Friend

By Franklin E. Wales

Four years ago a presence came to Coral Beach, Florida, and has been quietly feeding on the hearts and souls of the population ever since. Now the time has come to harvest what had been sown. As the death toll rises in an orgy of spilled blood, all that stands between this evil and the town is a broken-down pastor and his handful of life’s castoffs. To win they must first understand what they are facing. To lose means to bring Hell to Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franklin E. Wales
• Release date: Jan 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465931719

Franklin E. Wales

The author of five novels and numerous shorter works of fiction and nonfiction, Frank prefers the title of Storyteller to Novelist or Journalist. "It's a time honored tradition passed down through our parents and our grandparents," he says. "No matter what I am writing, it is my goal to entertain you with the story I'm telling." Born and raised in Conway, NH, Frank now lives with his beautiful photographer wife, Jacki, in the South Florida home they share with their two dogs and a cat named Oz (as in Wizard of). www.FranklinEWales.com

Book preview

A master artisan of the macabre. No other author comes close to disturbing me to the point of sleeplessness. FRIEND, proves no different. --Bill Cassinelli, Bangor Horror Examiner

FRIEND

By

Franklin E. Wales

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

EFW Publishing on Smashwords

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Deadheads: Evolution

Copyright © 2011 by Franklin E. Wales

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Friend

Franklin E. Wales

This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or person living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Text © 2011 Franklin E. Wales. Author photograph © 2011 Jacki Wales. Cover art copyright © 2011 Joseph Jody Adams. Interior illustration © 2011 D. Rano

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

EFW

Publishing

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 20

Chapter 40

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Also Available

End Credits

For Jacki, my Wife, my Life, my Reason.

PROLOGUE

—June—

Ruthie Golob sat on the floor of her parents living room surrounded by four of her friends. Outside a dreary Florida rainstorm pounded down. The curtains had been drawn and several candles were placed strategically around the room providing an atmosphere of flickering light. The occasional crack of thunder outside only added to the effect.

Are you sure these things work? Trish asked, a bit nervously.

Of course they do, Ruthie replied, opening the box. The Spirit Board has been around forever. She placed the board and its triangle pointer in the center of the five teenagers. Things don’t last forever if they’re not real.

Oh really? Randy said. Then tell me why it says, ‘Parlor Game’ on the box?

Because, Ruthie paused, searching for a reason. Because the stores wouldn’t sell it if it said passage into the spirit world.

Come on, Randy, Butch said. Are you scared, or what? Sit down with the rest of us…Course if you’re scared you could—

Grudgingly Randy took his place cross-legged in the circle on the floor. Still sounds like bullshit to me, he said.

Randy, you’ve got to believe, Ruthie explained. Otherwise you’ll block their entry.

And where did you get your experience in this shit? he asked.

Ruthie rolled her eyes, ignoring him. Everybody place your fingertips lightly on the pointer, she said. Personally, she didn’t believe any of the mumbo-jumbo, but if she could make her friends believe she did, maybe they’d fall for it. And when her older brother Jacob, who was hiding in the closet, spoke through the hidden speaker, they’d shit in their pants. Now that was the way to pass a boring-assed Saturday afternoon.

On Ruthie’s orders, the five of them placed their fingers lightly on the pointer. Okay, everyone close your eyes and imagine a single candle flame in a dark room. When the pointer begins to move, you may open your eyes…But not until then. Once we open the gateway the spirits can enter. Until then keep your minds on the flame.

Ruthie closed her own eyes, lest someone peek and notice. Concentrate, she said in her most solemn voice. She wanted to peek herself, but fought against the impulse. Spirits… Spirits… We wish to talk with you. Are there any among you that are willing to speak with us?

Silence.

Spirits, hear our plea. Answer us. Are you there?

Ever so slightly the pointer moved. All eyes opened.

It’s working! Susan said, surprised.

Ruthie’s moving it, Randy sighed.

Shut the fuck up, Butch fired back, both of you.

Spirits, are you here with us now? Ruthie was prepared to nudge the pointer, but to her amazement, it seemed to be heading toward YES on its own. Someone was helping. Or perhaps they all were, without realizing it; wanting so much to believe in the crap.

I don’t like this, Susan said.

Ruthie, knock it off, Randy said. You’re scaring Susan.

It’s not me, Randy, Ruthie said. It’s one of you fools.

Then take your fingers off, Randy demanded.

I can’t. We need—

If we’ve opened the so-called gateway, Randy said, then one less set of fingers won’t hurt.

