The Ultimate Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Bestsellers)

by Perkins, Cathy

  --Albert Einstein, 1931

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Samuel pushed the twisted sheet from his shoulder and let the makeshift noose coil on the ground like a dead snake. He stepped out of the rope and looked up at the decaying branch overhead. Samuel shook his head, his eyes darting about the empty forest as his heart raced in his chest.

  He drew a breath, exhaling slowly and wincing at the pain in his throat as his lungs tried to pull in more oxygen. He smiled from the joy of being alive until the memory of his prison cell wiped it from his face. Like a leaf at the mercy of the wind, the image of the bars floated from Samuel’s reach. Worry rushed back in to fill his mind as he struggled to find a connection, a reason for being here.

  He stepped over the jagged rocks and closed his eyes. Silence. It could have been midsummer. It could have been the dead of winter. He could no longer tell, and even if he could, Samuel struggled to remember what those labels meant. The wind was still, nothing but a whisper. The creek in the distance murmured like the whispers at a funeral procession. The insects, the animals; the creatures of the wood fell silent. Again, Samuel fought to recall hearing any sound. A leather string holding an amulet lay on the ground at his feet, and Samuel picked it up. The charm was silver, three triple spirals connected and curling in on each other. He slid the leather string over his head until the amulet lay on his chest.

  He walked over branches sprawled on the ground and onto a rough path that wound itself farther into the forest. The sun hung at an odd angle, tossing a bland shaft of light ahead, with most of the rays never reaching the ground. Samuel looked to the right and saw the tattered, yellow tape dangling from the trunks of ancient oaks.

  What is this?

  Profane and yet sacred, the final resting place of those who could go through with it. He reached out and tore a shred of tape from the tree.

  Samuel looked up into the canopy of branches, which hovered overhead like a worried mother. As far as he could see, ropes and nooses hung empty and cold. Humps and forms lay beneath some.

  He continued down the path, knocking aside a shoe, a sport coat, a backpack. Eventually he stopped and bent down, the aching in his neck causing him to wince. The backpack was made of nylon, the zipper long gone and its teeth forever in a black grin. He reached into it, his fingers brushing against a few leaves that rustled inside. Nothing. He turned it over to reveal three characters embroidered on the front: BCD. He rubbed his head and stared at them until he could recognize them as letters of the alphabet, and a thin smile spread over his lips. He was not sure if those letters mattered anymore, and he could not recall why they ever would have.

  Samuel threw the only remaining strap over one shoulder and shuffled farther down the path. The creek moved closer with each step, and he was happy to hear its meanderings. The natural noise brought a brief sense of normalcy, a memory from childhood: long summer days in a valley and a creek cut a ragged line through the forest. Some days he would spend hours in solitude, overturning rocks in a search for salamanders. On other days, he would throw stones across the bank with his brothers in a friendly competition that would end when his mother’s voice echoed through the trees, calling them home for the evening meal.

  He saw more items strewn across the path and kicked a pair of shoes to the side. So many shoes. He wondered why the shoes remained and the bodies did not.

  The path curved as it approached the stream, turning right into a grove of high pines, their needles covering the ground. Samuel drew a deep breath through his nose, catching the faintest odor of pine, and that made him smile. He savored the distant aroma for as long as he could. It did not last.

  He sat on the ground next to an abandoned, blue shopping bag and reached inside, pulled out the contents, and arranged them in a circle over the pine needles. He remembered the names for most of them. Lighter. Pen. Nickel. A few he could not recognize, but his brain assured him he would. Samuel picked up the lighter with his right hand, pinched between a thumb and finger. Muscle memory snapped into place as his thumb struck down on the flint. The lighter sparked, and Samuel smiled. He could almost taste the burnt, woody smoke of a hand-rolled cigarette. He could almost feel the airy buzz with each inhalation of the tobacco. He struck the lighter again and again, but each time it failed to ignite, and each time it reminded him of the temporary satisfaction delivered by the nicotine. Another item returned to his expanding repertoire of old words becoming new again as he opened a supple, leather wallet.

  Samuel removed the paper sticking out from its fold. As with the pine needles, he caught a faint whiff of the earthy, organic scent of the rawhide.

  He looked up and noticed that the sun had dropped closer to the horizon, as if touching the tops of the trees to ignite them. Darkness crept closer, surrounding the far edges of his vision. Samuel felt the chill of night coming, and realized his exposure could kill him. Along with the chill came the resurgence of instinct and the will to live.

  ***

  The night came silently, stealing the remaining light from the forest and replacing it with an insufferable coldness. Samuel shuddered. He could no longer control the muscle spasms that racked his body and occupied his mind. The yellow tape, the shoes, the hunger. None if it mattered while his brain searched for a solution to the numbing cold brought by the night.

