Ever Dark

By Robert Segarra

Pen salesman Bernie Ward finds himself entangled in a web of intrigue, witchcraft, murder,
cannibalism, rape, torture, abductions, and a back-country power struggle after a mysterious
storm forces him to take refuge in a town that is trapped under a dark spell.

His only thought, day and night, is to return to his wife and the life they’ve built for themselves just a handful of miles away. But before he can do this, he is called upon to participate in the liberation of this town, formerly known as Matthew’s Corner. It has been called Ever Dark, ever since the day that it fell under the control of an evil old sorcerer and his band of inbred misfits.

(C) 1996 Robert Segarra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Segarra
• Release date: Jul 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465882332

Robert Segarra

ROBERT SEGARRA is a New York artist, writer, and musician with many writing, art and illustrated pieces to his credit. Originally published in the summer of 2007 "STILL WAITING FOR THE SUN" details the difficult life of an unmotivated woman as she receives a very bizarre inheritance that just may change her life if she has the courage to accept it. The book has been re-edited and republished as of 2016. Other books include, "MILLION DOLLAR HARRY," "EVER DARK," TEMPORARY ANGELS" and "GODS & WEREWOLVES." The long poem, "HEAVEN" was published in 2016. Some of his other book projects are "CROW HILL & OTHER POEMS" and the illustrated children's books, "IF TIGER COULD TALK" - and the holiday favorite - "THE CHRISTMAS MOUSE." About a dozen of his screenplays have been produced as films and have aired on television, and screened at film salons and festivals. There are many other projects in the works as well. His poetry has won awards. His artwork has been favorably reviewed in USA Today, and in other publications. And, he has designed artwork, posters, flyers, and clothing logos for such institutions as The Easter Seals Society of New York. Over the years, his paintings have been a part of several New York City art exhibitions, a number of which have ended up in private collections. He writes, records and produces music as the one-man band, "BILLY J BRYAN & THE AX GRINDERS." The music can be found online at CD Baby, iTunes, Amazon and many fine e-tailers. And the music can be heard online, live and archived, at various Internet radio stations, such as EGH Radio, Wig-Wam Radio, Rocker's Dive Radio, Open The Door Radio, Lonesome Oak Radio, Howard's Power Pop Stew, Take-Two Radio, KSCR, Spotify and many others sites and stations.

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EVER DARK

EVER DARK

by

ROBERT SEGARRA

Copyright 1997 Robert Segarra

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise)without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition 2011

USA

i

The Night Song

"And once again within this glen,

Another soul has wandered in,

Lured by a song she only heard

That in this place becomes a dirge."

- Robert Segarra

The Swamp People And The People On The Mountain

Hezekiah Skraeling stirred unexpectedly from a deep sleep. A not so unfamiliar sensation

had sent a chill through his body. He had been lounging about in what in most houses would be considered the parlor - a room his rag-tag family used as a sort of combination sleeping, dining and sitting room - when an icy feeling swept over him. He almost immediately had a sense of what it was. He had gone through this many times before, and in the past it had always meant the same thing. There was a new force to be reckoned with in town - one he would have to prepare himself to meet.

Hezekiah rose, pulled on his ratty overcoat and trekked out to a shack in the middle of Miller’s Swamp. Muffled thunder peels rang out and several bolts of lightning struck in the dim peaks off in the distance, as he slithered his way down into the eerie wetlands. His tall, lanky figure cast an eerie shadow across the horizon as he slunk deeper and deeper into the mud in his descent down to a mysterious shed. Inside, candles burned at a makeshift altar, handmade statues circling it, incense smoke billowing up through the soot, grime and rust covered corrugated tin ceiling. The wall behind was decorated in skins and pelts of many types, some unidentifiable, a few having thin tufts of hair that sprang out at all angles, and did not look the least bit like anything belonging to animals native to the region. A rattled Mr. Skraeling shook off the chilly evening air and muttered something unintelligible several times in a row. He then removed a tin can from his leather pouch and sprinkled some gray dust into the air. Hezekiah waited for a brief moment after each toss, then began again. Though it was cold and drafty inside the shack, sweat began to break out over his upper lip. He was being tested, and Hezekiah Skraeling was not a man to be tested. Once again he reached into his pouch and pulled forth some of the dust. This time however, he felt a markedly different sensation fill every pore of his thin and boney frame. It let him know that he had been successful in this latest attempt to achieve whatever it was he was after. And for whatever reason, he felt more than ready now to face whatever he believed had come to challenge him. Just as on the other occasions, Hezekiah assumed victory would once again be his. It was just a matter of going through the motions. Of this he felt certain.

