Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set)

by Scott Nicholson

  “I’m not surprised,” Anna said. “Korban took everything that belonged to him. A control freak to the end.”

  The morning sun had lifted over the ridges, melting the remainder of the frost, and the mist rose off the ground like lost spirits, joining the last threads of smoke from the smoldering house. Anna and Mason sat on bales of hay, along with Zainab and Paul. Anna had tethered the two Morgans to a nearby locust. The other horses and the cattle had wandered into the orchard, no longer fenced off from the sweet autumn grass. Pigs played at the edge of the little pond at the foot of the slope, and wrens sang like the world was new.

  Anna checked on Mason again. He held his hand in the watering barrel, where a pipe supplied cold spring water from the hills. He had a second-degree burn. There would probably be scars, but the wounds would heal eventually.

  EVERYTHING heals eventually, Anna thought. Even if you don’t have the power of charms and spells and herbs. Or the power over life and death.

  Paul tore a strip off the waist of his shirt, dipped it in the water, and wrapped Mason’s cut arm. “Used to be a Boy Scout,” he said.

  “Eagle?” Mason grunted.

  “No. One of the lesser birds. Buzzard, maybe.”

  “Sorry about your friend.”

  “Yeah. I’ll deal with it after I quit lying to myself. After I figure out what happened.”

  “We all have our guilt to deal with,” Mason said. “And we learn from our mistakes.”

  “I sure as hell wish I had salvaged my videotapes, though. I could have been rich and famous. Who will ever believe it now?”

  “You don’t want any evidence,” Mason said. “And if you look at what you have to pay for success, it’s not such a hot deal.”

  “Is he in shock?” Anna asked Paul.

  Paul looked into Mason’s eyes, then felt his pulse. “No. Maybe on the edge, but—”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Mason said.

  “Shock’s not a bad way to go,” Anna said. “A dying soldier’s best friend.”

  “Where in the world did that come from?”

  “I don’t know. Just popped into my head.”

  Paul stood up and rubbed at his eyes. “I guess we’re all suffering from disorientation. Or maybe mass hysteria. Because my camera didn’t lie.”

  “All of it had to go,” Anna said. “Because it all belonged to Ephram Korban.”

  “Then how will we ever prove it was real?”

  “I don’t think we want to prove it,” Mason said.

  “I wonder if they saw the smoke from down in the valley,” Cris said.

  “Probably not,” Anna said. “There would have been sirens or a Forest Service helicopter by now.”

  It was strange to be reminded that another world existed off this mountaintop, a world of sanity and order, where the dead stayed in the ground for the most part and people drifted through ordinary lives. Anna stood, heading for the wreckage of the barn. “Good thing the fire department didn’t get here in time to put it out, huh? I don’t think any part of Ephram should remain.”

  “What are we going to tell them?” Mason said. “I mean, what really happened here?”

  “I’ve got a theory. But a theory’s worth about as much as a match in hell. There’s supposed to be some old trails that go down the side of the mountain. I’m going to find one and ride down to the river and follow it until it meets a road.”

  “Need some company?” Mason asked.

  “Not the kind that gets woozy from heights. Plus you need time to heal.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Zainab said.

  Anna shook her head. “No. They need you here. And I’ve had a lot of experience with horses. It’ll be faster if I go alone.”

  Paul nodded. “The writer’s having trouble breathing. Ate a little too much smoke. Good luck, Anna.”

  Paul, Cris, and Zainab headed up the road, where Spence and Bridget gathered near the house’s foundation like ghosts who felt an obligation to haunt. But there were no more ghosts at Korban Manor. They had all moved on, to wherever their destination had been before Miss Mamie copied them as crude little dolls and Korban hijacked their midnight flight to eternity.

  Korban Manor was nothing but ash and charcoal and a sprinkle of embers. And Korban was nothing, just a burned memory, a flash in the cosmic pan. A dream that was already half-forgotten, one that faded by the minute, and Anna was sure his magnificent marble grave marker was only a handful of dust, those words Too Soon Summoned crumbled like the lie they were.

