The Wild Damned

By Stephen Pytak

A masked phantom carving a scarlet swath through Ohio is forecasting the apocalypse. Called "The Carrion Crow," he believes an ancient prophecy about the savagery of mankind is coming to pass.

Two fierce souls who stand in the harbinger's way could, unintentionally, prove him right. Stacia Rose is a college student, a perky cheerleader and a thrill-seeking urban explorer. Lon 'Bedhead' Stoesz is a burned out combat vet haunted by monstrous visions, in particular the spirit of a battled-scarred child. Their intense fascination with the dark leads them to confront the shadowy villain, their inner demons and an ultimate revelation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Pytak
• Release date: Mar 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301366941

Stephen Pytak

Stephen Pytak is a novelist who writes thrillers about the dark side of human nature. He also enjoys bringing his characters to life through art, photos and film. As of February 2012, he has written and self-published three novels; written 3 songs related to his characters and produced them with three different musicians; and directed 5 films of varying lengths. When not writing fiction, he works as a reporter for a daily newspaper. He resides in Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sharp flashes cut through the night, staccato like a manic strobe, illuminating a two-story house with gray siding and a creature with a dark mane that blended into the shadows.

She was at the top window, a young woman sitting just inside, leaning on the sill. In awe she stared up at the sudden bursts of heat lightning. The reflections danced off her green eyes and the silver spoon in her mouth.

Mmmmmmmmmm. She slid the spoon from her lips, coating her taste buds with a dab of name-brand peanut butter. She was eating it straight from the jar. She savored the rich taste and smooth texture of the thick, salty spread, one of her favorite snacks.

She'd been there for about a half hour with the lights off, meditating. She just suffered through an eight hour shift greeting patrons at the mall steakhouse, opening doors with a cutesy smile, a gig she thought sucked and swallowed. Her long dark brown hair smelled like onion rings and burned meat. She was glad it was her last day. Summer was almost over and she was planning to return to college in a week to start her senior year. Tired and with a thousand things on her mind, she relaxed by staring out the window and listening to the odd echoes which occasionally broke the silence that Friday night in Shaker Heights, Ohio.

The creak of the porch swing. The slam of car doors. The cry of an alley cat. The curses rolling off the tongues of teens breaking curfew.

And the occasional scream.

She grinned, entertaining herself with her morbid sense of humor. She hadn't heard any shrieks that night. But she did the week before, around 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. Sounded like a woman. Two blocks down. Maybe laughing. Maybe not. The way the world was turning, with the troubled economy driving everyone a bit mad, she believed anything was possible.

This 21-year-old brunette who called herself Stacia Rose always relished pondering sinister possibilities. She considered it one of her cute little attributes. In fact, as she studied the lights above that warm August midnight, she wondered if they were just reflections of a distant storm, or a sign that something big and nasty was headed this way.

Fate worse than death. Could end up working at the mall again next summer.

In many ways, she was the girl next door: pretty, popular, smart and talented. She was an Ohio State cheerleader who was majoring in marketing and a looker the guys said was all that.

She was Caucasian, a German-Italian mix. She stood 5 feet 7 inches tall and was slender, but had curves worth noticing. She kept her weight around 135 pounds. Her face was soft and pretty. Her lips, full, looked as if they had been sculpted by angels. Her eyes, lovely like the rest of the package, revealed a hint of her intelligence, and the flick of her eyebrows, the wheels turning inside her head. Her signature feature, her thick dark hair, flowed down to her waist.

Stacia had good parents who had good jobs, and, for lack of a better word, she had a good life growing up in this upper-middle-class home on the 18500 block of Chagrin Boulevard. It was cozy, neat and accented with quilts and crafts. On the walls surrounding her white wicker-frame bed were photos of friends, including her BFF, an upbeat blonde named Allie who lived down the street. Near her desk was a shot a newspaper photographer took of her twirling a baton. At the time, she was a high school majorette. In it, she looked as skilled as a martial artist and as sexy as a centerfold model. On her desk was a drawing tablet opened to a recent sketch she'd been detailing, a gorgeous petal-filled rose with a long stem covered with thorns. Near her computer was a second place red ribbon she received in a high school essay contest. On her bookshelf was the entry, Fifteen Ways to Pick a Lock (With Stuff I Found at Home). The mildly subversive essay unnerved a few of the judges. She lost the blue to someone who wrote about their work on a local recreation committee. Safe topic.

