Halfway House

By Weston Ochse

The Halfway House…a place shrouded in mystery…standing shunned and ignored…yet seeming to devour the souls of everyone who dies in San Pedro. Bobby Dupree…an epileptic loner from a Memphis orphanage who is on a journey to find out if he truly is…the son of the King of Rock and Roll. When Bobby’s quest becomes entwined with an old surf bum and his estranged daughter, the 8th Street Angels, and a dicey porn director, he discovers that Los Angeles holds more opportunities and dangers than he could have imagined. Discovering he's at ground zero to a seventy-year-old spiritual curse, all the chaotic events in Bobby's life begin to circle back to the inscrutable force of the Halfway House…

• Language: English
• Publisher: JournalStone
• Release date: Sep 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940161495

Weston Ochse

Weston Ochse is called “one of the major horror authors of the 21st century” by the American Library Association. Whether he’s writing horror, science fiction, or thrillers, Weston’s life skills and his more than thirty years in the military, traveling all over the world, has given him a unique perspective on the poignancy of the human condition, which he strives to embrace in all of his literary work.

Book preview

Halfway

House

By

Weston Ochse

JournalStone

San Francisco

Copyright © 2014 by Weston Ochse

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

JournalStone

www.journalstone.com

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN:   978-1-940161-48-8 (sc)

ISBN:  978-1-940161-49-5 (ebook)

ISBN:  978-1-940161-50-1 (hc)

JournalStone rev. date: September 12, 2014

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014942907

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Art & Design: Elderlemon Design

Edited by: Aaron J. French

Endorsements

On Weston Ochse

Horror fans will be drawn in by Ochse's cool, collected writing style and then blown away when he peels back reality's skin to uncover the supernatural terrors lurking just beneath the surface.—Publishers Weekly

Weston Ochse has always been a wised-up, clued-in, completely trustworthy writer of high-action fiction that deserved a wider audience.—Peter Straub, New York Times bestselling author of In the Night Room

Weston Ochse is perhaps the fiercest and most direct of the latest generation of dark fiction writers. I watched awestruck year by year as the bright candle of his talent grew into a roaring bonfire of brutally honest output, matched only by his deep empathy for the human condition.—Rocky Wood, author of Stephen King: A Literary Companion

Weston Ochse is to horror what Bradbury is to science fiction — an artist whose craft, stories and voice are so distinct and mesmerizing that you can't help but be enthralled.—Dani Kollin, Prometheus Award-winning author of The Unincorporated Man

Weston is one of the best authors of our generation.—Brian Keene, Bram Stoker Award-winning author The Rising

Weston Ochse is a mercurial writer, one of those depressingly talented people who are good at whatever they turn their hand to.—Conrad Williams, August Derleth and International Horror Guild Award Winner

On SEAL Team 666:

"SEAL Team 666 affords the same pleasures as Jonathan Maberry’s Joe Ledger series or Christopher Farnsworth’s Blood Oath and its sequels: namely seeing supernatural beasties receive a good old military-grade beating…. Ochse’s army background lends authenticity to this snappy, fast-paced thriller." —Financial Times of London (UK)

On Grunt Life

Weston Ochse writes hard-nosed fiction with more grit and imagination than most authors could ever hope to muster. When he turns his skills to tales of the military, the words sing with the truth of personal experience. --Christopher Golden, #1 New York Times bestselling author of SNOWBLIND)

Acknowledgements

Thanks for the very special help I received from Jesus Gonzalez for making the Spanglish sing; from H Casper for Keeping the God and the Elvis straight; from Bob Straus, Godfather to Scarecrow Gods and keeper of my foul mood; from Drew Malvolio Williams for his foptacular yellow garters; from John Urbancik for his first read; from Kevin McAlonan for cold insights and warm scotch; from Nanci Kalanta for her constant interest and attention; from Paul and Shannon Legerski, Eunice and Greg Magill, and Barbara and Dirk Foster for letting me into your homes and lives; from Bob Fleck for doing agenty things; Aaron J. French for doing edity things; Chris Payne for doing publishy things and from the people of San Pedro for making it a very special place in my heart and memory.

Most of all, thanks to my wife, Yvonne, for absolutely everything.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

For

Chili Lily Cactus Eater,

Goblin Monster Dog,

Pester Ghost Cactus Eater,

Evil Ghoulie Sonar Brain,

And

Elvis Paper Dog

Halfway

House

Prologue

February 25, 1942

Just after midnight, Los Angeles-based radars track an unidentified airborne target 120 miles out to sea. At 02:21 hours, as the target reaches within a few miles of the coast, a blackout of Los Angeles and the surrounding areas is ordered by Regional Command Authority. Shortly afterward, this mysterious object being tracked along the coast between Catalina Island and the Port of Los Angeles vanishes. At 02:43, planes are reported near Long Beach, and a few minutes later a coast artillery colonel spots thirty planes at ten thousand feet over downtown Los Angeles. Three squadrons are sent to intercept. At 03:06 a balloon carrying a red flare is seen over Santa Monica and four batteries of antiaircraft artillery open fire, blanketing the skies with flak.

