Shadow Creek: The Doors of the Ancients, Book 1

By Joe Adamo

Maybe there's something in the water... or maybe it's just that secrets and fear bring out the worst in people, but the residents of the small forest town of Shadow Creek are not quite normal.

Following a tragic accident, Jake, a timid 15-year-old, now stuck with his abusive stepfather, is forced to move to Shadow Creek and into a small house that terrifies the locals and has been dubbed by them as The Haunted Cottage. The mysterious cottage, Jake finds, was once owned by his biological father, and he soon acquires clues, left behind by his father, that lead him to discover the secret of the cottage.

Only a handful of people know about the Doors of the Ancients, and discovering these portals to different and often dangerous worlds is more of a curse than a blessing. But is Jake desperate enough to overcome his fear and be free from the tyranny of his stepfather and the madness of Shadow Creek? Is he desperate enough to believe in the messages left behind by his father, a man who the locals believe to be a demon? Could a timid boy be reckless enough to unravel the secrets of Shadow Creek?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Adamo
• Release date: Mar 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311776242

Book preview

THE DOORS OF THE ANCIENTS – BOOK 1

Shadow Creek

Joe Adamo

Copyright 2006, 2012 by Joe Adamo

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

End & Beginning

Date and time unknown

It was behind him, constantly getting closer. Every breath he pulled was a struggle for air, every step he took was one more than he thought his leaden legs could take him, and his will to go on was waning like the dim light of the moon through the growing mass of clouds above. The tall grass he had been running through for over an hour, the tall grass that he hoped he could hide in, was thinning out. Ahead was a line of low, jagged hills. Maybe there would be an escape when he got there, a way out… if he could just make it that far.

Then the harsh noise came again, cleaving the air. The beast was calling to its kin; a screech like sharpened steel beams scraping against a ceramic wall; a sound that pierced his brain like ice picks. Joseph crashed to the ground, throwing his hands against his ears. He screamed, unable to hear himself. When it stopped, he fought off nausea, defied his fatigue, regained his legs, and drove himself onward, finally breaking through the end of the meadow.

He hit the dirt slope and clambered to the large, rocky outcropping at the top, his energy nearly depleted. From behind him came the methodical thudding of six legs as they pounded the ground. It was so close now. There was no time to formulate a plan. There was no time to search for an escape. He had one chance and it was right in front of him: a small opening in the rocks.

Mere seconds after he wedged himself into a deep fissure, the bugdozer, as he thought of it, slammed into the opening behind him. The monster had an uncanny knack for following his scent. It had tracked him through the woods and the meadow, all the way from the creek, where he thought he had lost it hours ago. Never had he encountered anything so damn persistent. Now, as it dug away at the soil with serrated arms and reached into the gap with a mouth full of cruel pinchers, all he could think of was how lucky he had been.

Although he had not realized it at the time, luck had been his constant companion for the past several months. There was no other explanation for his survival. He had gained a reckless bravado by way of his clever discoveries, his narrow escapes, and mostly because of his superior physical abilities, but at any instance he could have been seriously injured or killed, should have been injured or killed. However, each time he out-ran, out-smarted, or fought off some danger, he became more careless when he should have become more cautious. Now he knew better. Now he could see how lucky he had been, but would that new realization bring back his missing fingers? Would that save him from being eaten alive by the horrible monstrosity that was just a few feet away?

No, he admitted, as he tucked himself farther into the wedge, trying to keep out of reach of the reddish-black foreleg that was trying to skewer him.

As certain death approached, Joseph’s thoughts turned to his son, his only living relative, the boy he had not seen for nine years, and he began to cry, not only because of the time they had lost, but because of the misguided plan he had set in place. It would be more than three years before that plan would go into effect, not until after his son’s eighteenth birthday; however, a death warrant was a death warrant, no matter when it took place. And that’s exactly what his plan would lead to, and there was no taking it back. It was all too likely that he had sown the seeds that would lead to the death of the only person he really cared about.

The blood was still dripping from what remained of his left hand. The wound was covered in dirt. There was a serious chance of infection if the injury was not cleaned and dressed right away. He didn’t care. When it came to his current priorities, infection did not make the top-ten list; it wasn’t even close.

I’m sorry, Jake. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I’m sorry for what will happen to you. I’m sorry that there’s no way to stop it.

Saturday, March 12

11:53 p.m.

