Friends in Dark Places

By John Bushore

Fourteen-year-old Brad swears his little sister, Becky, was taken into the dark by a strange creature.
Twenty years later, his new girlfriend and her teen-age daughter are taken by more creatures. The local sheriff considers Brad the prime suspect. He must venture into the deepest darkness of all to save his friends and prove he's not a killer.
Oh, and whatever happened to little Becky?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Bushore
• Release date: Jan 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458001726

John Bushore

John is the author of FRIENDS IN DARK PLACES, THE PRISONERS OF GENDER, ...AND REMEMBER THAT I AM A MAN, BOY IN CHAINS, AND WOLFWRAITH. Dozens of his stories and poems, mostly science fiction and horror, have been published in magazines and anthologies. He is a 3-time winner of the independently judged James Award and two of his stories are included in a university course in Gothic and horror literature.He also writes for children as MonkeyJohn, the author of WHAT'S UNDER THE BED? (Sam's Dot Publishing, 2003), and THE SPACEMONKEY ADVENTURES, featured in the quarterly magazine BEYOND CENTAURI. MonkeyJohn, dressed in pirate garb, often visits local classrooms perform to readings for younger schoolchildren.

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Friends in Dark Places

Friends in Dark Places

by John Bushore

SMASHWORD EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

John Bushore

COPYRIGHT JOHN BUSHORE 2010

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Books written by John Bushore can be obtained either through the author’s official website:

http://www.johnbushore.com

or through select, online book retailers.

All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A MonkeyJohn Books production.

Cover art Friends © 2006 by Laura Givens

ISBN-13: 978-1-933556-55-0

ISBN-10: 1-933556-55-2

First Print Edition *2006 by Sam's Dot Publishing

First eBook Edition *2010

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following for their help, advice and encouragement while writing and editing this novel:

Tyree Campbell

Jeff and Jacqueline Falkenham

Ingrid Parker

Richard Rowand

John B. Rosenman

Bob Stein

* * * * *

Prologue

Tonight would be perfect for UFO watching, Jimmy Paxton thought as he relaxed in his tent, fully dressed, listening to the weather report. Cool and clear, just what he’d hoped for. He’d wait another hour, for full dark.

He had set up his tent in a jumble of massive boulders beneath a canyon wall, where three huge stone formations sat high atop the cliff. From his vantage point, he could look down on the distant hangars of the military base, but be hidden by the boulders.

Jimmy knew deep down in his heart that the government was involved in a cover-up. He had talked to people who said they had actually been present in Roswell in 1947 and witnessed the crash of an alien spacecraft. The government, however, stonewalled the press almost immediately, and ever since, stuck to the story of a downed weather balloon. Since that time, strange flying craft were often reported around the Roswell base.

Sightings had diminished in recent years, though. Jimmy theorized that the government had moved their alien study project to another secret installation. He had checked out two other bases, so far, without results.

This remote base, Patterson, might prove to be what he sought. The navy called it a Research Facility, a catchall phrase that could mean anything. And, most importantly, the base had been established just a year after the Roswell incident.

He climbed out of the tent, put on his shoes and warmed a can of beans on his camp stove. He ate the beans directly from the can, while he speared hot dogs on a stick and cooked them in the flame. Finishing the meal, he turned off the stove, tossed the empty can aside and walked away to take a leak against a boulder.

Satisfied the darkness was deep enough, he turned off the radio and stashed it between two rocks. Slinging his binoculars and camera around his neck, he grabbed the telescope and tripod, then climbed up the slope without using his flashlight. He propped his back against a boulder and set his equipment around him. He set up the telescope, but left the cover on the lens.

The clear desert air showed a panorama of the universe. Jimmy looked up at the magnificence of the desert sky and wondered if he might be gazing on the home star of some wondrous civilization.

Looking down, he saw lights a couple of miles away on the valley floor, at the base headquarters. He had seen several large hangars during daylight, another hopeful sign the alien ship might have been moved here. No mysterious lights wandered the sky, though, only the occasional jetliner.

The desert night was quiet, save for the occasional call of an owl, and the sounds of small animals or insects skittering nearby. He worried about scorpions, but not enough to turn on his flashlight. Then he heard a louder sound.

"K’kit."

That didn’t sound like a bug.

"K’kit."