It was moving now without her help. Why not? Ruthie removed her fingers. The pointer edged on toward YES, and stopped over it. Do you believe, now? She placed her fingertips back on the pointer. No use in trusting too much in their enthusiasm.

"Shit," Randy whispered.

Are you a friend? Ruthie asked. The pointer slipped from the word and stopped. Are you a friend? she asked again. It slid back to YES.

How do you know it’s telling the truth? Butch asked.

Because it has to, Ruthie explained. We hold the power. Without us, it has to return to the other side. Oh this is sweet, she thought. Ruthie knew she damn sure wouldn’t have been taken in if one of them tried to pull this shit off. Ruthie bit the corner of her lip, stopping a smile. She had been held back a year due to childhood sickness, and was tired of their jokes about her being sixteen in a class full of fifteen year olds. This would set their asses straight.

Spirit, what is your name? Okay, Jacob, it’s Showtime. What-is-your-name? Come-On-Jacob… What is yo—

The pointer shot across a series of letters, hesitating slightly as it did so…N-A-M-E-I-S-

"My Name is Al-fred," Jacob croaked through the hidden speaker. Except for Trish, everyone yanked their hands away from the pointer.

Shit. Randy whispered.

Alfred, do you know us? Ruthie asked.

Yes.

Prove it.

The one called Susan…

Susan stiffened.

…is dating the one named Randy. But when he went away last weekend she went to the movies with Trish’s cousin from Texas.

What the fuck? Randy looked at Susan. You said you were going to the movies with Trish, not her cousin.

Susan glared at Trish, who was still looking down at the pointer. But how? Her face flushed.

The spirits know all, Ruthie answered. Never mind the fact that Trish had told her all about it. Can you tell us anything else?

*

Trish felt cold. She stared at the pointer; the others were a million miles away. She hadn’t even heard ‘Alfred’s’ voice. When the pointer had first moved, she had felt tremors through her entire body. Her right shoulder flinched and she looked toward it. There was something there, but it was blurry. She closed her eyes, opened them again. Better, but still out of focus. It was a girl wearing a full white nightgown. Long straw colored hair flowed over her shoulders. The face was faint, almost faded. Undistinguishable.

Who are you? Trish’s mind asked.

The girl brought one finger to her lips in a silencing motion. With the other hand she pointed toward the board. Trish looked. Hers were the only fingers still on the pointer. The others were occupied with something else unaware of what was happening. She remembered: N-A-M-E-I-S—Name is. Name is what?

The pointer quickly and silently sailed back and forth across the board: F-R-I-E-N-D.

Friend? her mind asked.

Yes, a voice inside, yet distant, answered. Am I welcome?

Yes.

*

What else can you tell us? Ruthie asked again.

"Your brother, Jacob wants to see her naked."

Ruthie grimaced. God, Jacob, she thought.

Susan sucked in her breath. What the—?

The closet door banged open and Jacob dashed out. "Yaa—oww!" he yelled. Ruthie fell backwards in laughter.

Fucker! Butch yelled, launching himself at Jacob. Together they rolled across the floor.

Randy was not impressed. Truth be known, he’d been scared shitless. You Assholes, he said, standing.

Bitch! Susan spat at Ruthie. You planned all this.

Yeah, Ruthie managed between bursts of laughter. And you should have seen yourselves. She hugged herself tightly, tears running down her face.

Well, Susan said, I guess it was kinda funny.

Fuck that, Randy said, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Trish looked around the room. What happened? she asked.

What happened? Ruthie set us up, that’s what happened, Susan said, lunging at Ruthie. And now its payback time! She dug her fingers into Ruthie’s ribcage, tickling.

Trish was confused. "Didn’t anybody see—"

Shhh, the voice inside said.

II

The harder Trish tried to remember the apparition she had seen, the more it slipped away. Wrapped in the security of her own bed, with the smell of freshly washed sheets filling her head, the events of the day seemed distant. Perhaps there hadn’t been anything there at all. Perhaps it was all an elaborate daydream spun from Ruthie’s theatrics. That would be the logical explanation… but it didn’t seem like the truth.

Friend? she whispered into the darkness.

Yes.

Trish strained her eyes. Where are you?

Close your eyes.

What?

Look within.

Trish closed here eyes. There she was, a fuzzy pale silhouette.

Don’t be scared, Trish. All is well.

Are you my friend? She whispered.

Yes.

What are you?

What do you think?

A guardian angel?

So be it.

How come no one else saw you?

Because you are special.

I am?

Yes…Trish, why did you call me tonight?