At that very same moment, up on Raven Mountain, Booker Bass, leader and patriarch of the Vigilant clan also felt a strange sensation creep over him. There was no doubt about it, he knew that it could only mean trouble. A power struggle of a magnitude not seen for more than a decade or more was brewing, and his family was sure to be in the thick of it. He would need to get mentally and spiritually prepared in order to meet this force head-on if he was going to be successful. If his memory was correct, each time in the past that he had faced a similar situation, it was like walking out into the eye of a hurricane with nothing more than a busted umbrella, ribs poking out through tattered fabric, for protection. This time he swore he would be better prepared, but first he needed to go to the special spot on Raven mountain to make an offering, near where the spruce trees open up like a natural grotto. This was his spiritual place, one that had been in the family for as long as anyone could remember, a place where he truly felt a bond with a higher power.

What’s wrong, father? asked Justice.

Well, if mah feelings are dead on, there’s a storm breaking. An’ we’ll be right dead smack in the middle of it. Ah’ll have to git ready. You know whut to do, he told his son. Justice knew automatically to what his father referred.

Yep. I’ll go tell the others.

Good, you do that. We’ll need everbody to be ready.

And with that, Booker crept off, grabbing his best suit jacket, patched at the elbows but still presentable, and began walking up Settler’s Pass to where the grotto stood. Even at a leisurely pace, it would take fifteen minutes or so for him to reach the spot, but he was in no rush. Booker needed to rehearse what he would do and say once he reached the spot.

The ground under his feet was hard with frost. Some of the bushes still had leaves on them, as did many of the trees. And despite the cold dark nights and only the dimmest of days, with barely a ray of light to distinguish it from the evening, the vegetation somehow survived. This Booker saw as an omen of hope. He seemed to see omens in everything. And for all the visions that he and his son Justice had seen over the years, for some strange reason, they never

seemed to see when, or even if and how it would all work out for them in the end. Neither had ever been able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And, like the rest of the citizens of Ever Dark, The Vigilants knew they would just have to wait and see how everything would all turn out. There was no short-cut, no special omen, no message from the great beyond to show the hard-fought hero family that there would at last be a reward for all the sacrifices they had made, as well as all the past opportunities they had foregone in an attempt to free themselves and Matthew’s Corner from the claws of evil that had long held them. Booker Bass disappeared into the grotto to take care of his urgent business. Once he set his mind to something this was how he operated. He was a man consumed with the task at hand day and night until there was a breakthrough. Booker Bass was a special man, and this task had appeared just like every other he had taken care of in the past. Whatever this latest thing was, it would get his undivided attention. And there behind the tall naturally growing grotto, Booker retired to get done what he needed to get done. And only when he was finished with this task would he move on to the next thing on his mental list. Still, Booker was under no illusions. There was work to do, and Booker was suddenly a very busy man again.

A Storm Is a-Brewing

Dark shadows began to fall behind the Adirondacks as a lone black Volvo sedan sped along over hill after hill after hill. It was traveling at almost twice the state’s legal speed limit as the driver tried desperately to make it out of the area before the predicted bad weather hit. On top of the threat of inclement weather, night was quickly approaching. Rest stops, he knew, were few and far between and offered little in the way of amenities.

On either side of him the acres whizzed by, fence posts with barbed wire strung along to keep cows and sheep from wandering onto the road, passed quickly in the corners of his eyes. From time to time, set back from the lanes, he could see farm houses. The dimly lit sky was quickly getting darker and darker by the minute.