She had trouble describing herself in simple terms. She tried a few times in her diaries. She was sure she was some kind of freak.

She hung around with a mix of characters, including punks, skaters and wannabes, gothic types who were all a bit on the mysterious side. A year ago she dated an emo dude who swore the world was coming to an end. She didn't argue, but didn't get down about it. She was fascinated by theories of the apocalypse. Visions of society becoming tribal and savage, nightmarish for most people, woke up all kinds of strange urges in her. She dumped that guy before he got the chance to discover how strange.

Then again, she wasn't sure she knew herself.

In the past few years something inside her was changing. She was going through a period of self-discovery. She kept track of her adventures in a set of spiral notebooks she kept in her computer desk drawer. They were accounts of her good times and bad, dates and sexual frustrations, sticky experiments, successes and failures. She often wrote about things which were much darker than that voluptuous mane of hers, including her inky fascination with the macabre.

Sometimes she thought she was a masochist. Sometimes a sadist. Whatever she was, she was sure there was a name for it in the devil's dictionary.

As she stared skyward, bursts of heat lightning revealed the gray clouds passing overhead. Unmoored ghost ships, haunting, otherworldly and mysterious. Their silver linings as bright as Heaven.

After a few more dazzling moments, Mother Nature pulled the plug and darkness resumed its reign.

That could have been Stacia's cue to hit the sack, but she was wide awake and the gears in her head were turning double time. Restless. She worked out another scoop of peanut butter as fleeting images tickled her brain.

A few weeks ago she took note of a two-story white-brick building with a no trespassing sign on the door. It was a former laundromat on the other side of town, a creepy place she passed on the way to work every day. It closed more than a year ago. Graffiti artists were using it as a canvas and rock-throwing vandals, for target practice. It appeared the second floor was some kind of attic. Midday shadows suggested something unique was up there. Odd shaped. Curious.

She licked the spoon's curved metal end clean, dropped it in the jar on her desk, then stripped out of her work clothes. She dropped her sweaty blouse and slacks on a pile near the door then broke out some gear the color of night: a pair of worn jeans, a skin-tight turtleneck, her punk leather boots with deep-lugged soles which were perfect for treading in places unknown, a leather belt and some accessories. They included a pouch filled with more than a dozen tiny tools no bigger than a nail file, a broken-key extractor and other stainless steel lock picks.

She tightened her boot laces, holstered a right-angle military flashlight in the plastic O-ring on her belt, then topped her costume with a bit of style. She adorned her right ring finger with a shiny, silver full-finger band. It had a thorn tip, something she thought looked really cool. She slid a stick of cinnamon gum between her jaws, pocketed the pack, then slipped out of her room.

The house was filled with a dark calm, interrupted only by the sounds of swaying branches tap-tap-tapping against a window. Determined not to stir the folks, she expertly tiptoed down, avoiding the steps which creaked. She opened, closed and locked the kitchen door with the grace of a master thief.

A rushing breeze and the whine of the old wooden swing greeted her as she stepped onto the porch. She took a deep breath. Anxious and feeling very alive, she leaped off the front steps and started down the street.

She lived most of her life here in this tree-lined community dotted with 19th century homes. And as she embarked on this rather early Saturday morning tour of the neighborhood she was reminded of a few things she liked about it, like the trees, ash, oak and maple. At night, backlit by the moon, they looked possessed, ready to pounce and suffocate the life out of the attractive lass. Her face brightened at the thought.

She headed west, walking over a mile, until the street became Kinsman Road. A strange tickle crawled up the back of her neck. She stopped, sensed something. Felt like she was being watched, possibly followed. She listened for footsteps, but heard only the wind coursing through branches.

Paranoid.

She shrugged and continued on, eventually turning off at the former dry-cleaning operation on the 14500 block.

Sticking to the shadows, she peeked in the windows for any signs of a burglar alarm. Seeing none, she slipped around to the back door and pulled out her tools. She picked the lock in 15 seconds then turned the knob, half expecting to hear sirens screaming.

The slight wail of the hinges was music to her ears.

Yes!

Aside from being a pretty face, freaky and maybe a bit masochistic, there was one thing Stacia could say for sure about herself. She was what adventurers and journalists, thriller novelists and municipal police called an urban explorer.

It was something she tried for fun when she was 15. It became an obsession for a while. Now she only did it occasionally for kicks. In one of her diaries, she said her fascination with it started innocently enough: I think it's because I grew up in an area with abandoned buildings everywhere. And there's not much to do. I ended up sneaking into a lot of places in high school and it just kind of continued on.

