The Island: Two Stories of Terror
Page 6
Below the shoulder-less two-lane, the land dropped away from a rocky cliff to a gurgling brook thirty feet below. The rear tire caught the edge of the pavement, and as the bicycle wobbled, she leaned hard to the left, righting her balance.
Two minutes later she left the access road behind and coasted into Red Oak proper, past the town courthouse and village green. Catching her breath, she pedaled harder.
4:55 p.m.
As Tori veered north onto Main Street, the modest three blocks of the town center came into view. She passed the police station on her right. Set off to her left was Bob and Mary’s 24-hour diner, the gray, aluminum-sided rectangle flying past in an indistinct blur as her legs pumped faster. Beyond the diner, a half-mile west, meandered the sparkling waters of Cayuga Lake.
A landscaped island divided Main Street with parking spaces aligned diagonally against the island and along the sides of the street. Though the spaces were choked with vehicles, Tori never saw their red brake lights flare to life. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single car moving along the street.
At the center of downtown, on Main Street’s east side, stood Barbara’s Boutique—a red, brick-faced square squashed between a florist and the Red Oak Cafe. Squeezing the brakes, she wiggled the bike between two SUV’s and hopped the curb onto the empty sidewalk.
That was the moment when she started to worry. Where is everyone? Downtown was resplendent with potted flowers and cardinal splashes of low-angle sunshine. On such a warm Saturday in the upstate New York village, the street should have been busy with pre-Memorial Day shoppers and people going out for an early dinner. But there wasn’t anyone to be seen despite the rows and rows of cars up and down Main Street. She half-suspected that everyone was hidden inside the shops, waiting to jump out in unison and yell Surprise! as if part of a “Twilight Zone”-inspired version of “Candid Camera.”
Leaning the bike against a maple tree which spread a blanket of shade across the sidewalk, Tori ran up the steps. Her heart sank at the sight of the empty boutique. The boutique never closed its doors early on prom night, yet the interior was vacant.
Tori grasped the door handle and pulled, expecting to find the boutique locked. She was surprised when the door opened and the chill of air conditioning spilled down her legs.
Black leather swivel chairs were aligned along the mirrored walls. As she stepped past the cash register into the heart of the boutique, she had the impression of walking through a graveyard. Her reflection paced her on both sides of the elongated room, following her like twin phantoms.
“Hello?”
Her voice reverberated hollow against the walls.
“Mrs. Donnelly? It’s Tori Daniels. I have a five o’clock appointment?”
Barbara Donnelly did not answer because Barbara Donnelly was not there. Yet the lights were on, the air conditioner was rattling through the ceiling vents, and the front door was unlocked. Anybody could have walked through the doors and cracked open the cash register.
“She probably just stepped out for a moment. Maybe I should wait for a few minutes,” Tori said to herself. She sat upon one of the swivel chairs at the back of the store, idly spinning back and forth as her doppelgangers watched from the mirrors. The cool air felt nice on her skin.
Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she dialed her mother again. The phone went on ringing.
“I know you’re there, Mom. Pick up. Please.”
Apparently Cheryl Daniels lay hunkered down with the rest of the townsfolk, playing their little game of hide-and-go-seek on Tori. She nervously scrolled through her messages and noticed no one had written her for several hours. Several text messages had arrived during lunch hour, the last a 12:30 p.m. note from Jana Davies, suggesting that Tori and Ted meet up with Jana and her boyfriend after dinner. Since then, nothing. No missed calls. No frantic voice mails from her mother wondering where Tori was.
Is the network down?
The cooling system whispered white noise. Beyond the front door, shadows grew longer along Main Street, spilling off cars and trees like black ink.
She glanced at a set of black double doors at the back of the store. The supply room. It occurred to her that anyone could be waiting behind those doors, watching her through the slit. She felt her skin prickle.
“Mrs. Donnelly? Are you back there?”
The double doors watched her. The cooling system clanged and bucked as though something was stuck in the pipes. Suddenly the elongated store felt like a crypt, the swivel chairs like torture devices in which scissors sliced and curling irons burned. Tori pushed herself up from the chair.
The knobs to the double doors rattled behind her. Surely her imagination was playing tricks on her and she actually heard the pipes expanding and contracting, as the air conditioner pumped polar air against the afternoon heat. Tori walked straight toward the front doors. Between the swivel chairs. Past the combs and brushes set in jars of blue liquid like preserved body parts. She didn’t dare look back. Because if she did, those black doors would creak open, and something unspeakable would stalk out of the darkness, running its claws along the backs of the swivel chairs as its maw opened to reveal rows of blood-soaked fangs.
No matter how fast she walked, the exit door never seemed to draw closer, as though she were walking on a treadmill. The pipes shook harder. Neglected hinges creaked behind her—the sound of the black doors inching open.
Tori ran for the front door, pulling when she should have pushed. The impact rattled the plate glass, resounding as though a kettle drum had been struck. In her panic, she thought she was locked inside the boutique. Her head cleared. She pushed through the front door and ran for the mountain bike.
The warm air felt stifling after the chill of the boutique. She threw her leg over the bike seat and pumped the pedals, racing northward past empty vehicles neatly aligned along Main Street. The streets were devoid of people. Her hair appointment and the prom long forgotten, she pedaled toward her house. As the hour passed six o’clock, Tori did not yet feel her world tearing apart at the seams. But she would. Soon.
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If you liked One Autumn in Kane Grove and The Island, you’ll LOVE my full-length novel, Storberry. CLICK HERE to start reading Stoberry right now.
Storberry is an old-school thriller that returns the vampire mythos to its horrific roots. See what others are saying about Storberry:
“A Genuine Gem of the Horror Genre”
“A Classic Horror Novel”
“[Padavona's] descriptions paint vivid portraits in the mind and help with the visual 'Drive-In movie feel'."
"Finally a vampire story where the monsters are actually scary."
"Foreboding and moody. I love it!!!"
"[Padavona's] descriptive imagery is outstanding. I truly 'see' this town and the characters."
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Author's Note
When I finished writing Storberry, I was genuinely pleased with the final product. However, I felt there was more to the vampire mythos that I wished to touch upon. The human element of vampirism was purposely avoided in Storberry to keep the monsters, well, monstrous.
In One Autumn in Kane Grove, we get to see the human side of the evil running amok through town without skimping on the horror. Kane Grove was a pleasure to write.
The Island was borne of a nightmarish vision of what might lurk in the uncharted corners of our world. Though I admit to find
ing spiders creepy, I rather like and certainly appreciate the little guys. Where would we be without them? Probably knee deep in mosquitoes.
Thanks are once again in order for my wife Terri, and our children, Joe, and Julia. I also wish to thank the multitude of friends and family who have supported my efforts and become my first readers. You are my motivation, and I hope you continue to follow along on this exciting journey.
I wish to thank my editor, Jack Musci, who once again proved invaluable. Thank you for helping me track down the missing words and gremlins which seem always to elude the eye of the writer.
Although some of the locations surrounding the Lesser Antilles and Kane Grove are actual places, Kane Grove itself, its university, and the lost island are wholly of the author's imagination. Any resemblance between the people in this book and people in the real world is purely coincidental and unintended.
About the Author
Dan Padavona is the author of the Dark Vanishings series, Storberry, Shadow Witch, and the horror anthology, The Island. He lives in upstate New York with his beautiful wife, Terri, and their children, Joe, and Julia. Dan is a meteorologist with NOAA’s National Weather Service. Besides writing, he enjoys visiting amusement parks, beach vacations, Renaissance fairs, gardening, playing with the family dogs, and eating ice cream.
Visit Dan at: www.danpadavona.com