A never-ending line of telephone poles passed him at eighty-five miles-per-hour. Besides the painted lines on the asphalt, the truck in front of him, and the occasional headlights in the opposite lane, the tall, wooden poles were the only thing he could see in the pitch of night. Fourteen-year-old Jake Catalani sat behind the wheel of the red Chevy El Camino shivering, not from the cold, but from fear. He had left his entire life behind him: his friends, his school, his home, his mother’s grave. Ahead of him was the dark, terrifying unknown.

With an array of quickly-packed items from home, the bench seat of the El Camino was cramped and uncomfortable, but even though Jake’s heavy-lidded, brown eyes began to lose focus from exhaustion, he dug into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a faded photo of his mom, Anna. He needed to see her, remember her. She was nearly hidden by a thick scarf and beanie, but her dark hair, the same shade of brown as Jake’s, poured from her woolen cap like a waterfall. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the scent of her perfume and the exact tone of her voice, trying to keep her from fading like the photo.

When he opened his eyes they were filled with tears. A pair of headlights flashed by: a blurry, unrecognizable pulse of light. He looked desperately back down at the photo, but he was too tired, his eyes, his mind, were crashing into despair, and the image was lost. Never had he felt so alone, so hopeless.

Four months ago: that’s when his mom, Anna, died and his life went into a dizzying, gut-wrenching, death spiral. Since her passing, Jake had not been able to catch his breath. His stepfather, Bob Gruffman, walked away with only minor cuts and bruises from the car accident that killed Jake’s mom, yet for the ensuing months Bob mostly kept to the couch, sulking, and made Jake do all the cooking and cleaning. There had been no time for Jake to grieve. The initial shock of the tragedy lasted for several days. Jake continued going to school through that time, although that segment of his life was a blur.

Once the shock wore off it was replaced with anger. Jake had been gathering the mail, which Bob ignored, and found a bill from a funeral parlor ten days after the accident. There had been a ceremony and burial for his mother. Bob, it seemed, had intentionally excluded Jake from the service.

Jake had been tempted to confront Bob, to scream at him, but it wasn’t that simple. Jake was never officially adopted. Bob had refused. If he wanted, Bob could have abandoned Jake, dumped him off at the orphanage. Jake had no other family… not anymore. All he had left was Bob, and Bob had a quick temper and acted rashly, so, in the end, Jake opted not to confront him.

Within days of finding out that he had missed his mother’s funeral, Jake’s anger melted into fear, where it solidified like a lead ball in his gut. Jake had always had a problem with fear, and, until recently, he had almost always let his fear get the better of him. Jake grew up as a coward, and not just an ordinary, garden-variety coward. He had been, in his mind, the ultimate coward, scared of everything from spiders to ghosts to heights, but it didn’t end there; he wasn’t so keen on wild animals or anything with sharp teeth. Large bodies of water made him tremble and worry about drowning, and forests frightened him as well because strange creatures could be hiding in the shadows. He didn’t like reptiles, he hated insects, the thought of deranged people brandishing weapons gave him the chills, and darkness absolutely freaked him out. Bob was well aware of Jake’s problem, and he never passed up an opportunity to tease Jake if he refused to watch a scary movie or if he asked if Bob could leave the hall light on when he slept. Over the past several months, Jake felt like he had been getting better, conquering his fears, but recent events changed that.

Not only did he become scared about being abandoned, he had become terrified over what was going to happen with their house. For three years they had lived in a gated community in suburban Illinois. It was the only nice home that Jake had ever lived in. Yet, along with the bill from the funeral home, Jake had found dozens of other unpaid bills, including a notice that they were way behind on their house payments. Bob had not worked in years. His entire career had been playing minor league baseball and one year in the majors, playing for the Cubs, but that was ages ago. Since then, although he was still a powerful man, Bob had gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of hair, and with his baseball savings depleted, he had relied on Anna to bring home the paychecks.

Three months after his mother’s death, Jake had found a notice posted on their front door. The bank was going to take away the house. Bob became exceptionally surly after that, until the following week when they were delivered a package that needed to be signed for. Bob opened it, extracted a small stack of papers, glanced over them, and then took them into his room to read them in private. The discarded skin of the package had been left on the floor, when Jake picked it up he noticed that the package had been addressed to The parent of Jake Catalani, and it was from a law office in California. That evening Jake had asked Bob what was in the package, but Bob told him to mind his own business. The next day, however, Bob left for California. He told Jake it was a business trip. He was gone for four days, and when he came back he announced that they were moving.

