was surprisingly cool, considering the warmth of the night before. I continued holding Sherbet’s eyes and let him figure it out.

  It took him only a moment. “The bastard broke his arm and leg.”

  I nodded minutely.

  Sherbet went on. “And the slashing wound in his chest?”

  “A stab wound, Detective.”

  He sat silently, his partially-finished donut momentarily forgotten in his oversized hand. “And these...ghosts or spirits...how much can we trust them?”

  I knew what he meant. He wanted to know if we were being fooled with—or goofed with—perhaps by a mischievous spirit.

  So, I explained to him how spirits often take on their appearance at death. That this wasn’t a mischievous demon or imp or whatever the hell else was out there. I also explained the darkness I had seen around the old man.

  “He killed the boy,” said Sherbet, not so much to me, but to himself, or to the heavens. Sherbet, I knew, had a precocious little boy of his own.

  “He did, Detective.”

  “How sure are you?” he asked.

  “More sure than anything in my life.”

  “The evidence might be long gone, Sam.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Unless he’s killed recently.”

  “Do you feel like he’s killed recently, Sam?”

  I thought about that. “I don’t know that, Detective, but I do know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wants to kill again.”

  * * *

  It was late.

  I was smoking my Virginia Slims and trying my best to feel human, mortal and normal, knowing that in a very short time I was going to be anything but human, mortal or normal.

  I was sitting in one of my patio chairs, in my epic backyard that abutted the nearby Pep Boys, with their three sexually ambiguous mascots. The night was cool. I was dressed in sweats and a tee shirt. The kids were asleep. It was coming on three a.m.

  Sherbet wouldn’t like what I was about to do. Not one bit. He would chastise me and tell me I was being reckless, all the while thanking me for ridding the world of a menace.

  The very worst kind of menace.

  A child killer.

  I finished the cigarette and lifted my face to the heavens and blew into the wind and watched the smoke swirl and morph and disperse. Then I ground out the glowing tip.

  Then, because I could, I crumpled the still-hot cigarette in my hand. It burned like hell, but I ignored the pain and continued grinding it, even as I thought about what I must do.

  * * *

  I hopped over the chain-link fence in a single bound. Like Superman, only shorter and with hips.

  I strode across the grass in the dead of night, brushing past some overgrown plants. The car in the driveway was an 80s Oldsmobile. There was a front porch and a bench where, I suspected, the sick bastard watched the neighborhood kids.

  Still striding purposefully, I went up the stairs and didn’t miss a beat as I lowered my shoulder into the front door. It exploded nicely from its hinges, landing with a thunderous crash.

  Perhaps loud enough to wake the dead.

  Or, in the least, to wake some neighbors.

  Either way, I didn’t care.

  I continued forward, ignoring my inner alarm system which was ringing off the hook, and stepped over the flattened door and into the lair of the beast.

  * * *

  He was waiting for me in the living room.

  A small living room, to be sure. Smaller than my own, but filled with lots of crap. Everything from broken grandfather clocks to doll houses to train sets.

  A kid’s paradise, I thought.

  He was sitting in a winged-back chair, smoking from a very long and slender cigarette, and watching me from behind the barrel of a pistol.

  He adjusted the barrel, now pointing it directly at my head.

  “I’ve called the police,” he said.

  My inner alarm was raging so loud that I forced it to calm down. I get it, I thought. I’m in terrible danger here.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said. “A scumbag like you does all he can to avoid the police.”

  The gun never wavered. The only thing that did was the billowing smoke, which drifted up from his slightly open mouth.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “No. But you will never forget me.”

  He laughed. More smoke issued out of his mouth as he did so. He next sat a little more forward. “No, I suppose I didn’t call the police, but it hardly matters, right?” He waved the gun again, then settled it on a spot directly between my eyes.

  “How did you know I was coming?” I asked.

  “Oh, a little bird told me,” he said, and as he spoke, something dark and slithery appeared in his already-dark aura. It wrapped around him once, twice, and then plunged into his heart area, where it disappeared as surely as the Loch Ness Monster might into the depths. He didn’t react to the evil surrounding him.

  The evil in him, I thought.

  It was no little bird. It was something evil—perhaps not as dark and evolved as the thing that lived in me, but it was a real thing. And it was hungry. I suspected the old man’s own evil, his negativity and hate, kept the thing alive. Fueled it. Gave it life. Kept it satisfied.

  For now.

  But it was hungry. Very, very hungry.

  “You killed a little boy named Conner,” I said, inching closer. A gun couldn’t kill me, unless the bullet was laced with silver. Either way, a gunshot wound to the head would hurt like hell.

  “Now that’s not a very neighborly thing to say, Samantha Moon.”

  That made me stop. My inner alarm rang all over again, louder than ever. “How do you know my name?”

  “Oh, I know all my neighbor’s names, Ms. Moon.”

  I shivered at the implication. “You mean, all those with kids.”