  Just before sunrise, she’d hiked to Beechy Gap and visited the site of the cabin where she’d seen the strange little carved figures. The cabin was gone, a small pile of ash marking its passage. The figures must have exited, too, wended toward the heavens in smoke and fire. Free at last.

  Anna sorted through the fallen barn timbers for a saddle and bridle. She lifted a shattered board and saw Ransom’s blank face, a trickle of crusted blood at one corner of his mouth. The scrap of cloth from his charm was clenched in one rigid hand. She covered him before Mason noticed.

  The dead deserved her respect. Death wasn’t romantic or glamorous. She was through worrying about their motives, their hopes, their endless dreams. Her fascination had faded. She had no desire to ever see another ghost, especially her own.

  Even Rachel’s, though the two of them had shared an intimate bond that ran far deeper than mere mother and child.

  Maybe this was how Anna was destined to belong. Those were her people, her connection, kindred spirits, however briefly. In an odd way, maybe they lingered inside her, invisible, in her blood, in the tainted, cancerous cells that corrupted her organs and pushed her inevitably toward the final darkness. She was as much a ghost as she was a mortal. A stranger in two strange lands.

  But they all were. Every organic thing that had ever caught the spark of life. The dying begins with the birth.

  So what?

  Did she really expect that, by becoming a ghost, she would understand what being a ghost meant? She’d been alive for twenty-six years and had come no closer to the meaning of life in all that time. Why should death be any less of a mystery to those experiencing it?

  As for today, the air was fresh and the pain inside was somewhere down around six, an arc and trick, or maybe a five, a broken wing. A hell of a long way from zero. She could live for those who had gone before, and those yet to come. Weeks or months, it was all a precious and fleeting gift.

  Anna saw a flash of dull silver in the broken lumber, moved some timbers, and found a bridle, then a saddle and blanket. She pulled them from the rubble. Mason watched with interest as she harnessed one of the Morgans.

  Some of the smoke that had collected in her lungs had started to rise. She cleared her throat and spat loudly. “Is that how they do it in Sawyer Creek?”

  Mason smiled at her. It wasn’t such a bad smile, though it was surrounded by a face gray from smoke, ash, and weariness. She carried the blanket to him and covered him up.

  “Better keep you warm, just in case,” she said.

  “Go out frost?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER 82

  Spence grabbed at a piece of black ash as it wafted to the ground.

  No. It wasn’t the Word.

  He grabbed another, then another.

  The Word would endure. Mere fire couldn’t destroy it. He coughed. The ashes had stuck to his tears, making his cheeks feel thick and clotted. He coughed again, his stomach quivering.

  “Why don’t you come away from there? That smoke’s no good for you.”

  He turned. The Muse?

  No. Bridget, Ms. Georgia Peach, the latest corruption.

  “You stupid blowhard,” Bridget said. “Be glad that stuff got burned. Maybe someday you can write a real story, something that’s not possum vomit.”

  Real? How dare she criticize—

  “And you can leave me out of it.” She walked away
, then turned and stood with her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you. But I can sure see you now.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I believe you said this was always your favorite part. ‘The End.’ Well, it sounds good to me, too.”

  Spence watched her go. She didn’t matter. She was just another prop, another character sketch. One of the little people. He stood under the snowfall of gray and black, waiting for the Word to come from on high.

  Maybe if he could remember the story, bring it back to life, it would lead him again to the Word.

  Something about the night? He touched the crumpled page he’d tucked inside his jacket. Maybe later, after years had passed, he would be able to read it. And maybe it would contain some hint of the night’s long spell.

  But the night was leaving, retreating over the far steel-blue hills, going on to other writers, other vessels. It would spread its loving cloak on another part of the world, shower its gifts elsewhere, whisper its secret sentences. And Spence was again alone, with nothing but himself and words.

  The ashes rained on.