While she loved taking these forbidden jaunts after hours, she wasn't a thief or a vandal. She didn't do it to take pictures, as some creepers were known to do. And she didn't do it because she was some sort of history buff who enjoyed stumbling upon antiquities.

The shapely silhouette crept in and allowed herself to be eclipsed by the shadows. She turned a corner. An unusual sight stopped her dead in her tracks. A buzz of adrenaline shot up her spine, a mix of fear and excitement.

Cool.

She faced what looked like large black menacing specters, more than 50. Of course, she knew they were only garment bags and clear plastic covers hanging on racks about 6 feet off the ground. She stared at the giant ghostly shapes for a few moments. She wondered what it would be like if all of a sudden they came to life and jumped her. Dark places turned her on, ones which were off limits or dangerous in particular. Mystified by the shadows before her, she rubbed her right hand along her hip then across her chest. She took a step back, leaned on a desk, then felt her elbow nudge something lightweight and plastic.

She turned, snapped out of fantasy land and caught it before it hit the floor. It was a plastic container filled with pins. If it fell, it would have made an awful racket.

Whew.

She searched for the stairwell up. It was just past a collection of dusty dry-to-dry machines, a pitch black void. Before venturing forth, she stopped and listened.

Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Don't think anyone lives here.

She reached in, found the banister, took the first step. Adrenaline rushed through her. She felt like she was in a haunted house, curious about the next thrill.

A crack and spill tingled her spine.

What the...?

She froze. Her mind raced, wondering what could have made that kind of noise.

The pins.

She knew she didn't put them too close to the edge of that table. There was no way for them to fall off.

Unless...

She heard a shuffle of feet.

Shit.

She was not alone. Someone had come through the back door, the way she came in, the way she'd eventually have to go out.

Shit!

She held her position and listened, unsure if her night was completely ruined or was just getting interesting.

Silence reigned.

She lightly tapped her fingers off her hip as she debated her next move. Not eager to turn back to investigate and possibly come face to face with either the owner of the place or the cops, she continued up to the mysterious second floor. She tiptoed slowly, carefully, trying not to make a sound.

Five more to go.

The third from the top was the cliché.

Fuck.

Her soles made it cry out terribly. She rolled her eyes in frustration.

The footsteps downstairs grew louder, drawing closer. Someone was turning the corner, about to enter the stairwell.

Stacia reached the top, poked her head through the doorway, then shuddered.

Oh!

An ancient store mannequin, female, bald, nude and dusty, was standing upright in the middle of the room, illuminated by a hint of angel-blue shining through the window. The street light also revealed the remains of other tailor's figures scattered about, including a plastic female head and torso. Creepy. There were a few blankets on the floor in the corner. She could tell the local riffraff had been there. Streaks and scribbles of black and purple spray paint marred the walls. She also saw a few beer cans and cigarette butts. She half expected to see a sticky jar of petroleum jelly laying around. The only other things she could see without turning on her flashlight were an old garment rack on wheels and hangers, some scattered about, some sheathed in clear plastic coat protectors. As she stepped in, she realized there weren't many places to hide.

Wonderful.

The stranger on her tail had just entered the vertical shaft.

She licked her lips and rubbed her fingers together as her fight or flight juice surged. Her eyes darted around quickly as her mind raced.

Her pursuer's light toe taps drew closer.

She noticed the wall aside the doorway was chewed out. Either someone was starting a demolition or renovation project, or vandals just decided to get the lead out. Thinking fast, Stacia backed into the gap. She clenched her fists, preparing for the worst, ready to use desperate measures if necessary.

The worn step squeaked worse than it did before.

She held her breath.

The stranger entered and, like Stacia, was startled by the room's frightening centerpiece. A young woman, she grabbed her chest at the sight. The blue light revealed she was a blonde. She had short hair. The ends tickled her shoulders. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a sky-blue tee. With only silence and strange objects greeting her, the milky-whites of her eyes widened with trepidation. She bit her lip, unsure whether to venture forth into the dark or bolt down and out.

Stacia growled with frustration. She recognized her pursuer, and wasn't too happy to see her there. Dammit! She felt her night out was ruined. With a burst of steam, Stacia charged, clamped the girl's mouth and tackled her.

Both landed on their knees, hard with a thump which echoed through the place. Stacia's fingertips muffled the blonde's cry for help.