I don’t know. To see if you were real, I guess.

And?

And because I was lonely.

What would you like to talk about?

Ruthie, I guess. She made me so mad. I mean it’s bad enough she set the whole thing up to scare us, but to embarrass Susan that way, really sucked.

What way?

Telling everyone about her cheating on Randy was wrong. Susan said it embarrassed the hell out of her, and now Randy’s pissed.

What about Jacob?

Trish had to think for a moment. No, she finally said. I’m not really mad at him. Ruthie’s my friend, I thought. Jacob helped, but she is the one who set it all up."

What should be done about it?

I don’t know. I would just like to see her get embarrassed sometime. Maybe knock her down a bit, you know?

Trish, it is hard for me to be here. I’m weak from the crossover. We can talk again when I’ve built up some strength.

But…

NO! When I have built up my strength, and not until.

Okay.

Goodnight, Trish. And remember, if you need me; just call me with your mind.

III

Students, as this school year comes to an end, we here at Coral Beach High School are proud to assemble here to present our outstanding achievement awards.

Trish sat listening to Mrs. Henderson drone out names of departments and students. Each student walked up to receive a paper certificate to prove how great they had done in their particular subject. Rah–rah–rah. She knew most of the names and faces, but wouldn’t call any of them friends. That was until the phys-ed award for girls was called, and Ruthie’s name was announced.

Susan leaned closer to whisper in her ear. That’s Ruthie, she said. All brawn and boobs, no brains!

Ruthie crossed the stage and received her award. As she pulled away from the podium, the hem of her wraparound skirt snagged the edge. Unaware of the situation, Ruthie felt only a tiny tug from her skirt as she stepped away. Wanting to appear nonchalant, she gently tugged back with her body. The podium did not give. Her skirt did. Torn from her body, it fell gracelessly to the floor, leaving her standing in front of 250 students in her silk blouse and pink panties.

Horrified, Ruthie turned and ran off stage, revealing that one side of her underwear had slid into the crack of her ass. The audience howled; catcalls rang throughout the auditorium. Randy’s voice rose about the rest of the crowd, Nice to SEE you Ruthie!

Thankfully, it was the last award to be presented, and the ceremony ended, allowing the student body to head for lunch. Trish was amazed at just how many people had captured the event on their cell phone cameras. Randy had worked his way across most of the students talking them into sharing their pictures with him so he could post them on the web.

After lunch, Trish coasted through the remainder of the day. Her last class of the school year was her Biology final, the one subject that had always been beyond her grasp. The exam, at least, was multiple choice. Still, she sat staring at the page, her head pounding. Damn, she thought, I need help.

A, C, A, B…

Huh?

The answers: A, C, A, B… Better hurry, class is almost over.

IV

Trish had finished with time to spare. Enough time to gather her things, and wait impatiently for the bell–School was over for the year. When the bell finally rang Trish joined the flow of students pouring out of the doors for the last time until fall. She still couldn’t believe she had finished the test with so much time to spare.

As she neared the bus staging area, Trish felt a hand grab hold of her ass and squeeze. Snapped out of her daydream, she turned to see Steve Leighton leering at her. Nice ass, he said. Maybe this summer you’ll give me some more of it.

Bastard, she spat back, stepping away. Trish watched as Steve pushed his way through the crowd toward the buses. It was obvious from her viewpoint that he was copping a few more feels along the way. Her stomach knotted up. Somebody should break his frigging fingers, she thought.

Without warning, Steve pitched forward toward the asphalt. His backpack went sprawling away as he flung his hands out to break the fall. The first bus pulled into place.

Trish screamed.

The driver swerved, barely missing Steve’s head.

His hands were not so lucky.

The chatter of anxious teenagers was suddenly overridden by the sounds of Steve’s screaming. All eyes stared at the boy squirming on the asphalt, with hands that had been reduced to bleeding pulp-flesh, and protruding splinters of bone.

V

In bed, Trish closed her eyes to squeeze back the forming tears.

Friend? she whispered. Are you there?

Yes, I’m here.

Ruthie, the test, Steve; you caused them all, didn’t you?

Yes.

Why?

It’s what you wished.

But I didn’t mean—

Yes you did.

Okay. But I didn’t believe anything would happen. She fought the impulse to scream. I think maybe you better go away.

Forever?

Yes…No, I don’t know. I just know that right now, I don’t want you around. It’s my fault, I guess, what happened…But it’s yours too.

Trish, if a guardian angel leaves forever, it can never return. Never, Trish. You’ll be all alone, again…Is that what you want?