At the ridge crest, near the edge of the mountains in north eastern New York State, Bernie Ward looked down on Saratoga Springs. A short ways down the highway, well passed an old stand of forest, Bernie noticed a huge water tower down off in the distant valley. It had the words Ever Dark printed in large, somewhat faded letters on it. It was a name he did not recognize. He had just come from Hudson Falls and was back on his way to his home in Slingerlands, just outside of Albany. Bernie was quite familiar with this area; it was where he had grown up, and where he had always done well as the lead regional salesman for the Smith & Wharton Professional Pen Company. Most residents who were not working at the local hospital or in the food service industry were employed by Smith & Wharton. That’s just how big they were in the area. They were the leading manufacturer and supplier of pens in the county. It wasn’t easy staying number one in a region surrounded by college towns, but Smith & Wharton had managed to do so. In order to keep rivals out of the competition they had to be forever on their toes. They were able to stay number one since the founding of the company, more than eighty years ago, but only with the hard work and diligence of dedicated workers like Bernie Ward. The main customers of their top-of-the-line versions of the Smith & Wharton Scribe Series went to doctors, lawyers, and elite businessmen. But they also furnished schools, restaurants, hotels, motels, small businesses, and just about anybody who could scribble an X, or otherwise write, with a decent quality and affordable pen known as The Letterman.

Bernie had earlier this evening come from closing the deal on a major sale and wished only to get back to his wife several towns away. However, he had gotten sidetracked by a small businessman, who on the promise of throwing all of his future pen purchases Bernie’s way, had persuaded him to hang around a few moments longer. A few moments turned into fifteen minutes, and fifteen minutes turned into half an hour, and finally after nearly two hours and the realization that the man was more in need of a marriage counselor than a pen salesman, Bernie handed the gent his business card, and politely, if not at least a bit annoyed, took his leave. He had time to make up, and miles to travel, and to top it off, there was a storm on the horizon. Bernie saw it when he stepped out of the bar on Main Street, and he could see it now on the ridge of the mountains in the distance. Large, dark clouds seemed to roll in over the ridge crests with the greatest of ease, settling down on the leeward side for just long enough to gain new strength, only to begin their lumbering journey once again. Bernie doubted he would make it very far, but he at least had to try. He had to make an honest effort. It was either that, or stop off at one of the local motels that were strewn along the highway in the area, and this was something he dreaded having to do. It wasn’t merely that the accommodations were not to his satisfaction, as he would only be staying a short while, but he felt there wasn’t really much of a need for the expenditure as he lived less than fifteen miles away. Still, it seemed a long fifteen miles at this point, and he would be traveling under dangerous conditions. Rest stops were little more than public bathrooms, and he had no use for them. But even hustling now as he had been, Bernie hadn’t really gotten very far.

The trip seemed to be growing more and more treacherous with each passing minute. Trees seemed to close in from both sides of the road, the sky grew darker, and the wind started to really pick up. From time to time it would howl like a lonely, hungry dog, rising in pitch to nearly a shrill whistle. Leaves were blown out of the treetops and onto the road, making travel more and more perilous. Visibility fell to nearly nothing, and it was then that Bernie decided he would play if safe and pull off at the next comfort station to wait out this stretch of bad weather. But after the last turn on the slick, twisted road, he quickly realized he might not be getting this opportunity after all. Perhaps his luck had run out.

As he made it up over the last hill, Bernie’s Volvo began to hydroplane. He and his car began an uncontrolled descent soon after they’d reached the top. Several thousand pounds of man and machine began to almost float along down the road, whooshing by trees, fallen leaves, branches, road signs and other debris. The two came close to clipping many of these objects as they continued their uncontrolled free-fall. Sweat began to break out on Bernie’s upper lip and brow. His hands rigidly gripped the steering wheel, and his body tensed as he felt the car drifting more and more out of control. He would soon be hitting another turn in the road, and it was there that Bernie knew he would need to either regain control of the vehicle, or that he would most likely be sent tumbling helplessly off into the dark, wet, calamitous evening. He had only one option left, which at this point he doubted he could even find success with. In his mind he tried to picture himself at the perfect moment, jumping from the moving automobile, and flinging himself to safety, as the car rode off into oblivion and certain doom, coming to rest on the bottom of a cliff in a bright ball of flames that would light up the night sky. Bernie had seen drivers escape this way many times in the movies. He knew that this maneuver was not entirely impossible. But he also knew that those who had performed these stunts were big-screen trained individuals, and when all was said and done, this was no movie, and Bernie was no stuntman. He continued along for a few long agonizing moments more, and fortunately for Bernie, his stunt skills would not be tested - at least not on this evening.