  CHAPTER 83

  Mason tried to curl the fingers of his scorched right hand. A strip of electric pain jolted up his arm, pausing only briefly at the cut in his shoulder to gather momentum before reaching his brain. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out.

  Maybe this was what suffering was all about. The art of sacrifice. It wasn’t about enduring starvation, struggling for recognition, fighting the fear of failure. Maybe it was about finishing, letting go. And realizing that the dreams you bring to life sometimes have no place in the world, and are best left as dreams.

  The toughest critics weren’t in New York or Paris. They weren’t in the art schools. They didn’t wear berets and sport tiny mustaches and drink espresso. Sometimes they lived in your mirror.

  “How are you holding up?” Anna asked, tightening the cinch around the horse’s girth. She had strong hands.

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll be doing much sculpting for a while.” Mason thought of his tools, buried somewhere under the heap of ashes and bones in the basement. He had no desire to see them again.

  Anna nodded at him and adjusted the saddle, then stroked the horse’s ears. The Morgan snorted with pleasure.

  He had to ask. “What was it like. . . you know?”

  “To be dead?” Anna’s cyan eyes fixed on a faraway point somewhere beyond the range of sight.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Somebody who loves me said it’s the same as being alive, only worse.”

  Mason looked up at the thin pillar of smoke. The wind was carrying it away, and he caught the odor of apples. Now that the sun was out, the sky was a shade of winter-born blue.

  December would come with its soft snows, then the nights would get shorter and spring would arrive. Grass would grow over the ruins, locust and blackberry vines would spring up from the burned-out spot. The granite would sleep under its skin of dirt. The sun would rise and fall, the seasons would turn, the clock’s restless hands would spin in only one direction.

  Forward.

  “What are you going to do later?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. I think I’m cured of metaphysics, though. Let the dead rest. They’ve earned it.” She put a foot in the stirrup and swung astride the horse. It was a natural fit. “What about you?”

  “Depends. As soon as I get back to Sawyer Creek, I’m going to tell Mama that dreams aren’t the only thing we got in this world.”

  “Really. What else have we got?”

  “Pain.”

  “Dreams and pain. Well, that’s a lovely mix. Maybe you can add ‘faith’ to that list.”

  The kind of mix that maybe love was made of. Mason wondered if one day he might find out. He looked down at the ground and saw a bit of color amid a pile of loose hay. He kicked at the hay, and then saw the flowers. A bouquet of bluets, flame azalea, daisies, baby’s breath, painted trillium. Spring mountain flowers, fresh-cut and sweet, the stems wrapped in clean lace. He carried them to Anna. “Somebody must have left these for you.”

  She took the bouquet and held it to her nose, eyes moist. “Dead stay dead,” she whispered. “And rest in peace.”

  Anna tucked the bouquet into the bridle, eased back on the reins, and the Morgan raised its head.

  “See you soon, Mason. Take care of yourself.”

  She twitched the reins and the horse started down the dirt road.

  “Hey, Anna,” he yelled after her. “Did you mean what you said up on the widow’s walk?”

  She didn’t stop, but turned in the saddle and looked back. She shouted over the steady clop of the horse’s hooves, “About trusting you? Maybe.”

  Anna gave him a half smile and left him to wonder which half of it she meant.

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  ###

  Identical twins vie for a family empire built on deceit and dark secrets, while one woman stands between them and another waits in the shadows.

  DISINTEGRATION

  By Scott Nicholson

  Copyright ©2010 Scott Nicholson

  Published by Haunted Computer Books

  Table of Contents

  DISINTEGRATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jacob Wells smelled smoke seventeen seconds before hell opened its door.

  The Appalachian night was just cool enough to require a quilt on top of the bedspread, and he’d sought Renee’s body heat beneath the sheet. One of his wife’s legs was tangled in his, the nail of her big toe digging into his ankle. The weight of her head pressed into that familiar space above his armpit and her hair spilled across his shoulder. Drowsy, he tried to remember where he was, then saw the red glaring numbers. 1:14.