Near San Pedro, a hot air balloon appears out of the mist, heading for shore. This is the original object that has disappeared from radar, forgotten in the chaos of other sightings. It sets down in the shallows of a secluded cove. A Japanese demolition crew wades ashore, their targets the cannons of Batteries Farley, Merriam, Leary, Barlow and Saxton—the teeth of America’s West Coast defenses, and the single greatest deterrent to a planned invasion. In silence, the Japanese soldiers march single file onto American soil, each eager to demonstrate the superiority of Mother Japan, even if it costs them their lives.

*  *  *

She feels their presence like insects crawling along her skin. Giving one last brush at the dolphin’s thoughts, she soars, disembodied but as powerful as ever. What is this intrusion? She’s heard the sirens. The lights went out hours ago. Has the war come to America? Has the war come to her land?

Rising higher and higher, the mother sees the lights of humanity dotting the spur of California she calls her own; people, her people, huddle in their homes, afraid of what might come with the sirens. Their fear torments her. She can’t will it away, but wishes she could. Like the mother she is, she’d willingly take each and every one of them to bed, whispering courage and contentment, magic from her breath.

She remembers when her father brought her here, his arm engulfing the coastline as he pointed to the horizon, his words forever etched in memory. This land is our birthright. No one can take it from us if we don’t want them to. Our power is to the land. Anything else is selfish and wrong.

A familiar light draws her attention. Reisa. What is her daughter doing out this late? And with someone else? The mother moves toward the pair of lights, noticing how they merge and separate, then merge again, then separate.

Reisa!

Remembering the gypsy boy from the ship and the way he’d watched Reisa with his dark eyes, there is no mystery at all as to what her daughter is doing now.

But that isn’t what she feels.

Fighting her instincts, the mother slows. She reminds herself that her daughter is an adult and deserves privacy. Her own father’s words send icy stilettos of clarity through her worry. Our responsibility is to the land, and we must not lose concentration. Distraction, any distraction, could be the end of it all.

The mother almost turns away when the feeling comes again, stronger now, like spiders snipping her bare skin. She attunes herself to the land and searches. Finally she finds them, six men marching near where her daughter lays with the man.

Giving way to those maternal instincts, she rockets toward her daughter. Flying across the tops of palms, slicing through clouds, skimming over rooftops, her screams go unheard to everyone except the birds. All along the land, everything avian takes wing, her spiritual cries like gunshots to their tiny racing hearts.

But she is too late.

The mother sees the soldiers come upon her daughter and the dark-eyed man, soundlessly slitting their throats, then moving on up the hill toward the artillery batteries.

She watches in horror as her daughter’s blood pumps into the land. The birds flock to her, first hundreds, then thousands. They feel her form and allow her to control their minds, understanding that she is of the land, the land they live on, feed on, and call home. They beat their wings as they move to her commands, a thousand tiny minds feeling her anger, the grief and the loss. At her will, they become monstrous.

The men halt when they hear the tumultuous crashing of the wings. They search the sky, but can’t see into the darkness. Even the stars are hidden. As the sound grows louder, their fear grows until their steps tremble along the ground.

The moment that her rage takes shape, a guard from Battery Farley fires a flare into the air, the red rocket sun backlighting her new nightmarish form to the intruders.

As one, the men scream.

But that is only the beginning.

She has learned some terrible things in her life, things she’d never thought she would duplicate.

But that was before they murdered her only child.

And these things she does are most terrible.

Most terrible, indeed.

Chapter 1

The crash of surf was as welcome a sound as Bobby Dupree had heard in a long time. He and Kanga had spent the day hoofing it from Long Beach, through the port city cesspool of Wilmington, finally arriving back in San Pedro, all in a fruitless search for a replacement board. They’d gone from surf shop to surf shop, even trolling the secondhand stores, and twice Bobby thought the old man had found what he’d wanted. But each time he’d left grumbling about this defect or that stress crack, invisible to Bobby, whose surfing expertise began and ended at the ocean’s edge.

Kanga’s board had been crucified on the rocks of Rat’s Cove during a freak current two days ago, and ever since the man had been morose with loss. It had finally taken Bobby, and Kanga’s daughter Laurie, to convince him that a replacement board could be found. Not one of the new, mass-produced, fiberglass monstrosities that every Tom, Dick and Surfer Harry threw on the roof racks of their mommy’s station wagons, PT Cruisers, or wanna-be-retro new VWs, but some throwback, soul-engineered surf machine lost in the dust of a back-alley shop, just begging to twist and cry on the crest of a wave once more before it died a heady death.