There it was again. Jimmy had spent a lot of time in the desert in the last couple of years, but he had grown up in the city. He wasn’t sure what might be out there in the dark. He picked up the flashlight and held it ready.

K’kit. . . K’kit. . . K’kit.

It seemed to be coming closer. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement in front of a nearby boulder. Pointing the flashlight, he thumbed the switch.

Holy shit! He caught just a glimpse of a naked, red-eyed creature as it jumped behind a near-by boulder. It appeared to be humanoid, but not a man. An alien! What else? There sure weren’t any white apes out here in the desert. Maybe an escaped E.T. from the base? He cursed himself for not bringing a flash for the camera. He had expected to take photos of UFO’s, nothing close up. Well, maybe he could get a picture with just the light of a flashlight, if he could get near.

Jimmy used the flashlight to switch the lens and set his camera for the lowest light setting. Then he turned the flashlight off again. He’d have no chance of sneaking up on whatever-it-was with a bright light. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to restore his night vision. Now that he was still, he noticed a sulfur odor. From the creature? From its ship?

He tiptoed forward, his shoes making slight scuffing noises, feeling like a kid playing hide-and-seek. The noise of his breathing seemed louder than hell.

Suddenly a shadow blocked out the starlight above. He staggered and fell as a heavy weight crashed onto his shoulders. It had jumped him from atop a boulder, whatever it was. Jimmy hit the ground hard. He screamed out when the angular camera gouged into his chest and pain ripped into him.

He tried to pull his hunting knife from its sheath, but it was too late. A hand grabbed his forehead and, with tremendous strength, pulled his head back. He sensed, rather than saw, the open jaws of the creature coming down at him. Its breath was overpowering, sulfurous and foul. He struggled as teeth stabbed into the flesh of his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Christ, the pain was tremendous. But, as his brain became more oxygen deprived, the pain went away. Now his mind became oddly calm and he stopped fighting. He saw a large ear, inches from his eyes. Definitely not human, he observed, as consciousness faded.

* * * * *

Friends in Dark Places

A novel by John Bushore

Chapter One

Homecoming

As he looked from the window of the southbound bus, Brad Wilson gazed at the three huge rock formations resembling human heads. Did they look down on the bones of his sister? he wondered. It had been about twenty-five years since Becky had been taken; would there be anything left, or would scavengers have destroyed all traces?

He’d come home to Tres Viejos several times over the years to visit Mom and Dad, but now they were gone, too. Mom had never given up; she’d always insisted Becky remained alive somewhere, even though everyone else had lost hope long ago. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so alone if I believed she might be alive, Brad thought.

The bus passed the corner of the fence marking the southeastern boundary of Patterson Naval Air Research Facility, where his father had worked before he retired. Brad looked east along the line of chain-link fence that dwindled toward the distant cliffs where he’d last seen his sister. He noticed a vulture soaring, a cross-shaped kite borne on updrafts of hot air from the baking sands, and his thoughts went back to that fateful day when he’d lost his sister.

If only he and his friends hadn’t decided to go on a treasure-hunting trip, Becky would still be alive. Brad wouldn’t have had to go through high school with everyone giving him funny looks, not had nightmares about strange creatures every night, and that goddamn deputy would never have accused him of. . .

The bus rumbled over the bridge leading into Tres Viejos, and Brad’s thoughts were brought back from his childhood memories of when Becky was taken. She had never been seen or heard of in the twenty-some years since.

He watched through the window as they rolled into the four-block business district. He had always rented a car in Albuquerque for use during his infrequent visits with Mom and Dad, but he figured he might as well use Dad’s old GTO this time.

From the high bus window, his hometown looked even smaller than he had remembered. A lot of the stores had For Lease signs in the windows. The town had been slowly wasting away since they closed the nearby base a few years back.

The bus pulled over in front of Anderson’s Pharmacy. Brad retrieved his suitcase from the overhead rack and got off the nearly empty vehicle. Mid-day heat hit him like a volcano after the comfort of air conditioning. The bus pulled away with a puff from the air brakes and a roar of the diesel engine. The smell of the exhaust lingered in the air, reminding him of times he had sat on the bench here by the pharmacy, enjoying a cold drink or a popsicle with his friends. Back before Becky had been taken.

Putting on sunglasses, he walked through town, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a light pair of slacks, yet he began to sweat within a few paces. There was no one else on the street. He looked in the windows of the buildings as he passed. Many were as vacant as long-abandoned dreams.

