The Spitting Post

by Jason R. Barden

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Spitting Post

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I was lost in thought

  when again I heard the violin’s call. It was close this time—too close. I stopped and surveyed the land with terrified eyes, growing more anxious with each passing note. The ambient tune working itself into a manic frenzy. Can’t they shut up? With that racket the beast would find us, and I knew what would happen when it did. There would be no more violin playing for that musician, and I would never find The Green Maiden.

  I scanned the countryside for the insane violinist and spotted him on a small hill just to my right. When I saw his ghastly appearance, I almost wished I hadn’t found him. He was a stout man dressed in total blackness with a red violin resting against his shoulder. His skin was a brilliant white, as white as a bed sheet. On his head was a black top hat, and he wore a twisted grin on his porcelain face.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled. “It will hear us!”

  The man said nothing and kept playing his maddening melody.

  “Are you crazy?”

  The man opened his mouth wide and without moving his lips, he said, “Precisely.”

  Then he began to cry tears of blood, yet still he played. The blood rolled down his face and pooled on the grass. Then I came to a grotesque realization. He was not playing for amusement; he was calling the beast.

  The Spitting Post

  by

  Jason R. Barden

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Spitting Post

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Jason R. Barden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1818-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1819-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my mother and grandmother,

  for believing in me.

  Chapter One

  Crash

  “Oh, God!”

  I stared into my rearview mirror as an out-of-control car careened toward me. The black sedan was in the next lane to my right. What could I do? I was on the highway and couldn’t stop or get out of the way. I tried to squeeze into the left lane, but it was too late.

  The weaving vehicle collided with my passenger side front wheel and jolted me to the left. My small car lifted into the air as if propelled by jet fuel. The windshield burst and fragments of glass sprayed me like rapid machine gun fire. I released the steering wheel and threw my hands in front of my face. I would certainly have been flung from the car if not for my seat belt holding me back. The death machine was rolling with me helplessly trapped inside. My head, as if on a swivel, was violently tossed around like a piece of laundry in a washing machine. The impact of my vehicle smacking the ground jarred every bone in my body and reverberated through my clenched teeth as they cracked. The deafening sound of metal scraping the concrete screeched in my ears like a thousand fingernails trailing down a chalkboard in a horrific symphony of death as the surface of the highway streaked by inches from my face.

  Death was taunting me as I felt it squeeze tight the metal around me. This was the way my life would end and the automobile was my metallic coffin. I slammed my eyes shut against the blackness that beckoned with icy fingers. The violins played and once again life spit in my face.

  ****

  My name is Vincent Carpenter. I was born in 1969. So far, my mediocre life has been intermixed with spurts of melancholy and disaster. Not that my life has been the worst in all of human history, but I have observed many others achieve far more with far less effort, ambition, or motivation than I have demonstrated. This realization haunted me most when I attempted to ease my muddled mind into a relaxed state of nocturnal tranquility. Once eased, my mind would attempt to fabricate some much-needed happiness by dreaming that the man who had it all was me. Then I would wake up screaming. But maybe I would not scream this morning. This morning would be different.

  I awoke to the loud, hideous sound of our alarm clock that I regrettably forgot to turn off for the weekend. The deafening beeping remained steady until I pressed the off button and relieved the clock of its self-induced misery. Dim-eyed and droopy tailed was my normal morning demeanor. I was not the early-bird type—never had been. As I yawned and glanced toward Erika’s side of the bed, I noticed she was missing. It was our tenth anniversary, and it happened to fall on a Saturday when neither of us had to work. Where was she? I ungracefully stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I cupped my hands and splashed cold water on my face as I did every morning as far back as I could remember. This act was cruel but effective in waking me up and bringing my senses to their fullest abilities.

  I slowly made my way down the hall toward the living room. There was Erika, sitting half-dressed on the sofa, staring into oblivion. Her face was blank and eerie. Her hair was this way and that, like it hadn’t seen a brush or comb in weeks.

  “Are you okay?” I asked with sincere concern.

  No reply.

  “I made reservations tonight at the restaurant where we had our first date,” I told her and smiled in an effort to ease the troubled mood.

  Still no reply—just a blank stare and a long pause.

  Finally, the silence shattered.

  “I am not going; you can go by yourself,” she announced, still with a blank stare.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t feel like it.” And icicles, like frozen daggers, hung from every word.

  “Erika, what’s wrong?” I asked as I sat beside her.

  “Nothing.”

  Then she got up, shuffled toward the bathroom, and slammed the door. I could hear the shower turn on as the water sprayed forth like a waterfall beating the tub floor.