  The alarm was set for six a.m., an ugly hour that always came too soon. Jacob rarely slept before reaching the long side of midnight. Every night his sleep shrank, his dreams crammed into tighter and darker crevices, his thoughts spiraling like dirty water down a drain. He had failed, and the knowledge had dull teeth that ground him from the guts up.

  Tonight, the dream had been of a mirror that he had somehow fallen into, as if it were a silvery, sunlight sea. He tried to drag himself out, because he couldn’t breathe. When he reached out of the mirror, though, his reflection was on the other side, pushing him back down. Desperate, he grabbed his reflection and pulled it into the mirror with him, and they wrestled in that bottomless, soundless void, joining into one writhing mass that sank and sank ever further from the light.

  His eyes snapped open to the black sheet of the ceiling. The pillow was damp at his neck. A breeze blew from somewhere, a crack in the door or window, carrying the March odors of mud and daffodils. Renee stirred beside him, nudging him with a sleepy elbow. Her snores were soft and feminine.

  Her scent flooded his nostrils, meadow shampoo and the lingering tang of their lovemaking. She had always been clean, a chronic neat freak, almost to the point of obsession. She loathed perfume, though, and was comfortable with her own natural odors. That was one of Jacob’s favorite things about her. He took another sniff, as if he could carry its memory back into his dreams to give him comfort.

  The sniff brought unease instead of comfort. Something was out of place in the too-thick air. Jacob pulled himself from drowsiness. No mistake.

  Smoke.

  They’d had candles on the nightstand, a ritual dating back to their initial shy fumbling in college when soft light hid minor flaws and made pupils attractively large. But the candles were long cold, and this aroma wasn’t thick and waxy.

  It had a chemical sting, and beneath that, the brusque body of burning wood.

  Jacob swam the rest of the way up from the waters of half-sleep and pushed Renee’s leg away. Maybe one of the neighbors was burning brush. It was the time of year for yard work, when leaves and ice-damaged branches were raked into large piles in that first spring bloom of homeowner energy. But who would start a brush fire an hour after m
idnight?

  Renee mumbled into the pillows where her face had fallen. Jacob swung his legs over the side of the bed, squeaking the springs. He switched on the bedside lamp. On the nightstand, shielded by a slight sheen of dust, was a framed photograph of Mattie. Except for the crooked primary teeth in her grin, she looked like a miniature of Renee—sea-green eyes, reddish-blond hair, a faint splash of freckles on the swells of her cheeks. Jacob looked at the trusting face.

  Another photograph was behind it, lost in shadows.

  He sniffed again. Smoke, for sure.

  He stood, wide awake, the air thicker now and tingling his sinuses. He grabbed his polar fleece robe, still damp from the shower, and hurried to the door.

  “Jakie?” Renee mumbled, disoriented amid the piled covers and squinting against the intrusion of light. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. They’d locked the door, a habit since Mattie had walked in on them one night two years ago, after which they’d spent fifteen minutes of improvisational theater explaining why grown-ups were silly enough to exercise in bed. Now the lock seemed to work the opposite way, keeping Jacob imprisoned instead of the rest of the world out.

  As Jacob fumbled with the lock, a whisper of warm air crawled across his toes.

  “What’s that smell?” Renee asked. She was fully awake now, too.

  Jacob swung the door open, and that was when hell came calling, rolling forward in a whoosh of yellow and red, fingers and tongues of flame stabbing and licking, Satan’s gate thrown wide in welcome.

  The heat singed his eyebrows, the smoke slapped him like an open palm. He raised his arms against the rush of heat.

  “Jake!” Renee screamed from the bed.

  “Call 9-1-1.”

  “Oh, God. Mattie.”

  “I’ll get her. You get out.”

  He slammed the door closed behind him, hoping it would buy Renee an extra minute. He ducked and scrambled on all fours, keeping his head low where the oxygen was less polluted. The flames crackled like bunched cellophane and he could smell the steam off his bathrobe.