Crucible of Fear
D.W. Whitlock
Copyright © 2021 D.W. Whitlock
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-0-578-83999-8
For my wife, who has always supported my forays into the creative unknown
Excerpt from TechBeat.com article:
Beast in the Machine:
The New Face of Digital Harassment
By Ian Weller
Cases of cyber-harassment are on the rise, ranging from negative comments on social media to cyberstalking, the most insidious form of electronic harassment. Cyberstalking typically involves a bad actor attempting to damage their target’s online reputation through negative social media posts, accusations of professional incompetence on networking sites, occasionally escalating to physical threats to their person and/or loved ones. Sometimes money is demanded to cease the harassment, but usually the perpetrator wishes to harm their target as an act of revenge for a perceived injury to themselves…
CHAPTER 1
Spider
Dante Ellis gazed down, eyes narrowing as a harsh blade of light raked the office interior revealing desiccated corpses under the tattered remains of web.
How long had a spider been there? he thought.
Kneeling, Dante peered closer and spied the predator’s remains dangling from a few dusty strands where the windows joined at his corner office. It surprised him. He’d been here many late nights as the cleaning crew made their sweep. They were very thorough, but somehow, they’d missed this.
In the dim light straining up from the city below, Dante saw the spider’s legs were kinked inward, its final act before dying. Gossamer remnants of web clung to the glass, fluttering in micro currents above the twenty or so confirmed kills.
Dante smirked. Little guy had been busy.
He pictured it floating above the busy mail room on a strand of silk before being sucked into an elevator shaft. It continued sailing on the updraft, legs splayed as it swirled all the way to the thirty-second floor of the Monolith tower. How it had negotiated the busy studio floor all the way down to Dante’s corner office, he couldn’t fathom, lying in wait to ambush unsuspecting prey.
Light swept the office again as a helicopter outside slowed to a hover, appearing no larger than one of the spider’s kills. Its spotlight continued over the tops of low-slung buildings to reveal an overturned car on the 134 freeway. Flames licked at the underside as smoke boiled up in a black smudge. Brake lights bloomed in a crimson smear as Friday evening traffic slowed to crawl.
A muffled cheer rose up from the party in the studio kitchen and Dante checked his watch.
Almost time.
He rose to his feet and looked down at the elephant pendant in his right palm. It gleamed in the dull light like a drop of mercury. “For when you get scared,” Abigail had told him. He closed his hand around it.
The inner office door opened with a snick and he turned, head swimming. The wine he’d drunk earlier lay tart on the back of his tongue. The doorway was a black void, but Dante knew who it was. Only one other person had that code.
“Naomi,” he said.
There was no sound, no movement. Dante peered into the darkness.
“Who’s there?”
A dark figure emerged from the doorway, one arm thrust forward. Dante stumbled back, slipping a hand into his suit jacket to grab his phone. The figure’s arm twitched. Sharp pain flared in Dante’s chest as his mouth went dry. A delirious thought occurred to him as the phone slipped through his fingers.
The spider bit me.
Blinding white pain radiated out to encapsulate his whole body in a spasm of agony. The room tilted and something hard crashed into his face. Stars skittered off like electric cockroaches as everything went black.
Blood displaced the taste of wine in his mouth.
Ragged jolts of pain rippled through him, making his limbs kick as his entire body went numb. His vision returned, distorted, the office etched in shifting streaks of gray and black. He lay on his right side, arm stretched out—hand clenched in a tight fist. Dante hoped Abigail’s pendant was still there because right now, he needed it.
A light flared near his shoulder and hummed three times, more felt than heard. His phone. Dante tried to squeeze his eyes shut but he could only manage a weak flutter. The light died and his vision sharpened for a moment. The dark figure stood over him, the outline of the person’s body razor-sharp against a starless sky. A ghost of its reflection shone in the glass behind.
The helicopter’s light brushed past again, dimmer, revealing the figure to be a man dressed in black, face hidden behind a mask. A small object rose up over his shoulder, its delicate, greenish body reflecting brake lights from the traffic choked freeway far below. The orange wings flitted in a blur as it hovered.
It was a dragonfly.
A drone, much larger than the insect it had been built to mimic, its body at least eight inches long. The bulbous head bristled with miniature lenses and antennae that ticked with tiny movements as a red eye winked on its underside.
Dante’s phone flared again and he heard the buzzing this time. A text appeared on the screen. The words smeared into dark streaks as he tried to read the small letters trapped inside the text bubble.
The man knelt beside Dante, gazing down at him for a moment, eyes glittering. Then he turned and hefted an object from a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. It was a rectangular black box with an elliptical hole at one end, about the size of a laptop but thicker by a few inches. He removed the top section and set it down, then slid the bottom of the box underneath Dante’s clenched fist. His breath came out in a raspy hiss as he tried to protest. The dragonfly hovered closer, its flinty eyes adjusting with the faint hum of gears.