  He grinned broadly. “Children are so precious, don’t you think?”

  Was I faster than his trigger finger? I didn’t know. There was so much about me that I didn’t know. But I felt faster. More importantly, could I predict when he was going to fire? I didn’t know yet, either, but I was about to find out.

  “You’re a monster,” I said.

  “Sometimes, Samantha Moon. These days, not so much...although I feel my old hunger coming back. My old desires, so to speak.”

  Although he was sitting mostly in darkness, I could see him clearly, thanks to the energized light particles that forever danced before my eyes. Danced and illuminated. And so, I watched his trigger finger closely.

  He looked at me some more from behind the pistol. Then cocked his head as if listening to someone or something whispering into his ear.

  A moment later, he said, “I’m being told that you are not wearing a wire and that you are here alone, but also that I need to be very, very careful with you.” He raised the gun higher and straightened his arm. A shooter’s stance. His finger wrapped a little tighter around the trigger. “Now, why is that?”

  And in that moment, I was nearly overwhelmed with horrific psychic images. I gasped as I saw the mutilation, the degradation, the perversion, the torture, the horror that this man inflicted on his victims. On children. The innocent of innocents. I stumbled as the images hit me in wave after sickening wave. Truly, I was in the presence of pure evil.

  And as I struggled to regain my composure—hell, just to stay standing—he said, “Now, why should I be afraid of you, Samantha Moon, mother of two darling children, Tammy and Anthony. And my, my, my, aren’t they getting to be so big. So very, very big.”

  I didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger. I didn’t wait to test the limits of my own supernatural prowess and agility. I didn’t, because I didn’t have to.

  By mentioning my kids by name, he’d awakened something in me that was more primal—and more powerful—than any darkness that lived within me.


  I was, after all, a mother first.

  And a vampire second.

  I lunged forward, charging, hurling my body through the small living room. Closing the distance between us in a heartbeat, a blink. Instantly. I was on him before he knew what hit him, before he could even squeeze the trigger.

  Turns out my reflexes were pretty damn fast.

  He screamed because I had his arm and was twisting. The gun discharged into the ceiling. I still had hold of his arm as I lifted him from the chair and hurled him against the wall behind him.

  The gun went off yet again, shattering a window to his right.

  As he struggled, I punched him hard, perhaps harder than I had ever punched anyone. The back of his head exploded into the drywall, even as I shattered his jaw. I punched him again, as hard or harder than the first time, and felt the bones of his face shatter as well. I punched him again and again and again.

  And when I was done, when the rage that overcame me finally subsided, the man before me was a man no more.

  He was gone, forever.

  * * *

  Her name was Pauline and she was a medium from Los Angeles.

  She was a heavyset woman. Beautiful, she possessed a serene aura, full of violets and golds. I knew these were the colors of those who were on a spiritual path. I’d seen the same aura around preachers and priests and spiritual teachers.

  When I told her about the little boy, she instantly agreed to help, stating the boy had come to her in a dream just the night before. I wasn’t sure what to make of this on the phone, but since I had seen my share of crazy crap, I accepted it, thanked her, and gave her my address.

  She arrived two hours later.

  Now we were once again seated on my living room floor. Myself, her...and now a presence that was beginning to manifest to my right. Pauline smiled as the energy collected and swirled and began to form into a little boy.

  She looked at me. “You see him?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me some more, then nodded to herself. I sensed her deep understanding. Her knowing.

  She knows what I am, I thought. And doesn’t care.

  Pauline was a medium and psychic. I was drawn to her internet ad almost instantly, and knew I had to call her, knew she was the right woman for the job.

  A job for what, I didn’t know.

  Conner manifested by my side, holding onto my knee as he did so. His small touch sent a crackle of electricity through me, warming me instantly. He was clearer than I remembered. He was remembering who he was.

  “Hi, Conner,” said the medium gently. “My name’s Pauline and I want to help you go home.”

  Conner looked up at me again. I smiled. He squeezed my knee tighter. I did my best to ignore his badly broken arm and leg. The bastard who’d done this was gone. The police had come and gone, too, after shutting down our street for a few days to investigate. Sherbet was front and center, looking like a man determined to find a killer. Never once had he contacted me or mentioned the incident to me.

  It was quickly discovered, through copious amounts of evidence, that the man, one Rudolph Vega, had been a killer of children. Apparently, he enjoyed keeping souvenirs from his victims...and burying their bones in a makeshift basement under his kitchen. They had found seven in total, as I knew they would. I had, after all, seen their faces.

  My street would never be the same again. The families involved would never be the same. The sweet innocence of my neighborhood was forever tarnished.

  But at least the monster was gone.

  The police never did find Rudolph Vega’s killer, but it was believed to be someone who might have lost a child, or someone who had figured out Rudolph Vega’s dark secret.

  I would never forget the rage that gripped me, that overcame me. As I stood over him, delivering blow after blow, I was no longer a mother or a concerned citizen or anything with feelings or emotions. I was a monster fueled by hate. I would have killed him ten times over if I could have.

