Terror Rising: Full Dark, #3

By Erik Handy

LET ME IN

 

Cluj-Napoca, Romania — a man throws himself off a building. His roommate, Nicolae Slavici, flees the scene; a police detective on his trail.

 

Meanwhile, a tiny island off the coast of Germany is experiencing unexplainable gravity loss. A team of scientists investigates and slowly finds that science has been supplanted by some unnatural force.

 

Both threads will merge with deadly consequences for all!

 

The latest book from Erik Handy, Terror Rising carries on the fantastic horror legacies of H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Handy
• Release date: May 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497759893

Erik Handy

Erik Handy grew up on a steady diet of professional wrestling, bad horror movies that went straight to video, and comic books. There were also a lot of video games thrown in the mix. He currently absorbs silence and fish tacos.

Book preview

Prologue

Norden, Germany

Catalina.

The girl woke up.

Michael? she said, already knowing it was him.

The boy nodded.

It was still night, but Catalina could sense a gray sky outside.

Mama? she asked. Papa?

Michael kept staring at her. It’s almost time.

Catalina kicked her blanket off. I know. I dreamed again.

Her brother’s eyes went down to her exposed feet.

Mama? the girl repeated. Papa?

The boy grinned, but his eyes did not. They won’t wake up.

Chapter 1

Cluj-Napoca, Romania

Nicolae Slavici dreamed he was falling. Dense clouds raced by as he descended to parts unknown. He flipped himself around and saw there was a hole in the clouds. The sky he fell further from was such a shade of blue that he didn’t want to tear his eyes from it.

But he did.

He rolled in his descent.

There was no ground – no end. Just a pinprick of black that never grew larger.

The sensation of falling faded and faded until he finally woke.

It was morning.

Again.

Slavici got up and threw on some clothes, making sure he put his medallion in his pants pocket. The dollar-sized trinket was a dull bronze color with the Roman numeral II embossed into it. It was such a slight ornament, but nonetheless important. If the end was truly approaching, then its color would change to white.

The young man went into the small living room to check on the old man who raised him.

The Hungarian.

That was the only name Slavici knew him by.

Names have power, The Hungarian had told him long ago. Know a person’s name and you control them.

What about me? Slavici had replied. I don’t hide mine.

Because nothing has the power to stop you.

Except destiny, Slavici thought in the present. And fear.

Slavici found The Hungarian sitting by the open window. A gentle breeze made the curtains dance.

Good morning, Slavici said. The greeting was void of any joy.

The Hungarian grunted.

He doesn’t speak much anymore. Nothing left to say, I suppose.

Slavici felt sad then. Did the old man he knew as protector and teacher feel a change in the winds of fate? He always had a preternatural sense, knowing things Slavici thought were secret or yet to be revealed.

Slavici felt no such way. Today was just another day – another day closer –

To what?

Slavici reached into his pants to touch the medallion.

I know what.

It was now when he remembered his dream. Now he felt destiny – and something worse – closing in from all sides.

Are you hungry? Slavici asked.

Another grunt was the only reply.

Slavici could no longer stand to look at The Hungarian. I am. I’ll go to the store.

Slavici was not hungry. He simply wanted to be out of their cramped apartment, his prison. He craved a change of scenery.

Do you want me to get you anything? Slavici knew the old man wouldn’t answer. Okay.

The Hungarian didn’t move or make a sound when Slavici left.

***

The sky was overcast, no different from the day before. Everything from the colors of cars to people’s clothes stood out boldly in defiance of their drab environment. Dark reds, pineapple yellows, and more could not be vanquished by the stationary clouds overhead.

The weather and other people he passed were the furthest things from Slavici’s distracted mind. He kept his head tucked to his chest. The brown paper bag of groceries in his arms hid the bottom half of his worry-ridden face.

Getting out among the world didn’t help his mood. He wished The Hungarian was more talkative. However, deep down, Slavici knew that speaking about his feelings and worries would serve no purpose. If today was the day he and The Hungarian prepared for, it would happen regardless of talk.

As Slavici neared his apartment, he wondered if the old man had moved from his chair yet. Slavici didn’t know how old his surrogate father was, but he guessed that moving was a monumental effort at his advanced age.

He hoped that was the old man’s problem.

The long street Slavici took home was lined with apartment buildings similar to the one he lived in with corner stores and bistros at the ends. The apartments were five-story blocks planted amid grids of narrow paved roads. Some of these blocks curved with the slight bends of the road.

Slavici was about to cross the barren road, but noticed a commotion from up ahead.

A small crowd formed half a block ahead. As he approached, Slavici realized they stood in front of his building, looking up. He followed their gaze, but not for long.

The onlookers gasped as a body came hurtling to the unforgiving earth.

Slavici almost dropped his groceries.

All he saw was a rough shape of a person. He’d leave the details to the witnesses. However, he knew the dead man was The Hungarian.

Amid the chaos of emotions within, a grave sense of isolation worked its way deep into his bones.

It’s time, he breathed.

He swore the medallion in his pocket tingled.

Chapter 2

The morgue's identification room was a bleak and desolate place, devoid of any warmth or color. The room was painted in a dull shade of gray, which seemed to accentuate the coldness in the air. The walls were bare, save for a few framed certificates and photographs, which hung crookedly on the walls. The floor was made of hard, smooth concrete that was so polished it was reflective, creating a sterile and uninviting atmosphere.

As Inspector Blaga led the nervous Slavici into the room, the sound of their footsteps echoed around the space. The inspector was a tall, imposing figure with a chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. His suit was perfectly tailored. He exuded an air of authority that made it clear he was used to being in control.

Slavici, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He was short and stocky with a mop of unruly hair and an anxious expression. He clutched a folder tightly to his chest as if it were a lifeline.

As they made their way towards the back of the room, a morgue attendant appeared, shuffling towards them with a slow and steady gait. He was a thin, stooped man with a pallid complexion. His sunken eyes seemed to have seen too much death. He wore a white lab coat that was stained and frayed at the edges.

Inspector Blaga,