Over the ensuing weekend Jake had helped Bob to bring nearly every item in their five-bedroom house out to the front yard. They had an estate sale. It was pandemonium. The bargain seekers came in droves. Bob was busy taking in the cash while Jake continued to carry as much as he could out the front door.

The house was eventually gutted. They sold the oven, the light fixtures, and even their stained-glass front doors. There was a pile of picture frames on a coffee table. The photos had been removed and littered the surrounding grass. Most had been trampled over, ruined. Jake found an old photo of his mother that was undamaged. He wiped a smudge off of it and slid it into his back pocket. Later Jake noticed that Bob was trying to sell his bike and Gameboy, each of which Jake bought with money he made from mowing lawns, but Jake hid them in the bushes on the side of the house.

Before the end of the first day of the sale, Bob personally packed a few dozen boxes of what he called essentials, and gave an empty box to Jake to pack his clothes. As the sun set on the second day of the sale, Bob stacked most of the boxes they had packed into the back of a small rental truck along with some suitcases and Jake’s mattress and dresser. He placed the rest of the boxes in the back of his red, Chevy El Camino, and then began to hook the El Camino up to the hitch on the back of the rental truck.

C’mon, Bob had told him. It’s time to go.

Jake had been completely confused, But what about all the rest of this stuff? The lawn was strewn with unsold tables, books, house wares, clothes, a couch, some old toys, and a lawn mower.

Who cares? Bob had stated.

But what about the Corvette? What about Mom’s Expedition?

They wouldn’t fix the Corvette. It’s totaled. And the bank took the Expedition back this morning. It’s gone. Now get in the car. I start a new job the day after tomorrow, so we have to leave right now.

Jake remembered being rooted to the front lawn, as stiff as an oak tree, not in defiance of his stepfather, but utterly perplexed at the extreme disorder of his situation and how that moment in time had so quickly crept up on him. They were really leaving. His thoughts had then turned to his friend, Steve. His best friend. Steve didn’t even know that Jake was moving, and Jake wouldn’t be able to say goodbye or explain what happened. He then thought of his mother. Her grave would be in a nearby cemetery. Would he ever be able to visit it? Would he ever be able to say goodbye to her? He couldn’t help but feel like the universe had turned against him, like it was crashing down on him, like he was being crushed by a wicked wave of bad karma that he didn’t deserve.

It wasn’t until Bob got into the cab of the truck before Jake snapped out of his stupor. I gotta get my posters! he yelled, and ran into the house, chasing a last ditch effort to hold onto a bit of his life.

The only works of art that had adorned the walls of Jake’s room were four framed posters of his favorite comic book heroes. Spiderman, Batman, Superman, and Ironman each stared back at Jake from the wall across from his bed. These four conservators of justice usually eased Jake’s mind when he was encumbered with fear and worry. Tonight, though, their two-dimensional stoicism was not enough to relieve Jake’s stress.

He had just got the four superhero posters down and grabbed his school backpack when he heard three angry blasts from the U-haul’s horn. He quickly carried the framed posters down the stairs, slipped out the back door, and snuck around the house through the shadows. Approaching the El Camino from behind, he secured the posters in the bed between two large boxes. He then crept back around to the side of the house and grabbed his bike and Gameboy from the bushes. He stowed his Gameboy in his backpack, and, as quietly as possible, he put his bike in the bed of the El Camino next to his posters. As Bob blasted the horn again, Jake appeared at the passenger side of the U-haul.

It’s about time! Bob said, glaring at Jake.

Jake opened door and began to climb into the cab.

Whoa there, kid. It’s gonna be a long drive and I’ll need my space.

Jake looked at him blankly, unsure of what Bob was getting at.

I’m gonna need my space, so you’re gonna ride in the El Camino.

It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. Jake walked back to the red car and squeezed inside. There wasn’t much room. Most of the front bench seat was filled with blankets, pillows, some of Bob’s old baseball trophies, and a couple lamps. Jake sat behind the wheel, dejected and confused.

As they drove away, Jake remembered looking back at the handsome estate. He would always remember the oddness of that sight. The streetlamp had come on and illuminated their front lawn with its lovely new couch and loveseat combination. The tables were still covered with old and new household accessories, and there were clothes, books, boxes, houseplants, and some furniture all about the yard. Jake watched as the scene faded into the distance and saw the sprinklers come on, soaking the whole array. Then the U-haul turned the corner, and Jake never saw that house again.