  “Well, there goes that,” I muttered aloud.

  I had first met Erika in high school. We were the same age and had been in many classes together. She overflowed with pure charisma, and almost everyone seemed to adore her fashionable style and grace.

  Erika’s beauty surpassed even that of her grand social status and made her the subject of many a legend. Her hair was as golden as the sun, and her skin was ever so radiant. Her voice was so magical that it took only a few words before most guys were on their knees. And when she spoke, she had a habit of twirling her soft blonde hair enchantingly around her slende
r fingers. It was no secret I had the extreme hots for this princess. But she was way out of my league. Her boyfriend Charles was physically much bigger and far more socially promising than I had ever dreamed of being. Sure, I had dated plenty of girls but no one near Erika’s class.

  In high school, I played in a garage band and was hoping to make the big-time. When it came to singing, I was tone deaf and far beyond hideous. But I did have a knack for writing lyrics and poetry. My mind was teeming with vivid ideas that bounced off each other and struck anything they could. So the group quickly named me chief lyricist. The band featured four solid rock warriors: Tom was on drums and percussion; Steve played bass guitar; Brian was lead vocalist; and I was on electric guitar. We were set to conquer the world.

  We grabbed our first gig in March of 1984 at a local party hosted by the most popular and prettiest girl in school, Erika Monroe. Her parents were out of town for the weekend, so she was hosting a spring break party and needed quality musical entertainment. You might wonder how my band of misfits managed an invitation to such a sophisticated social event—sheer luck. Chuck, the guitar player for the band that had been booked originally, had sprained his wrist in a baseball game, which tragically forced his band to back out. Someone had mentioned my band to Erika, and because there were no other bands available on such short notice, we got the gig.

  We showed up around seven in the evening, an hour before we were scheduled to go on. When we arrived at the Monroe house, we were bedazzled. We had never seen anything like it. The other band members and I all came from decent middle-class homes, but we had never witnessed such style and class. The architecture was unique. Erika’s father, Thomas Monroe, was a well-known architect and had designed the home himself. It appeared that Mr. Monroe had taken full inspiration from a gothic horror film. The two-story brick dwelling was a dismal gray and featured a turret on both the east and west walls. Spotlights protruded from the ground and illuminated the ghostly structure in blood red as if the building itself were bleeding. The large double doors were solid oak, and nearby loomed two large, angry marble gargoyles that guarded the premises.

  Steve rang the bell, and I prepared myself in case a deranged butler answered. But instead, the door slowly opened to reveal Erika standing there as resplendent as any princess ever. She wore a green silk formal with a pleated skirt and modest, round neckline. Her hair flowed delicately over her soft shoulders.

  “Hello. Come on in and set up over here in the living area.” And then she pointed to the huge room just beyond the gigantic oak door.

  I froze. I attempted to say something, but the words simply would not flow.

  “Thanks,” Steve finally managed to blurt out.

  I thought yeah, thanks, Steve as if blaming him would excuse my lack of confidence and repair my bruised ego.

  Above our heads a huge crystal chandelier with four green quartz skulls hung from the ceiling. Erika’s mother, Lisa, was an interior decorator and had dressed the home herself. As I stared around the room I wondered what mental ward the Monroes had escaped. Everything seemed far too bizarre to have been the work of a sane person.

  The walls were painted a dull gray that was a shade lighter than the exterior. All the furniture was red with dark brown trim. The lighting was dim, like the soft glow of candles. To the left and right were doors that led to the rest of the dwelling. Toward the back of this great room was a winding staircase. At the top, on the second floor, a sculpted glass swan sat patiently on a bronze pedestal. The horrid bird was a grotesque dark purple. Above the sculpture were red lights that resembled the ones outside. The swan reflected the light in such a way that it appeared hauntingly real. The monstrous thing seemed to mock us for gazing upon its hideous being. Earlier that evening I had laughed to myself as I wondered what the place would look like when our band was finished with it. Now I wondered what we would look like when the place was finished with us.

  We eagerly gathered our gear and began to set up. We started our set with a few covers from well-known professional bands and then performed a few of our originals for kicks. The audience seemed to like our sound and grooved accordingly. After we finished the set I felt proud of our performance. We had played for a large audience at a huge mansion. This was the stuff of legend, so a little self-indulgence had been well-earned. That’s why we decided to stay and see the party to its end—or ours—whichever came first. Unease and terror slithered through me while I was inside that house. I wasn’t sure if it was the strange building and its disturbing decor or my major anxiety over Erika.

