Dark Matters

By T. Joseph Browder

In "Dark Matters," T. Joseph Browder presents seven tales of horror and suspense. Toby; a young boy's faithful St. Bernard is far more than he appears to be. Rogue; an icy winter road becomes the scene of unspeakable violence and retribution. Hammerfall; a simple day trip leads one man on an unexpected odyssey of heroism and horror. The Visitor; an elderly man fights an ancient evil. The Contract; a hitman takes on a contract that threatens to destroy his life and his very soul. After Hammerfall, a young man struggles for survival in a post-apocalyptic world. Educator; a teacher survives a violent assault in a city plauged by crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Joseph Browder
• Release date: Sep 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301725939

T. Joseph Browder

T. Joseph Browder was born in Lima, Ohio in 1969. An ordained minister, he holds Doctorates in Religious Humanities, Metaphysics, and an honorary Doctorate in Divinity. A student of Human Psychology, his writing is driven by an insatiable curiosity for what makes people behave the way they do, make the choices they make, and feel the way they feel. Drawing on an intimate knowledge of the evil alive in humanity, his work centers on the darker aspects of life, the sudden changes and left turns life throws at all of us, and how we react to those things that lurk around the next corner, and go bump in the night.Joe currently lives in Kansas with his wife, Marie and is hard at work on a novel.

Book preview

DARK MATTERS

T. Joseph Browder

Copyright 2012 T. Joseph Browder

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TOBY

I was eight years old the summer that Toby saved my life. It was 1977 and there was a monster loose in the streets of New York City. But that was far and away from my hometown of Lima, Ohio. The nightly news reports of a lone shooter taunting the police in that great city were mere echoes in a young boy’s ears.

It was Saturday morning. I was sprawled in front of the television, glued to the weekly exploits of Thundarr the Barbarian, the Superfriends, and Speed Buggy (vroom-a-zoom-zoom!).

Dad was sleeping in the next room. He was a machinist at the Ford engine plant just outside of town and would make it home by six most evenings. But with talk of layoffs around the plant that spring—talk that turned into reality just before Thanksgiving—he was hedging his bets by picking up a few night courses at the local junior college on Tuesdays and Fridays. Those courses qualified him for a position as a line foreman, effectively putting him beyond the reach of that round of layoffs. They also kept him out until after 2 a.m. and I missed Saturday afternoon pitch-and-catch sessions with him for most of that summer.

Mom was out showing a house. She was a realtor for Century 21 before that outfit became such a big deal. They wore the gold jacket, though, even back then. I thought she looked pretty cool in it.

I had worked my way through a half-gallon of milk and the better part of an economy size box of Super Sugar Crisp. It was my favorite cereal and I probably ate fifty pounds or more of the stuff over the course of a year.

Toby, my best friend, constant companion, and partner in crime, was lying at my side, his great shaggy head resting on his paws, tail thumping the floor as he waited for something more interesting to happen. He’d been thrust into my arms on my sixth birthday, a teddy-bear sized ball of warm, wriggling St. Bernard. He’d licked my face until saliva dripped from my chin, me giggling with delight the whole time. If it were possible to wrap unconditional love, guilelessness, and loyalty in a bundle of fur, that’s what I’d been handed.

He’ll need a name, Sam, my Dad had said. He and Mom were both grinning ear to ear. Pleased, I think, that their unexpected gift had gone over so well.

Toby, I said without hesitation.

Why Toby? Mom asked, laughing. The puppy had squirmed onto my shoulder and was busily licking my hair into a sodden mess.

Dunno, I answered. He just seems like a Toby.

And Toby it was. He’d been just over twelve pounds on that snowy late afternoon. On a beautiful summer’s morning just two years later he weighed 172 pounds and stood 32 inches at the shoulder.

It was nearing noon and Superman, Batman, et al, had once again saved the world from the Legion of Doom when I heard the front door open. Mom swirled into the room smelling of Charlie, her favorite perfume, long auburn hair flowing around the shoulders of the aforementioned gold jacket.

Morning, Sammy, she said, kneeling down to kiss my cheek and ruffle my hair. She then plunged both hands into the thick ruff at Toby’s neck and gave him a good scratching. He groaned, his massive tail whapping the floor in pleasure.

It’s too nice a day to be inside, she said. Go out and play. Get some fresh air.

My ejection from the house on Saturday mornings had become ritual that summer. At the time I thought of it as freedom. A boy and his dog unleashed upon the day, hours of adventure laid out before them like an unexplored highway. Adult hindsight tells me my mother, vibrant and beautiful at 29, simply missed a husband who, by necessity, had been spending long hours away from her. Adventure and exploration does not belong solely to young boys and their dogs on summer afternoons.

Go on, you two, she said. Scoot! With that she disappeared into the kitchen, my breakfast debris in hand.

I slipped into my Trax tennis shoes and headed for the door. Toby, no fool he, knew what that meant and hopped up, excited, nearly bowling me over on his way by. Mom was slipping my dirty bowl into the kitchen sink as we exited through the kitchen.

It may be that mothers are psychic, or just have intuitive flashes from time to time. Or it may be that my mom knew exactly what was lurking in the back of my mind at that very moment. Whatever the reason, she stopped me at the back door.

Sammy? Don’t go fooling around on the roof of the garage. Okay?

Sure, Mom, I answered, and followed my dog out the door. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I had every intention of obeying. But the thrill of heights and a majestic view—if by majestic you mean the alley behind the property and the neighbor’s yard—has an irresistible draw for an eight year-old boy. My promise lasted all of forty minutes.

We trolled the alley behind the house first, checking three doors down to see if Jake Conrad, the neighbor closest to me in age, was out and about. He’d gone off to a scratch baseball game across town with his older brother Bill and wouldn’t be back until late that afternoon. Bill was four years older and didn’t let Jake hang around him much. While I was disappointed, I was happy for Jake. I don’t think Bill knew how much his little brother loved and idolized him.

We then wandered over to the railroad tracks. They were three blocks from the house, set low in a depression. I’d lay quarters on the tracks and wait for trains to come by and squash them. I think every kid within range of a set of tracks plays that game at least once. There were no trains due for hours, though. Toby snuffled around a bit and I whacked the rails with a good-sized stick I’d found, but there was no joy to be found there either.

We ended up back home.

We had a pretty good back yard. Dad had built a swing set/jungle gym combination for me out of four-by-four and steel pipe. It was great to have but, to