Now, slouching against the steering wheel of the El Camino, Jake wiped tears from his eyes, he tried to forget how horrible and surreal the last few months had been. He put the photo of his mom back into his pocket and stared at the back of the U-haul through the windshield of the El Camino. The darkness of the night started to encompass the entirety of his vision. His eyes got heavy again. The telephone poles and headlights flashing across his peripheral began to fade away. Using the steering wheel as a pillow, he tried to get some sleep. Although he managed to push the anguish and chaos of recent events to the back of his mind, he could not rid himself of the blanketing fear that seemed to envelop everything that lay ahead.

Chapter Two

Money & Power

Sunday, March 13

Buried in the forests of Northwestern California lies the little-known community of Shadow Creek. Shadow Creek is divided into three sections, each section an island amongst the dense sea of oaks and pines. Downtown is the northernmost section, simply thirteen small buildings, lining a short, two-lane road called Main Street. About three miles south of Main Street are the other two sections of Shadow Creek: to the west, St. Charles Estates, the affluent neighborhood, and to the east, Logger’s Landing, the impoverished neighborhood.

Near the geographical center of Shadow Creek, roughly equidistant from each of the three sections, is a large brick building that used to serve as a furniture factory. The factory would purchase lumber from the nearby log mill and build sturdy oak and pine tables and chairs, but when the logging company was disbanded fifty years ago, the furniture factory went out of business as well. The large brick building had been abandoned and forgotten until recently, when it was remodeled and remade into The Dorning Academy, an educational institution for the children of Shadow Creek. The academy is in its second year of operation and caters to children from kindergarten to ninth grade. It was named after the man who planned and paid for its construction, Charles Dorning of the Dorning Mining Company. However, to Mr. Dorning’s utter disappointment, the academy was required by the state of California to allow all Shadow Creek children to attend, not just the rich ones, because it’s the only school within thirty miles.

Charles Dorning was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. Even though he couldn’t yet control the decisions made in the state office, he could control most of what went on in Shadow Creek. His power, as in most cases, was a direct result of his wealth. And although he was born rich, he had since amassed enough of a fortune to buy the bank that most of his money was stored in. Almost all of his incredible fortune, though, could be attributed to the Dorning Mining Company.

Just past the gas station at the top of Main Street, a heavy, black iron security gate blocked the long winding dirt road that led to the mine. Once defunct, Dorning’s mine now thrived with only twenty-four employees. Many people were curious as to how he could take a failed mine that once employed almost a hundred people and turn it into a success with so few workers. Mr. Dorning, of course, would never tell, but what nobody knew was that of his twenty-four known employees, sixteen were hired for security reasons. The other eight were real miners, but their job consisted of going into the lower mines to excavate worthless caverns and bringing out rocks to be hauled away. The miners didn’t know that the rocks were taken by Dorning’s security team to a dry creek on his property and discarded. The mining operation was only used as cover for Dorning’s real source of income. He paid his employees well. It was important to keep them happy so they were not tempted to leave. Not that they were likely to leave when they all knew that the only employee who had ever quit the Dorning Mining Company was never seen again.

Although Charles Dorning was accustomed to getting what he wanted, he planned and dreamed for far greater power. And on this day, he had moved one small step and one large step closer to that ultimate power.

6:54 a.m.

From out of the thick blackness of the mine, Dorning emerged, dressed like a designer cowboy and carrying a small leather pouch and a flashlight.

How did it go, Mr. Dorning? asked the heavily armed security guard stationed outside the upper mine entrance.

Dorning nodded without making eye contact and quickly walked past, too tired for polite conversation. He was always tired after one of his trips into the mine, especially during the past two years. Before he eased into his Hummer, he removed the dust from his boots with an anti-bacterial wipe. Although he was tired, he felt glad to be back and smiled at the rearview mirror, admiring his reflection. His eyes were a very pale blue above his long thin nose. He wore colored contacts; only he knew his true eye color. His dark hair was slicked into a neat part. Turning his head slightly to the left, he tried to view himself in profile because he thought he looked noble from the side. Everyone who knew him was aware of his vain obsession. His hair was always perfect, his nails were manicured regularly, and his teeth had been whitened to the point of blinding. He was also a clean freak, so paranoid of germs that he took no less than three showers a day when he wasn’t in the mine.