  I inhaled deeply at that, shielding my thoughts from the psychic in front of me. After all, she didn’t need to know all of my secrets.

  “It’s okay,” I said to little Conner. “She’s here to help you.”

  He continued staring up at me. The electrified air around him danced and swirled, and I wondered if Pauline saw him the same way I saw him.

  “You are a very brave boy, Conner,” said Pauline. “You stayed around until you found someone who could stop your killer.”

  I glanced sharply at Pauline, but she kept her focus on the boy. How much, exactly, did she know? Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Either way, I knew she was a friend and would keep my secrets.

  Conner nodded shyly, then buried his face in his hands and wept, his little body shaking. Pauline reached out and drew him in close and gave the little boy a big, loving hug.

  I couldn’t hide the tears on my own face.

  * * *

  It was later.

  Pauline had indeed helped Conner go home. A home in the sky. A home far away from here. Or, as Pauline said, everywhere and anywhere at once.

  When she was gone, and when he was gone, too, I eased back down in the center of the living room and buried my face in my own hands. I would never, ever forget the images of the children, their torment, their horror.

  I rocked on my floor and wrapped my hands around myself and thought of my children.

  Lord help anyone who threatened my children.

  Anyone.

  The End

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  The Falcon

  An old man sits with a boy on a sandy dune overlooking a dusty village. In the far distance, a winding caravan works its way over the windswept desert. A lone falcon circles high above, its outstretched wings catching the hot currents.

  The old man sits quietly, eyes closed, back straight, elbows resting lightly on his sharp knees. Faint voices come from the village, along with the bark of a hungry dog. The boy watches the old man closely, studying every line and crease of his leathery face.

  They continue sitting like this for a long time until the old man finally opens his eyes and turns to the boy. “Why does the falcon circle?” he asks.

  “He is searching for food, grandpapa,” says the boy.

  “Does he search, or does he wait for it to come to him?”

  A blast of hot wind thunders over them both, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and thyme and cooking meat. The boy’s stomach growls. He looks up at the solitary falcon circling high above. The boy nods.

  “He is waiting, grandpapa.”

  “Or perhaps he is doing a little bit of both.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By circling, he is telling the Universe that he is hungry and that he wishes to eat. By circling, he has made it known to the Creator that he is ready to be nourished. By circling, patiently, he awaits the Creator to answer his call.”

  “And what if the Creator doesn’t answer his call?” asks the boy.

  The old man lifts his weathered face to the heavens and closes his eyes again. “The falcon will return and circle again.”

  The boy nods. “The falcon has faith.”

  The old man smiles and nods and closes his eyes and lifts his face to the dry wind coming off the surrounding sand dunes.

  “But why take flight at all, grandpapa? Why not wait in the cool shade for a fat desert rat to come waddling into his beak?”

  “Would you rather wait in the shade,” says the old man without looking at his grandson, “or fly?”

  The boy thinks about this for only a second or two. “I would fly, grandpapa.”

  “And so would I,” says the old man. “So would I.”

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  The Angel and the Pistol

  I’m an angel. I think.

  Why wouldn’t I think that? After all, I never sleep, I can heal the sick and sometimes I fly. Oh, and I’m immortal. Like I sa
id, I think I’m an angel, but I don’t know for sure.

  It’s a sort of mantra I say every day. Hell, sometimes every hour.

  Yes, I do say things like “hell.” And I also use other, far worse words. I’ve never been in love, although I can certainly hate. Perhaps hate is too strong a word. I can dislike vehemently.

  To be honest, I’m not sure what I am, or where I came from. I’m not like most people. Sure, I feel emotions. I cry. I laugh. I feel jealousy and envy. Granted, I rarely feel envy, although Brad Pitt makes me feel inadequate at times.

  Just at times.

  Mostly, I figure he wishes he were me.

  In fact, I suspect many of you wish you were me. If so, then don’t. Just stop right there. Yes, I’m what many of you think you might want to be. But remember the old adage: be careful what you wish for.

  For instance...do you really wish you were the richest man on earth? If so, what would you have to give up? What sort of responsibilities would you have? Could you even handle the responsibilities?

  Maybe; maybe not.

  Here’s another for instance. One that hits closer to home: do you really want to live forever?

  I’ll answer that question for you:

  No, you don’t. You most certainly don’t.

  Mostly, though, I have an annoying habit—or compulsion—for coming across people who are about to make very, very stupid choices.

  Take Ralph, for instance.

  * * *

  Ralph bought the gun to kill himself.

  He’d bought it with the last forty dollars to his name. He didn’t even have enough left over to get good and drunk. The night is cold and his breath frosts in the cab of his old Ford pickup. The heater was long dead. On the seat next to him, wrapped in a nondescript paperbag, is the source of his death. The pistol. He glances at it as he rounds a bend in the road. A chill courses through him.