Already drenched in sweat, he turned left two blocks later. He could see his destination as soon as he turned the corner: a large, Victorian house. Walking beside a picket fence, he noticed a hearse and a limousine, parked in the driveway. This building had avoided the seedy look of other businesses, mostly due to a fresh coat of paint. A small sign by the sidewalk identified it as Bailey’s Funeral Home.

A bell rang above the door as he went in. The reception area, dominated by a huge oak desk, looked like it had been there since the business had opened, probably back in the forties. A well-worn oriental carpet covered most of the hardwood floor, which had darkened with the patina of aged polish. There were half a dozen old-fashioned chairs with faded seat cushions around the edge of the room and floral paintings on the walls. Brad would have thought he’d stepped back fifty years in time if not for the cool breeze from a vent in the ceiling and the modern PC on the desk.

He stood under the ceiling vent, hoping to evaporate some of the moisture that saturated his clothes. A door behind the desk opened and an elderly woman appeared.

Good afternoon, young man, she said. May I help you?

Yes, Ma’am. I’m here to see Mr. Bailey. I’m Brad Wilson.

Oh yes, young Brad Wilson. She looked carefully at his face. I should have known. You favor your mother. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen you, though.

Yes, ma’am. I don’t get back home much, I guess. He wondered if he should know her. She obviously knew him, but that was to be expected in a town like Tres Viejos.

Well, no matter, she said. I’ll get Mr. Bailey for you. I’m very sorry for your loss. A crying shame, that’s what it was.

Thank you, ma’am, Brad replied as she left the room.

He remained under the vent for a minute, then a tall, sandy-haired man with a short beard and mustache walked in. He regarded Brad with translucent blue eyes and smiled. Mr. Wilson? Good afternoon. I’m sorry you had to wait. I had no idea you would be here so early.

Good afternoon. I caught an earlier flight. But I was expecting Mr. Bailey. I talked to him yesterday on the phone.

I’m sorry? He looked confused for a moment. Oh. That was me. You must have thought I was my grandfather. I’m Wayne Bailey. I took over the business from Granddad three years ago. He and Grandma moved to one of those retirement communities up near Santa Fe. They decided it was too dead around here and they wanted some excitement.

Brad wasn’t sure if that remark was supposed to be some sort of undertaker’s humor. The man had said it deadpan, so he decided to ignore it.

Sorry. I don’t get back to town much anymore and hadn’t heard that he retired.

Well, it’s no matter. It’s just a shame you had to come back under these circumstances.

Have you found out any more about what happened? Brad asked. The State Police officer who contacted me didn’t know all the details.

It’s very disturbing, actually. Your mother was driving your father back from the cardiologist’s office in Franklin. They were on 780, about ten miles north of here, when some old desert rat in a pick-up decided to pull out in front of them. They haven’t done the autopsy, yet, but they brought the body of the old hermit here and, I assure you, he reeked of alcohol. He’d been arrested for drunk-driving a couple of times and didn’t even have a license.

Damn him to hell!

Yeah. Anyway, there were no witnesses. A trucker called it in but by the time the rescue squad arrived. . . He shrugged.

That was it then. Brad had been worrying that there was something that could have been done if he just lived a little closer to them, or came back to visit more often, or something. But there was no way he could have protected them against a drunken driver.

I appreciate you letting me know, Mr. Bailey, he said. What arrangements do I need to make with you?

Not very much really. Your father left instructions in the event that he and your mother should leave us at the same time and pre-paid for all services—his heart problem, you know. I just need your signature on a few forms. Your parents will be interred in the Presbyterian cemetery. I’ve tentatively arranged for the services to be held on Friday morning at nine a.m., but you’ll have to call to confirm that. I’ll give you the phone number with the other papers.

That sounds fine.

Brad was relieved he would not have to make all the decisions. It was just like Dad to have everything arranged in advance. He had always been very systematic in life, so it stood to reason he would have also been methodical in how he prepared for death.

Mr. Bailey took Brad into an office and produced the forms that needed signing. When Brad had finished, the undertaker led him back to the front room.

My heartfelt condolences on your loss, Mr. Wilson. He clasped Brad’s hand in a firm handshake. I knew your folks from church, of course, and they were fine people. They were always helping the church and the community will miss them. My sister and her daughter are quite saddened by their passing.

Your sister? Why would this man’s sister be upset by Brad’s parents’ death?