He now wanted a shower more than anything. A shower, in fact, had been the only thing on his mind for the last few hours, and that was what started his thought process to unlock a question that had plagued him for quite some time.

It’s the water, he said to his reflection in the mirror. You should’ve figured that out two years ago.

That discovery was the large step, in Dorning’s mind, to the power he had and the power he could obtain. The smaller step was what he had in the leather pouch, which he held in his left hand as he drove down the long dirt road and out the heavy gate at the bottom, where two more security guards stood. He continued down the road, which was paved beyond the gate, and into Shadow Creek. The mining office was the second to last building on his left. He parked diagonally, taking up two spots.

It was still very early, and the sun had barely begun to illuminate the morning fog. No one was around to see him go into his office.

Once inside, he went straight to his desk and dumped the contents of the small pouch into an empty cubby of a toy costume jewelry set. He took one last, brief look at the pink diamonds before snapping shut the plastic lid. He placed the toy jewelry set into a box, pre-addressed for its destination in South Africa, where the extremely rare diamonds were thought to have been discovered. Approximately two weeks after mailing this package, he would receive a large check from a South African mining company that was supposedly making payments to him for a rock-coring machine that he had designed and which was built south of the border. Of course there was no such device, but nobody would ever know the truth.

Money… it was all about money. Dorning was extremely wealthy, but he still needed more… much more. Money got things done. Money could make people do things, things they would never even consider otherwise. Money was power, and Dorning had plenty of power, but he had his sights set higher.

Less than ten minutes later, Charles walked north up Main Street. He still had important business to take care of, so his shower would have to wait another hour. He was disguised as an old man, and his normal, confident gait was replaced with an elderly shuffle. Although Shadow Creek appeared to be deserted, Charles remained cautious and stayed in character so as not to be recognized, in case a car crept up the street or someone peeked out a business window. All the shops and businesses were closed at this early hour. He passed the hardware store, the fire station, and the police station before crossing the street. The early morning fog hung over the ground like a stubborn pale shadow, further veiling him from curious eyes; however, the dense fog made it hard for Charles to see with the oversized sunglasses he wore. Still, he could tell that all the parking spaces lining the street were empty. No cars approached in either direction and there was little chance that any would for another hour or more.

He soon arrived at the last building on the north end of the street and paused in front of the entrance. After a quick glance up and down the vacant road, he turned toward the oak door. Charles came here four times a year despite his own personal loathing for the place. He believed that his coming to this place would be interpreted as a sign of insecurity or even weakness, so that’s why he came in disguise.

The building was old, as were all the buildings on Main. It had been constructed over a hundred years ago, and now the ancient planks of wood that formed its shell were faded, brittle, and stained from the rusted nails that held it together. Charles pushed open the warped front door, and it creaked on decrepit iron hinges. An over-powering and caustic olio of lavender, chicory, sage, and cheap incense poured out, infiltrating his nostrils and making his eyes water. The mixture was meant to inspire visitors to relax, and along with the dim lighting, make them open to their own sense of mystic energy. To Charles, it was all ridiculous, cosmetic nonsense meant for the tourists who wanted to be entertained, or the pathetic women who wanted to snoop into other peoples’ lives or find out if their husbands were cheating on them.

He stepped half-blindly into the gloom and choked on the heavy stench. Behind him, he fumbled for, and then turned the bolt to lock the door. He had reserved and paid for three full hours, knowing he’d be done in less than twenty minutes. He would take no chances of being discovered with the town psychic. He had always been meticulous in everything he did, especially when it was connected in any way to the preservation of what he thought of as his predestined, but fragile rise to ultimate power.

He removed his oversized sunglasses. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he took off the gray wig and overcoat and set them down on the couch in the waiting room. His dark hair was still slicked back and parted on the right.

Locked oak and glass cabinets lined the dark walls. They contained hundreds of different elixirs, lotions, spices, and crystals, as well as cheap jewelry that had been passed off as charmed amulets. On the waiting room coffee table were fifty different kinds of healing beads that were said to treat everything from warts to guilt. Dark shelves held little glass vials of dyed water that were touted as potions able to bring love to the man or woman who desired it, improve one’s chances of picking the winning lottery numbers, or make the drinker smarter, but these collusive concoctions were only purchased by those stupid enough to believe in them.