  Around midnight the party began to wind down. I was sitting on the sofa unaware of where my fellow musicians were. Had some monster, perhaps a troll, snatched them away? I snickered aloud at the possibility. As my mind fixated on the imaginary troll and its unfortunate captives, Erika appeared and sat beside me. I jumped as if she were the troll about to make a fast meal of me.

  “You’re good,” she said and then smiled ever so delicately.

  “Wh-wh-what?”

  “You’re good. You’re a good guitar player. The rest of the band was good, too, but you were the driving force behind the music. Anyone could see that.”

  “Thanks.”

  She grinned and then said, “The way you played was inspiring…and somewhat sexy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Vince, you idiot; say something else. But I didn’t have the opportunity. Her boyfriend Charles had carefully eyed us. He crept up behind her and grabbed her playfully. She laughed and told him to stop, but he had broken the mood. She turned her back to me and gave him a big hug. I couldn’t help but notice the evil, icy stare coming from Charles that seemed to say, Stay away from her if you know what’s good for you.

  About this time the rest of the band returned from who knows what part of the house, and we soon packed our gear and left. On the long ride home I kept thinking that was the end of Erika and me. That was foolish—there never had been an us, and there never would be. What would Erika see in me over Charles, even if I were as good a guitarist as she insisted? I supposed that she had only talked with me to make him jealous.

  That night I couldn’t sleep thinking about Erika and her strange mansion. I imagined for a while that I was Charles and that Erika and I were together. If only that were true… I eventually fell asleep and woke up the next morning as cold, hard reality slapped me in the face.

  For the remainder of high school I barely spoke to Erika. There was never another party at her gothic mansion, and every time I saw her between classes, she was with Charles. I only managed to utter an occasional “Hi,” which usually went unnoticed. I never saw her after school because we ran in two completely different crowds. I dated some, but I never found anyone special. No future Mrs. Carpenter. No Erika.

  After high school the band broke up, and we went our separate ways. I attended college and from there went to work as an insurance adjuster at a midsized company in the downtown area of Centralia. My daily job duties consisted of a short drive to the office where I would work on an assortment of claims. I was a classic pencil pusher. I typed up estimates, letters, and other exciting material. My afternoons were spent in the field meeting with a claimant or insured to inspect the damage and take photographs.

  As far as the work went, it seemed that everyday matters were okay; there was nothing special to complain about. My coworkers were generally pleasant, but they mostly kept to themselves and avoided anything beyond small talk. But I did manage to become friends with another adjuster in my division named Frank. Frank was a peculiar individual who loved to play the prankster. He was harmless enough, but every day was April Fool’s Day to him. After a while, though, Frank could get annoying. He never seemed to know when to quit, and not everyone was in a constant mood for his jokes. Frank was around my age but married with two small kids. I always thought he was more like the third child than the father. But childish as he was, he was my only real friend.

  One day Frank suggested a blind date with one
of his wife’s business associates. Frank’s wife, Amelia, was an accountant in a large firm unknown to me. After much pestering from Frank, I finally relented. But the blind date came with a peculiar catch, one I should have anticipated because, of course, it was Frank. He refused to tell me the girl’s name or anything else about her other than where I was to meet her. He informed me she would not know my name, either, because this would be an anonymous blind date. It all sounded pretty lame and suspicious, but I reluctantly went along with it. We were to meet at a fine steak restaurant where Frank and his wife frequently dined. My date and I were to recognize each other by wearing a green ribbon pinned to our shirts.

  That night I was as nervous as I had ever been. What if this turned out to be just another prank? Insane thoughts ran through my mind like a rat in a maze. It was an absolute wonder I was able to prepare for the event. I forced myself to get it together and worked on fixing up my appearance. The restaurant had no dress code, so I decided to dress as if I were going to work. Business casual would do it, and that meant black slacks and a black button-down dress shirt. I made sure to pin the one-inch green ribbon to my shirt pocket, a ploy I still considered overwhelmingly lame but necessary. I drove to the restaurant with so many butterflies in my stomach I could have started an annual migration. I was not hungry at all; instead, I felt queasy and faint. I exited the car and wobbled to the restaurant on legs that felt like jelly.

  Frank, if this is some sort of joke, I’m going to be very, very angry. Then I opened the door to the restaurant and glanced at the bar in search of my alleged dinner companion. No one was there.

  “I knew it,” I accidentally said aloud.

  “Excuse me?” said the bartender.

  “Oh, nothing,” I embarrassingly replied.

  Frank had told me to be there at eight sharp, and here it was eight, but there was no one around—no mysterious woman wearing a green ribbon; no female companion to greet me. My humiliation and anger were mounting.

  “I’m leaving!” I said aloud, not caring who might hear me.