Yes, she was quite close to your folks. She moved in near them a couple of years back and your mother would watch my niece for her, while Jenny would keep an eye on your father when your mom had to go out. My niece, Lisa, adored Mrs. Wilson. And I think Jenny was sort of a surrogate daughter for your mother.

That struck a raw nerve with Brad. Mom had always hoped that, somehow, Becky would be found alive.

Jenny? Mom wrote about a friend named Jenny, but I don’t recall that her name was Bailey. Oh, of course, her name wouldn’t be Bailey, would it?

No, she goes by Garson, now, though she got divorced a couple of years ago. That’s why she moved back to Tres Viejos. She works at the hospital up in Franklin, but Granddad offered her the use of a house here in town, since he hasn’t been able to rent it. You might remember her. She was in the class behind you at school.

Jenny Bailey. Yes, I believe I do remember her. A tall, pretty girl, with hair your color?

That’s her. I was five years behind her, so I can’t say that I remember you from school, though I seem to recall hearing about you.

I’ll bet, Brad thought. Well, give my regards to your sister. And thank you for everything you’ve done.

Oh, you’ll see Jenny yourself, I’m sure. I’m going to call her now so she can meet you at your folks’ house. She’s been keeping an eye on it and has a key your mother gave her. Unless you have a key yourself?

No, and I’d forgotten that I don’t. I don’t remember that the door was ever locked.

Well, we couldn’t leave the house wide open with your parents gone. Times have changed, even here in little Tres Viejos. I’ll have Jenny meet you at the house.

I would appreciate that, Mr. Bailey. And thanks again.

No problem, Wilson said, but, please, call me Wayne. My grandfather has always been Mr. Bailey to me and still is.

‘Well, thanks, Wayne. And call me Brad."

Sure thing. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you, Brad.

They shook hands, then Brad let himself out the front door. It was only a three-and-a-half block walk to the house, but he was sweating profusely by the end of the first block.

The walk through the silent town brought back memories of his childhood, as he had not walked these streets since he became old enough to drive. Those recollections should have been pleasant, since they involved trips to the movie theater or to the soda fountain at the drug store with his friends. But, of course, Becky had almost always managed to tag along, which is why he rarely thought of the friends and activities of his youth. He lived for the present, now, and that wasn’t so hot either.

By the time he reached Mom and Dad’s house—his house, technically—he was melancholy and feeling damned rotten. He should have visited his folks more often, especially since Dad’s heart attack. It wasn’t going to be fun spending the night in what had once been his home, but was now just lumber and plaster dusty with old memories.

He expected a car to be pulled up out front; Wayne had said his sister would meet him, but there no one waited. Walking up onto the porch, he stood in the shade to wait. After a while, he tried the front door, but it was definitely locked. He walked around the house and checked the overhead garage door, the back garage door and the back door of the house. All locked. He started a second trip around the house, checking windows in case one of the latches at the bottom hadn’t engaged.

Excuse me, came a voice from behind him. May I help you with something? The voice was soft and feminine, yet edged with a hard tone. He glanced out front to the street as he turned. Still no car.

Yes, maybe you can, he told the woman standing there, holding a garden trowel like a dagger. I’m Brad Wilson and this is my parents’ house. Someone is supposed to meet me here with a key. Are you Jenny?

Well, yes, but. . ., well, why didn’t Wayne call and let me know. . ., oh, there probably was a call. She blushed slightly. I was out back gardening and the A/C is on; I wouldn’t have heard it. I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wilson. I’m Jenny Garson. She transferred the trowel from her right hand to her left, wiped her hand on her jeans and nervously extended it. Please excuse my appearance.

She had nothing to apologize for, Brad decided. A tall, slender woman with sandy-blonde hair, she wore a Denver Broncos ballcap that gave her a pixie look, damp hair clinging to her forehead below the cap’s brim. Her eyes showed crystal blue, like her brothers, set in a face angular enough to have character, yet soft enough to be exquisitely feminine. Dirt smudged her cheeks and soil clung to her knees below the shorts she wore. Her T-shirt was dark with sweat across the chest. Nice chest, he couldn’t help noticing. He shook her hand.

Please, call me Brad. I was looking for a car out front. I guess you live close by?

Yes, two doors down. The old Rothstein place. I was working in my back yard when I saw someone over here.