  Samuel reached into his pocket, where he had stowed the mysterious artifacts. His hand found the lighter, which he pulled out. Again he wrapped his thumb and finger around the igniter, although the dropping temperature made it more difficult for him to strike the flint. He tried again, once, twice. On the third strike, the lighter coughed forth a weak flame. It flickered over the pinhole at the top of the metal. Samuel felt the brief burst of warmth, and before he could place his left hand over the top of it, the flame died. He shook the lighter and struck the flint again. The green flame returned, and Samuel pushed the tiny lever on the front of the lighter until the flame rose slightly higher than it had before. He smiled and reached back into his pocket, removing scraps of paper from the wallet and holding them over the flame. At first, the paper did nothing but curl and twist from the heat. But after a few moments, the flame leapt from the lighter. He dropped the lit paper to the ground and pushed dead leaves on top of it. Curls of grey smoke floated upward, stinging his eyes and burning his nose, and Samuel cried from the smoke. He could smell it. He was alive. Within moments, the confined space between three pine trees blazed with yellow and green flames. Samuel was standing closer to the bonfire than he should have. His instinct told him to stand back, and yet the heat did not burn him as it should. Samuel shoved the lighter into his pocket and scurried past the fire, gathering pine needles, dried twigs, and branches. He was not sure why, but he knew this fuel was needed to keep the fire going, to keep him alive. Within a matter of moments, in units of time that Samuel could no longer measure, he sat basking in the glow of a roaring bonfire. He felt its warmth and closed his eyes. His stomach growled, protesting the sudden hunger brought on by the activity.

  Samuel laid his head on the empty backpack and curled his feet closer to the fire. He felt warm, and safe, and still very alone, until the howl pierced the air.

  Samuel scurried through the hastily made camp and gathered the articles dumped from his pockets. As he stripped his clothes to the ground to rid himself of the scent, his body shivered. His mind reeled as instinct took over. He could not rem
ember how he knew, but he recognized the howl of the alpha male. He knew the pack was coming. He knew he would die.

  The cold air bit into his back as the paltry fire warmed his front. He took inventory of all of the clothing he could gather from the abandoned tents, counting three shirts of various sizes, two pairs of shorts, and one pair of athletic pants. He ran to the pile and put the athletic pants on, followed by a pair of the shorts. He picked up the T-shirt that he had worn and took a whiff. He could taste his own body odor, but it did not carry the musky, organic, overpowering scent it should have. Nevertheless, it was closest to his body’s scent and would have to do. He set the undershirt aside and pulled the clothing over his head until he stood dressed, with only a pair of shorts and a T-shirt left on the ground. He ran to one of the pine trees standing guard over his haven, unable to find a single knotted branch or knob that would serve him. He knew that the clearing would soon be attacked by a pack of wild wolves, and he ran from one tree to another until he found what he needed, grabbing the stained T-shirt and wrapping the neckhole around a thin branch. He then snatched the shorts from the ground and wrapped them over a piece of peeling bark. The clothes on the tree sat higher than an average human, but he did not think the wolves would discern that detail in the heat of the hunt.

  Samuel heard the soft crunch of the forest underbrush. He looked back and forth at the trees and over the fire, spotting one low-hanging branch within his grasp. His fingers fell a few inches short of the bark, and when he heard the low, earthy growls, he realized he had seconds to make a decision. Samuel jumped and grabbed the branch with both hands while swinging his legs as high as he could. Several objects fell from his pockets and clattered in a pile beneath the tree. As he glanced down, Samuel saw the first set of yellow eyes materialize from the dark recesses beyond the fire. He squinted and heaved upward until he sat on the branch with his feet dangling five feet from the ground. The alpha male came first.

  ***

  It smelled the burning wood long before its eyes found the origin of the flame. The creature nuzzled its nose deep into dank fur and flicked its ears twice before turning its muzzle toward the sky, letting loose with a growl that sounded more human than beast. Within moments, the rest of the pack surrounded the alpha male. Sets of yellow eyes darted back and forth through the hulking, black trunks. They seemed to disappear and reappear as though floating through the night.

  One has found flame.

  The pack settled and circled around the leader. With his fur rankled, he bared his pointy teeth at the slightly younger, more aggressive males.

  My kill, then your carcass.

  Although not the egalitarian split most of the creatures desired, it was the way. It had always been the way, and would always be the way.

  The alpha male trotted across a felled tree, the trunk resting on a rocky outcrop jutting twenty feet high. He approached the zenith and stopped, catching the scent of fire, smoke, and human in the air. While he did not share the same sense of time and space as other mammals, the wolf registered surprise. He had not expected man to still be here, and if he was, he had not expected man to enter his domain.

  Blood.

  The rest of the pack reared up behind the leader, letting loose with several rounds of howling, barking, and gnashing. Several of the larger, older creatures snapped at the females. They tore away chunks of fur, along with the sense of calm that the pack had recently shared. The leader had called for blood. The hunt was on.

  The alpha male leapt from the trunk, his sinewy frame propelled through the trees as if by an otherworldly force, pulling his front legs back until they almost met his hind legs. The creature sprinted, and the pack followed at the acceptable and respected distance. The alpha male would not find a challenger this night—the first blood would belong to him. The pack undulated, a brown, grey, and silver mass weaving through the trees and toward the fire springing up from the forest floor. Some of the cubs whimpered and ran beneath their mothers, for they had yet to witness the power of flame.

  The alpha male crested a slight rise and slowed his descent toward the valley, scanning the horizon to see the thin, white line of Brother Moon. The creature stopped, his tongue flicking across his frozen muzzle. He lifted his head up and howled again.