The dark figure sat back on his heels and pulled the mask up, head hung low. There was something strange about his face. Dante narrowed his eyes, face muscles twitching with the effort.
The man was crying.
“Sorry,” he said, wiping his face with the back of one arm. “They were just never going to stop.”
The dragonfly vibrated its wings with an impatient jitter and the man pulled the mask back down. He picked up the top of the box and placed it over Dante’s right hand. The two halves sealed shut with a series of harsh clicks. The low throb of distant music filled the silence.
Pain lanced deep into Dante’s wrist followed by a cold heaviness in his hand. He struggled to move, gasping as a wave of cramps rippled through him.
“Don’t fight it,” his attacker said, voice thick. “It’ll only make it worse.”
For a moment, Dante hoped this was a joke gone too far and everyone from the party would come pouring in, laughing, slapping him on the back.
From inside the box came a high metallic squeal, like screws being tightened down. The sound stopped and the room became silent again save for the whisper of the drone’s four wings.
The party had gone strangely quiet.
The masked man turned his face away and a muffled thump discharged from deep within the box, followed by a slight tug at Dante’s wrist. His body went icy cold.
This was no joke.
With trembling fingers, the man reached down and picked up the box before rising unsteadily to his feet. The box slipped from his grasp and fell, one corner striking the carpet with a thud. The two halves split open and th
e contents of the box spilled out and spun to a stop.
“Oh, Jesus,” the man said.
Dante peered at the pale thing that lay there, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Whatever it was, it had legs.
The legs twitched.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Dante’s throat. It’s the fucking spider.
The hum of the dragonfly’s wings pitched down as it dropped lower then hovered again, a few feet from the floor. A bright pinpoint of light speared out from its underside, the beam flicking across the floor before coming to a halt.
The legs of the spider twitched again. But it wasn’t a spider. It was a hand.
His hand.
The sickly, sweet odor of cauterized flesh stung the air as dark fluids oozed from the blackened stump. Dante’s stomach hitched and bile rose in his throat, the sour taste scorching his tongue.
The man picked up the severed hand with a thumb and forefinger. A bead of silver slipped out of the palm, dropping to the carpet. Dante’s fear-poisoned brain tried to remember what it was.
The hand dropped into the messenger bag. The man shuddered as it disappeared inside. Then he scooped up both halves of the box and fled, disappearing back through the inner office door, the hum of the drone close behind.
The room fell silent again.
Spasms wracked his body as Dante rolled onto his stomach, right arm heavy and unresponsive. He winced as his phone lit up, the touch of his face bringing the screen to life.
Need to call somebody.
He tried to speak but all he could muster was a low groan. It was a struggle to lift his head, neck joints popping under the strain. As the screen came into focus, the text he’d received earlier resolved, tack sharp. The words struck him like a hammer blow.
And if your right hand causes you to sin,
cut it off and cast it from you.
His heart thudded as pain lanced up his arm. He clutched at the stump with his other hand, the seared flesh slick with warm blood. He tried to call out again but his throat closed up, the cords of his neck taut. With a grunt he rolled onto his back, the ceiling tiles spinning above him.
Dante Ellis was finally able to find his voice, and he screamed.
CHAPTER 2
Perfect Things
Two weeks earlier…
“C’mon, sleepy head. Time to get up,” Dante said, throwing open the curtains.
Bright morning sun filtered in through the oak trees outside. The bedroom window was only open an inch, but he could already hear the hiss of the 101 freeway under the incessant bleat of car horns. Dante peered past the shifting leaves down into the valley and saw that West Hollywood was already wide awake.
Through the morning heat, glittering windshields shimmered along the narrow streets between low slung buildings, a byproduct of a city built among active fault lines. Further south, taller buildings of glass and steel jutted up along Miracle Mile as if daring nature to do its worst.
Abigail stirred, bright green eyes blinking in the harsh light before she made a face and pulled the blanket over her head. Dante sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed and pulled the blanket down. Nine years old and she already looked so much like her mother. Strong jawline, reddish brown hair. Same button nose. Pale, olive skin but still with the ruddy glow of youth in her cheeks. He reached down and smoothed the hair away from her face and tucked it over one ear.
“Daddy?” Abigail said, opening her eyes. “I had that dream about mommy again.”
Dante felt his throat tighten. “Abigail…”
“She’s underwater, her hair is all floating around and she’s trying to say something but she can’t.” Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes, threatening to break loose.
“It was just a dream,” Dante had said those words many times before, but Abigail remained unconvinced. “It just means she’s watching over you and always will be.” Dante sighed. “You were all she ever wanted. You know? A perfect, beautiful little girl. You look so much like her.”
Abigail nodded, blinking back tears. “Yeah?”
“When you were in her tummy, she ate all the best foods and took special vitamins. For a treat, she’d have ice cream. Mint chocolate chip. You’d kick up a storm,” Dante said, tugging one of her feet. She didn’t giggle like she usually did. Just held his gaze and frowned.