All the items in her shop were covered in a layer of dust and never cleaned because the dust gave the items an aged look. Madam Chandra was a virtuoso of charisma and trickery, and she sold the useless trinkets and colored water for absurd prices.

Charles ignored the bounty of worthless charms and fake elixirs and proceeded for the curtain behind which Madam Chandra would be hidden. She would be sitting in a small room, at her circular table, with its dark red tablecloth and phony crystal ball.

He knew that Madam Chandra was a wise woman who could fast talk people into believing what she wanted them to. She could rattle off random astrological forecasts in her sleep, all of which were vague and meaningless, but she was so convincing in her act that her clients never failed to find some profound meaning in her words.

What Charles also knew was that Madam Chandra was a real seer. She could glimpse pieces of a client’s future if the circumstances were right and the client had enough money. And Charles definitely had enough money.

He slid back the purple velvet curtain and Madam Chandra was at her table just as he knew she would be. She stared at him with bulging dark eyes. She was dressed in gypsy garb with gold hoop bracelets and earrings and with long sheer material draped around her body. She smiled a thin smile underneath her large hooked nose. Charles pulled out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and placed it on the seat of the chair across from her, then sat down.

Let’s get this over with, shall we? Charles said, trying not to meet her unblinking gaze.

Yes, I believe we shall. She held her hands out to him with the palm sides up.

He took hold of her cold, dry palms and shuddered slightly as if repulsed by her touch. He was, in fact, repulsed by her, but the reason he shuddered was because of the energy he felt, which immediately passed from her hands and into his.

He trusted her gift of foresight and had already prospered because of it. It was she who had told him, in not so many words, to purchase the land where the abandoned mine was and not the land that he had intended to buy, and thus increased his wealth by ten fold, not to mention the new power it had brought to him. Since that reading four years ago, the rest of the readings had been exactly the same, and this one was no different.

She closed her eyes and after a few seconds was making a low humming noise as she swayed very slightly back and forth in her chair. This lasted for about ten minutes, and during this time her steady humming was only momentarily disrupted by an occasional twitch, as if someone had startled her.

This was all part of her process, which was much different from the overly dramatic, fake accent-laden routine she gave to her ten-dollar palm reading clients. This was the process she went through to get real psychic foretelling, the process that sapped her energy for several hours, leaving her in a zombie-like state for thirty minutes following the reading.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open, but she did not heed Charles. She appeared to be focusing on some point a thousand miles behind him. Then, slowly, she began to speak in a soft monotone without any expression or without even blinking, and Charles listened intently because he knew from past experience that she wouldn’t be able to repeat or even remember any of it afterward.

I see a glorious future for you, a future of great power, of great risk, and of great wealth; however, I see another future of great loss, humiliation, and torturous frustration; and I see yet a third possible future of death at the very brink of your great power. There is a boy who you will meet several times en route to your destiny. It is at these intersections that your actions will determine which of these futures will be matched to you. This child stands between you and what you most wish to obtain. He will be your door, or he will be your wall.

Charles waited a moment longer, but knew she was finished. The reading had been exactly the same as the dozen readings prior to it. He let go of her hands, breaking the contact between them. She let out an almost inhuman moan and slumped forward onto the table like a deflated balloon. Charles saw a string of drool at the corner of her mouth as he rose from his chair.

It would do no good to ask her further questions. Even if he waited for her to revive, she wouldn’t remember anything, and thus, couldn’t answer his questions.

He left the handkerchief on the chair, along with its newly accumulated germs, and then put his coat, wig, and sunglasses back on and left without looking back.

Chapter Three

Ghosts, Zombies, & Boxes

Monday, March 14

7:01 a.m.

Silvia Spivey considered it her civic duty to keep a watchful eye on the children of Logger’s Landing. Several years ago, she used almost all her savings to have a contractor add three windows to the attic of her small, one story home. All of the windows were strategically placed for the optimal viewing of anything suspicious that might be happening in the local area.

Today, like most days, she sat in the cold, dark attic, which she referred to as The lookout tower. She had her notebook in her lap and a telephone on the small table next to her. Next to the phone was a list of all the kids in the neighborhood, and the names and home phone numbers of their parents. She also had the phone number of the Shadow Creek police department. She had called that number no less than three thousand times over the past twenty-five years, and lately, the calls had been made considerably more frequent, even though she knew that the sheriff and his moronic deputies were usually unwilling or unable to bring the offending children to justice. When neither the police nor parents were willing to punish the rotten little tykes, Silvia had, on quite a few occasions, taken matters into her own hands and punished the families in her own unique ways.

