Let Me Lead You Astray: A Novella

By R.W. Clinger

Four people are connected to the most horrifying event at Seamore College. When Cynthia Sinn takes a winter s walk on campus, never to be seen alive again: Nathan Koyne, an ex-policeman, dreams of the dead; Sylvia Sinn is led astray to find her lost twin sister and deepest fears; Peter Insting, Cynthia s fiancé, is terrorized by his own fate. Together they become trapped in a madman's game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GreatOne AS
• Release date: Jan 8, 2011

R.W. Clinger

When R.W. writes he feels as if he lives within the world he creates. He blends a "true to life experience" into each character. R. W. breathes the characters and plot inwards with complete indulgence. He pulls his readers into a extraordinary world of emotional tenderness like no other. He loves to read, write poetry

Book preview

LET ME LEAD YOU ASTRAY

By

R.W. Clinger

Let me Lead you Astray

By R.W. CLinger

Copyright 2005 by R.W. Clinger.

Published by GreatoneAS at Smashwords

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 any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

To

Lorraine Wroblewski

&

Rita Sieczkowski

Acknowledgments:

Mary Arnold

Karen Clinger

Kenneth Helbig

Jacqueline Druga-Marchetti

Tammy Redway

1 – Follow Me, I Won’t Hurt You

You’re Cynthia Sinn, aren’t you? My first question for her on the bench in Seamore Park.

She was wearing white gloves and what looked to be a very expensive wool coat the color of mahogany. Her jean-covered knees were pressed together and she smelled refreshing and warm in the chilly, December air, like something unsullied out of summer … honeysuckle or violets, a sliver of watermelon. Bright topaz colored eyes blinked as tiny lips pressed together. She was holding a Jane Smiley book on her lap—Moo, I think. She nodded her head to my question. How did you know my name?

You’re on the swim team. I watch you on Saturday morning meets.

She and I. We. Just us in the cold. The campus was bare of bodies. Leftovers of a semester. It was late December, just before Christmas. Those that had stayed behind were there to finish their finals, and eventually leave like the rest, heading home for the holidays and break ahead, coming back around the second week in January.

I stood above her in a warm, denim jacket, bare ears, burning-cold nose. It was twenty-eight degrees out. Very chilly. Windy. Nasty. We shouldn’t have been in the cold. Snow was coming to New York. Three inches, maybe more. One of those storms that blew off the lake, covered Seamore Campus. Wildly nasty. I made fists out of Columbia gloves the color of ancient pine trees, and smiled down at her in an easy and relaxed manner, a way that young women can fall for a man.

Who are you? So pretty and smart. A world of good. Purely nice. I liked her the first time I had seen her in class: thin body, tiny wrists, narrow hips, shapely legs that I could entwine within my muscled ones, short blonde hair with very little bangs, tight looking neck to kiss with tongue, long fingers that were bare of jewels.

I held out my right, gloved hand for her to shake, but she wouldn’t. I’m Gordon … Gordon Hampton. I’m a junior this year. We have American Feminist Literature together. You sit in the front and I sit in the back.

I’ve never seen you there. She blinked again, began to shiver.

You live in Naire Hall.

Abruptly she responded, feeling uneasy perhaps, feeling as if I had crossed some type of unknown line of sensibility between us, "You know everything about me."

I shook my head. Not everything.

You’ve done your homework on me, though.

I like to watch people. Sociology is my major.

You’re scaring me, Gordon. I should yell for help or try to run away from you, but you’d catch me, wouldn’t you?

I’m harmless. Really, I am. I looked to my left and then to my right. There’s no one around to help you if you did scream, Cynthia.

I can scream very loud if I have to.

The wind will block out your screams.

I could hurt you, Gordon. I’ve taken classes on self-defense.

You’re lying, I responded, smiling down at her. Why are you sitting in the cold anyway?

Don’t you know that already?

I shook my head. Of course not. Why would I know that?

She smiled up at me, beaming and glowing. A look I had become used to. A look I enjoyed and fallen for. I like you, Gordon, and I don’t even know you.

I whispered to her, Follow me, I won’t hurt you, and pulled her up from the bench, winter around us, white and crisp breath escaping the prettiness of her perfect face. An angel of sorts. A model. Virgin-like and innocent, but not naïve. Perfect in every way.

She listened, giggling. Where are we going, Gordon?

I held her hand within my own, clasped it to my glove, pressed it hard there, possibly numbed it with soothing warmth. I don’t want to tell you.

"But I hardly know you. I have to know where you’re taking me."

It doesn’t matter, Cynthia … you’ll like this place.

We walked across campus like boyfriend and girlfriend, college companions who enjoyed each other’s time, lust, ingredients of life. There was no one to admire our closeness; no one to see our entangled arms or how we glided through the wind, side by side. Just us. A couplet of sorts. Man-and-woman movement through winter. A December scene.

I wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular, she eventually confessed. I was merely watching the clouds build up in a lumpy manner. I know snow is coming soon. It’s just something I do.

What about the book, Cynthia?

I always carry a book around with me. Something else I do.

We walked clear across Seamore Park, past Edington Hall, past The Ruttenbury Planetarium, and Carlson Hall where meals were held. She trusted me, finding my fall-into eyes easy-going, nice and comforting, perhaps very green. Cynthia, I could tell, liked my smile, icy colored bangs on sloped forehead, dimples in cheeks and chin. She asked, Have you planned this for me?

I can’t tell you any of my secrets, Cynthia.

Of course you can’t. It seems silly of me to ask. But sometimes a girl just wants to know things. Like how long have you been watching me, Gordon? All semester? Since Halloween?

I can’t tell you that either. It would spoil today.

Our pace was brisk through the wind. My heart thumped within my chest. I turned around once and saw Cynthia Sinn behind me, mouth ajar slightly, rosy colored cheeks, wide eyes. As my steady vision connected with hers, she said, I need to rest, Gordon.

Surely. We stopped under Tappenpaw Bridge on the other side of Seamore Property. It was a tunnel of sorts with uncivilized and graphic graffiti decorating the walls, a passageway under a sidewalk. She handed me her book, pulled a glove off her right hand and passed it to me. What are you doing?

I need a cigarette. If you’ve been watching me like a good student, you would know I smoke.

Virginia Slims, right?

Good boy. Cynthia dug out the box of cigarettes from her expensive coat, flicked open her box and released one. Will you light it for me, Gordon?

Of course. I hadn’t smoked in four days, was trying to quit. The thought or action of smoking with her seemed plausible, perhaps unquestionable. I took the cigarette as she dug for her Bic lighter in Old Navy jeans, eventually found it. She passed the lighter to me. Gently I tucked the tip of the cigarette to my lips, and as she blocked the wind skirting through the hollow protection underneath the tunnel-like structure, I flicked the lighter, causing the cigarette’s tip to glow a warming, red hue with new life. Passing the cigarette to her, I added, Those things will kill you some day.

Cynthia Sinn smiled, replied, "For