“I know where babies come from, Dad. I wasn’t in her tummy. I was in her…”
“Hey, how about I take you to school today?”
“What about your video meetings?”
“No meetings today. Let’s give Kelly the morning off. Just me and you. Okay?”
Abigail squinted at him, then smiled.
“Okay.”
Abigail dashed through the dining room, dressed in the navy-blue jacket and skirt of her school uniform. Kelly Shepherd sat with her legs tucked beneath her at the breakfast nook, bemused smile on her face. Her black hair shimmered in the morning light, stark against the pale skin of her face. The purple track suit she wore hugged every curve but the zipper was pulled up to her throat, Dante noted with disappointment. A tall silver carafe and a matching bowl of sugar cubes stood before her. The slender fingers of one hand encircled a thick, porcelain mug, filled to the brim with fresh coffee. Her eyebrows inched up with surprise as she spread her arms.
“What, no kiss?”
Abigail ran back to her and kissed her cheek. “Daddy’s taking me to school,” she said in a whisper.
“I know,” she said, grinning.
Abigail hurried off, shoes ticking across the tile floors. The door leading to the garage opened with a bang and Abigail disappeared inside the darkness.
“Turn on the light!” Kelly called out to her. “Don’t just run into a dark room.”
Dante strolled in, gazing after Abigail with a grin.
“Just like you,” Kelly said. “Running headlong into things.”
Dante poured some coffee into an insulated travel cup Kelly had set out. “More fun that way,” he said. The lid went on crooked and he struggled to push it on straight.
“Give it here,” Kelly said as she reached over and pulled it from his grasp. She slammed her hand down on the lid, locking it in place before handing it back over.
Dante laughed. “When it doubt, pummel it into submission.”
“More fun that way,” Kelly said. “She misses you.”
“I know,” Dante said. “I really appreciate you helping out.”
She opened her mouth then closed it again, eyes distant. “Of course.”
Dante sat across from her and watched as she sipped her coffee, full lips pursing at the bitter taste. She grabbed a sugar cube and plopped it in her cup, giving it a quick stir with a spoon.
About a year ago, they’d shared a bottle of wine and watched episodes of a show she’d starred in about models by day, hackers by night. They’d kissed, but since then, she’d kept it strictly platonic, at her insistence. Catwalk had been a hit, run for nine seasons and was in syndication in several markets. It kept Kelly flush with royalty checks and in the contacts of casting directors, netting her the occasional part. She always smelled faintly of lilac and Dante had formed a Pavlovian response to that scent in spite of his better judgment.
She caught him staring.
“What?” she said, gazing across the table with deep blue eyes. The morning sun touched the green around her pupils and his breath caught.
“Uh,” he said, “I was just wondering how the audition went.”
“Didn’t get it. I guess they don’t need another has-been clutching at her script in desperation.” She shook her head. “I didn’t really prepare for it anyways.”
“That doesn’t sound like you. ‘Prep is paramount’.”
“Yeah, I know. I just…feel like I’ve been prepping my whole life. And for what? I’m just tired of it, I guess.”
“I hope it wasn’t because you were taking care of Abigail,” Dante said. “I’ve just got so much going on right now.”
; “Warren always had so much going on. I hardly ever saw him. Always buried in his projects. It was like quicksand, what he did. He could never escape. Just long enough to catch his breath then down he’d go again.”
“That’s not me.”
“Friends warned me about getting involved with a producer, but whom else can you meet in the biz except other self-centered obsessives? Warren promised when we got married that he’d slow down, take it easy, not make the same mistakes that he’d made with his first wife. You know I only met his kids once? That was at his funeral.”
“Kelly…”
“I know, I know. I’m just the next-door neighbor. Not my place,” she said taking another sip. She grimaced and put her cup down. “Your coffee sucks, you know.”
Dante slid his hand over hers. “It’s not like that,” he said giving her hand a squeeze. “Those first few years after Michelle died…I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Her eyes found his again. “That little girl loves you, Dante. She needs you.”
“I’ll take time off in a few months. After I get the new media building up and going. I promise.”
“After. That’s how it was with Warren. Always after.”
“Was the audition for an overbearing mother? Cause you would’ve killed it.”
Kelly leaned toward him. Her eyes serious. “When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down?”
Dante held his hands up in surrender. “And…scene.” He stood and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll see you tonight.”
Kelly watched Dante stroll out through the kitchen door into the dark garage, raising a hand as he turned to give her a wave.
She shook her head. Neither one of them had bothered to turn on the garage light.
CHAPTER 3
Old and New
The garage door rose with a hum, allowing bright morning light to flood in. Dante sighed and took a moment to appreciate his latest tax write-off. All electric, ready to pounce, shiny as a shark’s eye, according to the brochure. A bit over the top but he had to admit, the Mako looked damn nice sitting there.
Crucible of Fear Page 1