"What are you doing?" Stacia growled. She released her grip long enough to allow her prey to confess.

"What are you doing?" Allie asked.

You know.

Thought you grew out of that.

"I don't like being followed."

Sorry. It's just...I dunno. You passed the house. I saw you. Tried your cell. Got your voicemail. So...?

You shouldn't be out here, Stacia said, as she listened for any other signs of life.

Yeah? What about you? I don't get you sometimes.

What?

Duh.

You know why I never tell you about it? Don't think you'd understand.

C'mon, Stace. I'm a psych major.

Stacia rolled her eyes. Oh please!

Keep your voice down, the blonde said, shushing her.

What? You afraid somebody'll hear?

Well...

Stacia put on a devilish grin, fascinated by the fear crawling up Allie's spine. She could almost feel it, the dread of being someplace no one in their right mind would be at 2:33 a.m.

Look, I kinda have a thing for it. It's kinda fun. Kinda strange.

Allie's face contorted at the sight of the delinquent spray paint squiggles on the walls, the dirty blankets in the corner, the head and torso of the antiquated mannequin staring up at her. Kinda crazy.

The knock tickled Stacia's deviant side. She started breathing heavy, wrapped her right hand around Allie's neck and pressed her full-finger thorn ring against the girl's windpipe. You know, she said through clenched teeth, maybe you're right.

Allie's eyes widened. She couldn't believe it. Stacia was choking her. Ulp!

I mean, what kind of people mess around places like this in the middle of the night? Kids screwin' off. Maybe a few bums. The guy who owns the dolls. Bet he's got a key. And who knows what he'd do if he found you passed out up here, Stacia said. She slapped Allie's denim-clad backside, as if making a pass.

The blonde struggled for air. Stace...

You probably wouldn't even know 'em. To you, he'd just be a shadow. Stacia sensually slid her left hand along Allie's waist. Her fingers snagged the rim of her friend's shirt, slipped under and continued north.

Allie quivered as she felt them massage her midriff. Stace...

Stacia could gauge the girl's level of fear. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, she figured it was a solid 6.

Probably wouldn't even see his face, Stacia hissed, as her left hand crept up the blonde's abdomen.

Hey! Allie struggled as she felt fingernails brush against her sports bra.

But the lady in black had a really good grip on her prey. She pulled the frightened nymph's dumbstruck face closer to hers. Her lips skimmed across Allie's cheek. Her hot cinnamon breath tightened the girl's nerves.

The world's going to hell, Allie. In places like this, you can really watch it go. I think it's kind of a turn on.

Frustration, fright and anger made Allie's eyes water. She fought and fought. Her fear level hit 9.

Stacia felt one of Allie's tears tap the back of her hand. The tiny splash rippled through her heart. So she released her.

Allie fell forward onto the plastic half woman gazing up at the ceiling. She bounced off its hollow body. The blow sounded like a bass drum thud. The blonde landed on a dusty pile of cobweb-covered fabric. It stuck to her butt. Jeez! She pushed it off and skittered away, breathing heavy, totally frightened.

I never know what I'm gonna find out here. And sometimes that's the best part, Stacia said quite honestly.

Allie held her chest in an effort to calm her thundering heart. Then she brought her fingers up to her throat, the area Stacia had pressed that thorn ring into. It stung. Then her nose started to run red.

Stacia noticed, reached into her back pocket, pulled out a tissue and approached.

Allie inched back, unsure what to expect.

It's O.K., Stacia said in her kindest tone, trying to calm her.

Allie reluctantly allowed the beast she thought was her best friend to tend to her.

Stacia wiped away the hint of blood dripping onto the blonde's top lip. She tried to remember the last time the girl got a stress nosebleed. School dance? Her parents' divorce? She felt guilty for hurting her, but believed it was for the best. Allie, look, I care about you a lot. So do me a favor.

Yeah?

You see me walkin' down the street around quarter after one in the morning all dressed in black, don't follow me. Stacia got to her feet then offered Allie a hand up.

Yeah. Allie took it.

The two started down the blackened stairwell. Allie cursed the haunted third step from the top. They picked up the fallen pins and made sure to leave the place as they found it.

Perfect, Stacia said.

Allie rolled her eyes. Whatever.

As the two walked home, Allie preached. While it got on Stacia's nerves, she couldn't deny the girl had a couple good points.

So, is this what you're gonna do back at school?

Oh, I don't know, Stacia said in a sing-song tone.