The problem was that nothing could replace Kanga’s 1964 Dextra Gun with its red, yellow and green psychedelic swirls, which he’d won in a contest in Santa Cruz in ’76. Such a board was irreplaceable, not only because of its undeniable quality, but because of the inculcated memories attached to every dive into every wave that came after.

Still, Kanga and Bobby looked.

In all the shops they’d gone to, the only boards that Kanga had decreed fitting were a 1962 Santa Cruz Challenger longboard with a Bahne fin and a 1968 mint green Velzy. But when he’d seen the prices, each nearly a thousand dollars of money neither of them had, Kanga declared the journey over and began the forced march back to Jap’s Cove where his beach shack stood against the sheer cliff face of the California Coast.

The sun had set into a cloud bank east of Catalina Island. Stopping only for a bag of burritos from Tony’s and a case of Tecate beer from the Lighthouse Mini Mart, they felt glad to be getting home. Even Kanga turned and flashed a grin, his teeth starkly white against a tan so permanent it was like a nut-brown stain. He and Bobby picked their way along the trail leading from the International Youth Hostel, past a gated trailer park, and along a scenic overlook.

Kanga had used this beach shack for twenty years now, stopping there whenever he passed through Los Angeles. The sanctuary had once been miles from civilization’s edge, but every year the tide of humanity crept closer. The day that the Yuppies found reason to overrun the shack was the day he’d vowed never to return. Bobby glanced at the new homes being built along the hills of Rancho Palos Verdes and knew it was only a matter of months before they settled out here.

Kanga held up a hand, halted, and crouched. Bobby slid the box of beer and food into the thigh-high grass beside the trail and duck walked over to Kanga. Electric guitar riffs of Los Straitjacket’s Rockula twisted up the path ahead of the onshore breeze. A golden glow brightened the otherwise black night. Bobby smelled the smoke of the fire.

Come on, kid. Let’s see who dropped in. Kanga’s voice promised violence.

Bobby had learned that dropping in was a surfer’s worst crime, meaning to take a wave when another already owned it. In this case, there were no waves, but the beach shack was just as important. For Bobby, even more so, since his bags were there. They contained all his research on his birthright, which was what he’d come to Southern California to find before hooking up with Kanga.

Wearing long, peach-colored pants and a T-shirt from Bell’s Cove in Australia, the fifty-five-year-old Kanga reached up and knotted his long white hair to keep it out of his face. The muscles in his arms twisted and bulged. A lifetime of surf bumming on three continents had chiseled the old man’s features into those of a twenty-five-year-old. Only his gray hair and a stubborn, but small, pot belly made from years of burritos and beer were evidence of his age.

Kanga frowned once more as someone cranked Sterno to painful decibels, speakers spitting the rapid-fire surf guitar like an underwater machine gun. Wary of being seen, he moved in a quick half crouch down the path.

Bobby, dressed in his typical blue jean cutoffs, Memphis Barbecue T-shirt with sleeves removed, and tennis shoes, scrambled down the slope behind him. He’d seen Kanga take on a college-aged surfer the day his board had been smashed, when he’d gotten mullered after the punk had dropped into his wave. Three smartass remarks from the Laguna Beach preppy and Kanga had front-kicked the boy’s sarcasm down into his throat. It took both the boy’s friends to help him up the slope and back to their Beemer. Before they sped off to mommy and a trust fund, Kanga had made it clear that they weren’t allowed back to the coves, ever.

At the bottom of the path, Kanga sidestepped a mound of rotting seaweed and peered around a cement retaining wall. In a few moments he straightened and brought his face close to Bobby’s.

There are four of them, Kanga whispered. Three guys and a girl. Looks like they made themselves at home.

Bobby felt a twinge of anger. Other than the orphanage, this was the only other place he could possibly call home. To have someone in it made him madder than he thought he’d be. He realized he’d attached a certain amount of ownership to the thatched-roof dwelling. Built on an immense concrete slab, the beach shack was all open air, with two old couches facing the ocean, and raised benches ringing the sides and rear, doubling as places to sit or sleep. Stout support poles stolen from construction sites held up a roof frame constructed of PVC piping. Interwoven throughout the frame were palm fronds that had been liberated from the yards of upscale Rancho Palos Verdes estates, now laid in such a way that any rainfall sluiced off.

What do you want to do? Bobby asked.

I want to kick their asses. But that might be unneighborly. Maybe they just want to crash.

We need a signal. Something like snapping your fingers so I know when it’s time to fight.