Wayne told me you were looking after the house. Thanks for keeping an eye on the place. Mom mentioned you in her letters.

Your mom was great. She smiled. She and I got along really well. I would help her with your dad when she needed an extra hand and she would watch my Lisa.

A battered Ford Bronco pulled up in front of the house. They both turned and watched as Jenny’s brother, Wayne, got out and walked over.

Oh, I see you’re here after all, Jenny, he said when he came near. When you didn’t answer your phone, I thought maybe you’d gone out and Mr. Wilson . . .

Brad.

Right. Brad. Jenny I guess you’ve met Brad Wilson, although you probably remember him from school. He gestured toward the front of the house. Where’s your car, Brad?

I don’t have one. I rode the bus into town. It didn’t make sense to rent a car just to drive to Tres Viejos.

Wayne slapped his head. What a bonehead. I never thought to ask if you needed a ride. You shouldn’t have walked in this heat.

I didn’t mind. It was nice to see the town again instead of just zipping through.

Wayne’s remark about the heat reminded him that he was drenched in sweat and rumpled from a plane trip followed by a bus ride. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday either. Jenny and he were on equal terms: not dressed for meeting strangers. Now that Brad thought of it, he hoped he didn’t smell like a goat.

He was usually pretty careful about his appearance, unless he was out on the job. His hair was close-cropped, a holdover from his days in the military, and he usually kept his face clear of hair.

I should have thought to ask, at least, Wayne said. Well, now that I know you and Jenny have connected, I need to get back to the office. We’ve got a service scheduled. He shook Brad’s hand again. Jenny, see you.

After Wayne left, Brad felt awkward now that he had been reminded his appearance could use some polishing. Jenny seemed to feel the same way.

Well, Brad, she said, let me get you your keys; you must be roasting. This is a day for shorts if ever there was one. I left the air conditioner on in the house since we expected you today. I’ll be right back.

She turned and went through the next-door neighbor’s back yard. He watched her walk away, enjoying the sight of a good-looking, athletic woman. Not that he was particularly interested. But she was a pretty woman and nice to watch. Especially in shorts.

Jenny was back in just a moment. She had replaced the trowel in her hands with an envelope. As she neared him, poured about a dozen keys into her hand.

Here you go, Brad. I got all these from the key hanger in the front closet. I have no idea what some of them are for. She searched through the keys and held out two, fastened together with a thin, wire ring. These are for front and back doors. She dumped the rest of the keys back into the torn envelope and handed it to him also.

Thank you, Jenny. I really appreciate you looking out for the house and all.

No problem. She gave a little wave of dismissal. I’ll let you get in out of the heat. It was nice meeting you. Again. It’s been a long time since high school. Well, adios.

Take care.

She turned and repeated her trip through the back yards.

He unlocked the back door, which gave him a funny feeling since he couldn‘t remember it ever being locked. The cool air felt great. He opened the refrigerator, hoping for a beer. No Beer. No Soda. He had a choice of milk or iced tea, so he poured himself a glass of tea and sat at the kitchen table, awash in memories.

After a few minutes, he got up and walked through the house. It was empty. Not empty of things, but empty of the warmth that had always pervaded this home. Might as well be standing on Mars.

He took his suitcase to his old room, showered, shaved and lay down on the bed in his underwear. His feet hung over the edge; it had always been uncomfortable for his six-foot-two frame on his trips home. He wished he had packed some shorts, but just hadn’t thought to do so.

Deciding he needed to get out, he dressed and drove Dad’s old GTO back downtown and bought some shorts and T-shirts. He bought a fifth of rum, six-packs of beer and coke, a cardboard pizza for dinner and a small pack of donuts for breakfast the next day, then drove back.

He changed into the cooler clothes, turned on the oven, then went into the living room and switched on the television. The beer was already cold, so he opened one. He tried to watch an old movie and relax, but he kept expecting the front door to open. It was hard to believe his parents would never be coming through that door again.

He almost jumped when he heard the front screen-door open. Then someone knocked. Dad had never put in a doorbell.

It was Jenny Garson. She stood behind a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, who held a casserole dish. Blonde hair and the same blue eyes. Surely the daughter. Cute kid, Brad thought. Going to be a knockout someday.

Hi. I hope we’re not imposing, Jenny said. "I didn’t know if you cook and I knew there wasn’t much in the house, so I made you a casserole. Southwestern hospitality, you