Of course she did. And Allie knew it. That's Co-lum-bus, Allie said, sounding out the name of the city as if it were some forbidden place.

I already hit all kinds of places out there.

Never told me about it.

Stacia shrugged. She reached into her pocket for another stick of gum. She offered Allie one.

The blonde took it. Ever hear the words 'crime rate?'

Yeah, Stacia said with a mouthful.

I heard they eat people out there.

Stacia grinned. That was a joke, as far as she knew. When you going back?

Next Saturday, Allie said.

Allie went to school at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. Stacia said she was driving back next Friday. While talking about everything they had to do before the start of classes, Stacia got a good look at the scratch she had put on Allie's neck. It was an inch long.

Jeez! Sorry about that.

I'll live.

If anyone asks, just tell 'em you were attacked by an OSU fan. Stacia was referring to the sports rivalry between the Buckeyes and the Wolverines.

You serious about what you said back there?

What?

When you were all about to rape me you said you thought it was cool the world was going to hell. Said it was a 'turn on.' Allie made quote marks with her fingers.

The brunette bobbed her head half seriously.

So, why don't you just come out and say it?

What? Stacia asked.

You're shootin' for a Darwin Award. Allie said. She was referring to the slang term for people stupid enough to contribute to the survival of the fittest by eliminating themselves from the gene pool before their bloodline could be carried on.

Fuck you! Stacia laughed.

Tell me I'm wrong.

Stacia tried to conjure a comeback, but her tired brain couldn't overcome her tingling funny bone. Some social worker you're gonna be.

Yep, Allie said, trying to stop laughing. Serious question.

What?

Being serious now.

O.K., Stacia said, trying to make a straight face.

I've known you what, since fifth grade?

Uh-huh.

"I know what I want to do after school, if I can get a job."

"Big if," Stacia said. The nation's rising unemployment rate put a lot of doubt in their minds.

And you know, I want to meet somebody. Settle down. Maybe have kids.

Sure.

Far as I know, you want a career in marketing. Advertising. Design. Something like that, Allie said.

Somethin' like that.

I don't think you want to work at the steakhouse all your life.

Not really.

Even though that might be the case, Allie said.

Stacia couldn't deny it.

But, Jesus, the way you run around. I dunno, Allie said, frustration building up in her.

Stacia stopped and put her hands on her hips, an expectant look on her face. Allie had something to say. Just spit it out.

I don't know what you're looking for, Stace. But I have a feeling, when you find it, when you start to struggle, it's not just going to up and stop.

Stacia raised an eyebrow, entertained the thought. Huh. Wonder what Darwin would have said about that.

So, when I see you off Friday, what do I say? Good-bye? Nice knowing ya?

Stacia, who believed almost anything was possible, pondered that but didn't tell Allie what she was thinking, which was quite morbid. She figured she didn't have to say it. In many ways, this wild child who was part of this 21st Century doom generation figured it was simply written all over her.

Catch ya later.

Chapter 2

Cool breezes swept through the 100 block of West 11th Avenue in Columbus the morning she returned.

Stacia zoomed up in a black Japanese hybrid, a blues harmonica wailing from her speakers. The compact's fierce-looking tail lights glowed as she parked in front of a two-story brick house.

The brunette stepped out and stretched, her legs stiff after the two-and-a-half-hour drive. Her fitted tee featured the name of a local new wave revival band, Trifecta. It crept up and out of her blue jeans, exposing her trim and shapely midriff. She leaned against her car door for a moment. Her dark green eyes wandered.

The dorm she'd lived in for the past two years looked like a family homestead which stood for generations. Cozy in some ways. Creepy in others. She liked the dimly lit hallways in particular. It contained six student rooms, including hers, a single on the second floor. The well-tended lawn, leafy trees and late August overcast skies gave the place a picturesque quality.

Returning to familiar haunts, thinking about everything she liked, loved and loathed about college life, her face registered a subtle range of emotions. Joy and anticipation to embark on this, her senior year. Curiosity about the city's dark recesses which she longed to explore. Excitement about the potential dangers beyond. She took a deep breath, readying herself for the good, the bad, the thrilling, the dull and the unknown.

The winds picked up, blowing a potato chip bag across the parking lot as she grabbed one of her suitcases and lugged it up to the front door.

Two guys were sitting on the porch. They didn't live here. Stacia had a feeling they had nothing better to do that afternoon but wait for her to show up.

One was a mulatto dude wearing blue