No. But I can’t handle all this right now. It isn’t right. I thought angels brought good, not bad.

Angels bring what is asked of them…we know no good or bad.

I still think you better go.

Tell you what, Trish—I can slip back out of the way. I’ll still be here when you need me, but I will wait for the day you call.

If I call.

When. You’ve forgotten, Trish, angels know the future… Goodbye for now.

Goodbye, Friend, she whispered aloud. There in the darkness of her own room, Trish had never felt so empty, so alone.

—NOVEMBER—

Four Years Later

Now my brothers, who took sides with me.

The ones who stayed will one day see.

We’ll walk this land till the end of time.

Stealing evil souls, until they’re all mine.

Fallen Angels—From the Book Of Fallen Angels

1

My Dearest Sister, Dot,

I pray this letter finds you in good health. It seems ages since our last correspondence. I long to share your company, to once more bask in the warmth of your laughter, though I fear I shall never have that opportunity again.

So much has transpired since our last communication. I tried to call you several times before I remembered you had gone to Connecticut on vacation. As you know, I have been here for what seems ages now, though in reality, only slightly over two years. Damn the Doctors and their recommendations for a warmer climate. Life has lost its simple joys, since my dear Sarah passed last year. I struggle daily against overwhelming odds.

Perhaps it is due to this struggle that my strength has weakened, that my resistance is so low. I am no longer in my youth, and maybe I have been playing a young man’s game. I met the Dark One last night. I have felt his presence for some time now, but it wasn’t until last night that I faced him. He asked me to walk with him, to cross over to the other side. He promised I would return safely.

Of course I realize the absurdity of that. I am aware one does not cross over and return. I am aware of these things, now, for it is daylight. Last night, in the darkness, I was not so sure. I stood in the bathroom with my straight razor. Praise God I put it down unused.

Today I am aware, the night, however, approaches swiftly. In the darkness I am not sure I shall be in control of my rationality. I fear I may accept the offer. Even now the thought of crossing over to learn the age-old secrets of death and returning, excites the mind. I have always longed to be an explorer, as you will recall from our childhood games. What if it is true? I wonder, though I know better.

I have grown so weary from this battle of living alone.

So today I write this letter as the sun is setting. I shall drop it in the post shortly and await the nightfall. If you do not hear from me soon, remember me. Remember the simple joys we shared all through our lives. For if you do not hear from me again soon, I fear I will have crossed over.

All My Love to You, Dear Sister,

Hank

Dot Mason put the letter down, and re-read the first one she had opened that day. The one that came in an overnight envelope, not that it had done much good. She’d been out of town when it arrived, and now it was too late.

Dear Mrs. Mason,

It is with great sorrow that I inform you of the death of your brother, Hank Jackson, on the date of November 10th. It seems Hank fell asleep behind the wheel of his Buick with the motor running and the garage door closed. The doctor has assured me it was quite painless for him.

Hank had expressed a desire to be buried here in Florida next to his late wife, Sarah. Unless I hear from you by the 15th I shall see that this is done so. All attempts to reach you by phone have proven futile, so I am sending this letter.

As you are the only surviving heir, it is extremely important that you contact me ASAP

Sincerely,

Reverend Vincent Custer

The postmark on Hank’s letter showed it to be November 10th, the day of his reported death. The Reverend’s letter was posted two days later. Hank was dead and buried and she just now knew over a week and a half later.

There were so many things to be done. Where to begin? Dot leaned back in her chair and closed her hands over her eyes.

As she wept over the loss of her brother, Dot asked God to forgive her brother for taking his own life, and to forgive her for being on vacation when Hank had obviously needed her. Why had she insisted in taking a three week holiday in Connecticut? Why didn’t she go to see her brother instead?

2

It may be a small world, but it can be a large country if you are hiding. That is exactly what Jacob Golob had been doing for the past three years of his life. He’d finally stopped looking over his shoulder two weeks ago, that seemed reason enough to return home to Coral Beach, Florida.

Three years ago, tomorrow night, Jacob had left home at seventeen. He had begged for mercy, been granted one stay of execution, and took it. Three years ago, Jacob Golob had been another person.

If one had looked closely enough back then, he was sure they would have seen the underlying look of those big-eyed children on gas station tapestries: skittish, innocent, and sad. Three years ago tomorrow, by 6:30 in the evening, Jacob had taken all he could. Much more than any child should have to.

Three years later it was homecoming. Time to draw the final curtain on his personal Greek Tragedy. He slid the .44 Magnum handgun into his backpack and climbed aboard his