At just past seven o’clock, Silvia was peering out the lookout’s front window, ready for the children’s morning commute to school to begin. Her house was tucked into the corner of Ardmore lane, the elbow-shaped street that was Silvia’s domain to loyally protect. From her vantage point, she could see down the entire stretch of Ardmore in both southern and eastern directions. She was ready to report any shouting, pushing, spitting, or nose picking, but she especially looked out for any kid who looked as if they were attempting to be delinquent from school.

Before any of the children had yet emerged from their houses, Silvia had spotted a large rental pick-up, which was towing a red car. It slowly issued forth from out of the low fog that seemed to pour out of the woods every night and linger until mid-morning the next day. The truck rolled down Ardmore from the eastern side. Silvia reached for her binoculars and brought them up to her keen brown eyes to have a better look. She focused in on the front of the truck, and when it was close enough, she deftly scribbled the license plate number on her notepad without taking her eye off the vehicle.

Illinois plates, she mumbled to herself, writing that down on her pad as well.

She watched as the truck idled lazily in her direction. These brainless deadbeats must be lost, she thought to herself, and then was stunned as the truck made a right turn onto the driveway of Zachariah Patterson’s old place. That cottage was abandoned by Zachariah more than a hundred years ago. Since then, the property had been handed down from generation to generation of his out-of-state relatives, and as far as Silvia could recall, no one, not even the relatives that owned it, had ever even come to see it. No one, that was, until that awful man, that demon, Joseph Catalani. He had purchased it two years ago, but he had abandoned it as well or vanished, more likely. That Catalani man shouldn’t have gone and messed with Zachariah’s ghost, Sylvia muttered.

The truck had soon disappeared from her view behind the trees that lined the long driveway. Silvia rose from her chair and shuffled to the northeast side of the attic, where she now looked out the side window. She could see the top of the truck through the trees as it pulled into the clearing in front of the small cottage, where it came to a stop.

She contemplated calling the police, but decided it would be easier to find out what was going on for herself.

7:03 a.m.

Jake woke up when he heard the low thump of the drivers-side door of the U-haul ahead. When he sat up his auburn brown hair fell across his forehead, and he brushed it back with his fingers so it didn’t obstruct his heavy-lidded, sharp brown eyes. As his vision came into focus, he peered out the side window. They had stopped amid a clearing encircled by an army of stern green trees, making up dense woodland. Blanketing the clearing was a low-lying fog, which hid everything below his eye level and blurred everything above.

Bob appeared at the window. He motioned for Jake to roll it down, and after four or five cranks of the handle, the window was fully agape. The cool, fragrant air, along with some of the thick fog, spilled inside the stuffy car. Jake breathed in the fresh air greedily, as Bob bent down to Jake’s level.

I have to be at work in less than an hour, Catalani, so you’re in charge of moving everything inside. Unpack the car first because I need it to get to work. He spoke to Jake in a don’t-screw-this-up tone of voice, and then walked around to the front of the car to unhitch the El Camino.

Jake opened the door and got out of the car. He had spent almost all of the last thirty-six hours cramped into the front bench seat. He stretched his arms high into the sky and then tried to shake some life back into his legs, but they were asleep and tingling, so he had to hold onto the car to keep himself from toppling over. He turned full circle to get a better look at his surroundings, and that’s when he saw the awful little cottage.

Wha… what is this place?

This is my new house, and it’s where we live now, so get your ass in gear.

Jake closed his eyes. This is a dream. This has to be a bad dream.

He reopened his eyes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream. The old cottage was standing firm. It had been there for almost two hundred years and wasn’t going to go that easy.

Bob finished unhitching the car and pulled the truck another ten feet forward. He then went to the back of the truck and lowered the back gate. Jake was completely oblivious to this. As he stared at the decrepit cottage, the accumulation of all his life-long fears seemed to swell inside him, as if they had never left, as if they had been growing, despite all the effort he had put into suppressing them.

Are you gonna get to work, or are you gonna stand there like an imbecile?

Jake broke out of his daze and looked at Bob. Bob, please, can we live somewhere else?

Don’t be ridiculous. Bob started for the front door with a large suitcase in his left hand and a key ring in his right. After fumbling