  The top arch of the moon poked above the tree line, but would rise no farther. The alpha male knew. He mourned the loss of the sky god hanging over the valley and illuminating the kills. Brother Moon held his gaze low like an insolent child, a bit lower each cycle.

  The pack scampered behind the alpha male and waited. The creatures paced about with deep growls as they too gazed at the bright epicenter of the valley, cursing the unnatural flame and drooling at the prospect of tearing its creator apart.

  The alpha male dropped low, ears up. He moved methodically through the trees until the faint aroma of burning pine reached his nose. The creatures had not lost the scent. Not yet. The others followed with growling bellies and cautious optimism. The feast would be the first in a long while. Mothers would push their cubs back from the killing spot and toss them the battered entrails left after the surge.

  The alpha male continued to lead. The crackling of the burning wood became louder, but remained muffled in the heavy air. He listened for the guttural tone of a human voice, but did not hear it, and he sniffed the air again, this time detecting the source of the scent.

  Alone.

  The younger, more aggressive males became excited by the thought. Single prey meant greater success in the kill. The wolves nudged each other, even going so far as to bare teeth to preserve the attack order. After the alpha male had eaten, a battle would ensue for the bloody remains.

  The alpha male spun with his hackles raised. He growled and bared pointy, yellow teeth at his pack. They would fear him or be consumed by him. At least that was how it had always been. The others cowered, especially the females and the cubs. A few of the more mature males skittered to the side but did not retreat. They sized up the alpha male, sensing that they too might someday lead the pack. Someday.

  Now.

  He reared his head and howled. The rest of the pack imitated the alpha male until the sound consumed the dead of the night. He raced from his lead position toward the fire, with the pack following, dashing between trunks, through the remains of yellow tape, and over lonely shoes with decayed laces. He sprinted over forgotten bones and rotted, canvas tents. He kicked the artifacts of the world to the side, where they tumbled into silent obscurity.

  The fire grew as the alpha male led his pack to the fight. It had been a long time since human blood had spilled in the valley, and the alpha male basked in the anticipation. Although his eyes had lost range and focus, he was able to detect the human form against the tree on the far side of the fire. The yellow and green flames distorted the shape, but not enough to confuse the alpha male. The pack snapped at each other’s tails as they followed the leader to the kill zone. Females, cubs, and old wolves became lost in the instinctual euphoria of the kill.

  He flew from the path, dashed around a fallen limb, and turned straight for his prey. The alpha male’s eyes lit, his snout pulsing with the chemicals of the human scent. He made one final lunge to the right of the fire and skidded to a halt in the dry dirt at the base of the tree. His head twitched back and forth at the shirt and pair of pants tacked there, and he did not need to communicate his disgust and disappointment to the pack. His belly growled in protest of the ruse.

  Chapter 2

  The leader approached his prey and looked up. The rest of the pack filled in behind the alpha male but kept their distance from the unnatural fire. The creature paced around the flames, sniffing the objects on the ground, and then craned its neck upward at the feet of the human.

  It must come down. That is the command given and the one I must follow.

  The rest of the pack whined and shuffled about. Several of the cubs lay on the ground, enjoying the meager warmth provided by the man’s fire, while the male wolves stood
behind the leader and looked up into the tree.

  “Leave me alone,” Samuel shouted to the beasts below.

  He thought he could hear the alpha male chuckle. The sound escaped the wolf’s muzzle like a short guffaw.

  “Get out of here.”

  The wolves stood at attention, staring up at him. One would break off, circle its tail, and then come back to attention at the base of the tree.

  Samuel looked up into the pine. Branches sprouted from the base of the trunk like a pinwheel extending up into the blackness. Tendrils of smoke raced between them as the fire burned down to yellow coals, releasing the hiss of water inside the damp wood. Samuel reached for the next closest branch and climbed higher, until he sat on a wider branch, taking a deep breath and looking down at the pack twenty feet below.

  We wait.

  The alpha male dropped its hind legs to the ground, and its ears came up. The other hunters did the same, while the female wolves attended to nursing cubs. The pack formed a circle around the base of the tree.

  Samuel felt a rumble in his stomach, and a pain gripped his side. He could not remember the last time he ate. He rubbed the blooming bruises on his neck, the painful reminder of his time inside the noose. Samuel looked out from the trees, convinced that he had found temporary refuge from the pack. A sliver of the moon appeared above the canopy of pines, blossoming like spilt milk into the night sky.

  Are wolves nocturnal? They’ll go back to the den once the sun comes up, Samuel thought.

  Samuel watched as a new light crested off the horizon. He did not see the blazing orb of his sun. He did not feel the warmth of the day. Hours passed, and yet the light failed to chase back the darkness, seeping upward until a dull grey blanket of mist descended on the forest. A quick pulse of memory shot through his head, a late-afternoon thunderstorm at the shore. The feeling lingered, but the specifics of the memory did not. He looked down at the pack. The females and cubs slept in bundles of fur, and most of the hunters rested their heads in their paws, all except one. The alpha male remained sitting, his eyes focused on Samuel.