Easy, girl, easy! he growled nervously to the Volvo as he eased up on the gas and let the car straighten itself out. Slowly and miraculously, the vehicle began losing momentum and Bernie was once again in control.

Okay, no more gambling for me, he said to himself, next place I see is where I’ll spend the night!

And then it was settled, at least in Bernie’s mind. He would safely wait out this storm, and he would see his wife again only when it was safe to drive again. Perhaps now with a lull in the action, he thought, he might be able to at least call his wife and let her know what had happened, and maybe he might even be able to find a place to stay with the help of a local telephone operator. The only problem with this plan, he soon realized, was the fact that his old cell phone had been on the fritz. He had turned it in for a new one, but as of yet still hadn’t gotten around to having the replacement activated. He could kick himself. He would instead have to wait until he stopped for the night somewhere before he could let his wife know he was alright. She would also have to wait until then to hear about his plan to restart the trip home again once the dangerous storm had passed. She would understand, he decided, for he had no other option at this point, and there was nothing either one of them could do about it.

Finally, just off I-20, Bernie spotted a small intersection, and just off to the left of that there was a road sign that read, Welcome to Matthew’s Corner, Population: 375; Blackberry Capital of the world. The Honorary Richard Hagen, Mayor. He drove on a little bit further, and even though night had nearly completely fallen, it was clear to Bernie that he had almost miraculously ended up in what appeared to him to be a darling little town. From what he could tell, it would easily suit his needs for the evening. Bernie knew the area like he knew the back of his hand, yet he’d never even heard of, or visited this particular town in all the years he had been traveling up and down the Hudson. Upon taking note of the welcome sign - he suddenly remembered seeing a water tower with a different name on it on the opposite side of the ridge coming down onto I-20. This puzzled him somewhat. Nevertheless, he drove on. He was exhausted. Common sense told him that he was now most likely fairly close to the local Main Street, and Bernie was cautiously optimistic about this. He drove a bit further on down the road to where he noticed a sign for a motel. Through the blurry swish of the wiper blades, he was able to make out a driveway leading off the road and up to the main building. There was a light on inside the office. He coasted into a parking spot and turned off the engine.

Back out on the road, on the reverse side of the welcome sign, and therefore previously invisible to Bernie Ward, hand written in bright red paint were the following words: Welcome to Ever Dark, Population: Your guess is as good as mine! The missing person’s capital of the world!

A Wife Starts To Worry

Patty Ward began to worry when it started getting dark and her husband still hadn’t arrived home. Even more worrisome to her was the fact that he hadn’t even telephoned to tell her he would be late. From what she could see there was no sign of a storm, and she could not understand where her husband could be at such a late hour. Bernie hadn’t mentioned any meetings or conventions he might have had to attend, and she knew of no other reason why he would be detained. He had always been on time before, for the most part. Yet she knew that there had indeed been occasions in the past when a surprise retirement party or other such get together would be organized without warning which Bernie always felt obliged to attend. Remembering this now made her feel a tiny bit better. Usually however, Bernie somehow managed to contact her during the course of the festivities, but this time, for whatever reason, he hadn’t. She wandered through their house on Ridge Drive, through the halls of the two hundred year old colonial that the couple had purchased with a down payment loaned to them by her father, trying to find something to occupy her mind. The old yellow pine wood floors and planks squeaked annoyingly as she walked barefoot up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. As she rounded the corner, beyond the dresser, lying on top of a pile of Bernie’s dirty clothes, something caught her eye. It was her husband’s cell phone. Suddenly she remembered that it wasn’t working. Unbeknownst to her, Bernie had gotten a new one, but had not gotten around to having it activated. As far as she knew, her husband only had the single cell phone, which was currently non-operational, and here it was lying right in front of her. She had no idea that her husband Bernie presently had two cell phones, neither of which were functioning. She laughed nervously to herself, trying for some sort of self-generated reassurance. And although his new phone was not yet registered or activated, a simple call to his carrier could easily have remedied this situation, but she had no way of knowing that he even had another cell. In any case, there had to be pay phones wherever he was staying, she correctly reasoned. Still, she had heard nothing from her husband, and the reason for the gap in communication was a mystery that continued to gnaw at her. Finding his inactive cell phone seemed to ease her worries a bit, but she still found it difficult to relax.

Exhausted now, she decided