Sounds good. Stick behind me, kid. I don’t want you getting all beaten and bruised. Laurie would have my hide.

Before Bobby could deny there was anything going on between him and Kanga’s daughter, the older man stepped out and strode toward the raging bonfire in the rock pit before the shack. Bobby hurried after him.

Beside the fire were two shirtless men drinking beers. A woman and a third man sat together on the nearest couch, kissing slow and long like they had a lifetime to do it. The men by the fire saw them first. The one with long red hair, a goatee, and a pair of yellow Hobie shorts stood first.

The other man followed, leaping to his feet right after. Whereas the red-haired man was tall and lean, this one was built like a Pit bull: shaved head, thick neck, broad chest, with shotgun biceps. He flexed his arms and began opening and closing his hands.

Kanga made it about halfway when the red-haired man shouted something that was lost to the waves.

The man on the couch stood, his fragile body birdlike as it swayed slightly in the onshore breeze. His head was also shaved, but he was thinner than the other, like a junkie, his arms almost girlish in their lack of musculature. Too thin. Bobby remembered a loner at the rail yard in Kansas City who’d once warned him against thin men. They’ve used something up inside them, the old man had drawled, his voice caught somewhere between whiskey nights and beating screams. "I see them all the time. Them that are too thin need something you don’t want to give. Drugs. Food. Sex. You don’t know, and you don’t want to know."

The man’s face was his resume. A wicked long scar tortured his right cheek, drawing his lips into a permanent smile. Teardrop tattoos dripped one, two, three from his left eye. Ex-con. The teardrops could represent murders he’d committed, friends who’d been killed in prison, or any combination of the two.

Bobby shivered slightly as he hastened to keep up with Kanga. Surely the old man had seen the tats. This guy was a killer. Maybe he and Kanga should just get their stuff and move on down the beach. Bobby had spent enough of his life roughing it in the elements that one more night wouldn’t matter. He moved to say something, but Kanga beat him to it.

Ho there. He raised his right hand in the air and held it there—from Roman to knight to surfer, the symbol for weaponless conference hadn’t changed in two millennia.

We gave at the office, old man, the red-haired man giggled. He had a tattoo of Woody Woodpecker across his chest. By the way he giggled, it was no mystery why. He glanced at the thin man, then hushed as the other made a silencing gesture with a downward slice of his hand.

That’s far enough, the stocky boy growled, his fists still wringing invisible necks.

Kanga marched to within two feet of him and stopped. He didn’t make eye contact. His focus was on the thin man. From this distance he couldn’t miss the teardrops. Bobby hurried to a stop just to the left and behind Kanga. He finally saw the girl, her doped eyes moving dully above a princess nose and pouty lips. She seemed the type to be more at place in a mall chasing sales than here in a beach shack, in the dark of night, and on the edge of culture. The thin man’s right hand rested on her shoulder proprietarily. She grasped it, pressing it to her cheek.

Junkie, indeed.

Bobby suddenly understood the relationships of the four in front of him: junkie, dealer, and hoods.

Nice place you got here. Kanga smiled as he said it, but his humorless voice wasn’t lost on the thin man.

A little damp, but we call it home.

And who might you be?

Why don’t you introduce you and your friend? the thin man countered. It’s not polite to come into someone’s home and demand their names.

Kanga made a fist. The pit bull focused on it, ready. But then he opened it and continued. I’m Kanga and this is my friend Bobby. Say hi to the nice men, Bobby.

Hi.

So you’re the famous Captain Kangaroo. The thin man strode to the front of the shack. Three steps and six feet of sand separated him from Kanga. But the movement was void of any threat of violence. For the first time the lips on the left side of the thin man’s face matched the right, and he smiled.

So you know me? Kanga said.

I thought you’d be older, the thin man replied.

The redhead giggled. And fatter.

Sorry to disappoint you.

Bobby wanted to circle around, but knew he couldn’t move without distracting the two hoods. He glanced at the sand, wishing it was good old-fashioned pavement. He always seemed to move like a drunk in the sand, the constant shifting of the granular material keeping him just off balance. He looked at the human pit bull, whose eyes were pinned on Kanga’s hands. The man might as well have been the dog.

It always happens that way, the thin man said. It’s a special moment in time when you match the face with the legend. Sadly, they never seem to fit. You live up to your disappointment.

If you know me, then you know this is my place.

Yeah. We know.

Then what do you want?

To deliver a message.

From who?

Marley Macklin.

I haven’t heard that name in twenty years.

You wouldn’t have, the thin man said, his voice getting tight. He doesn’t get around much anymore.

Silence for a ten count.

What does he want with me? Kanga asked.

If you don’t know, then you aren’t Captain Kangaroo.

Ahhh. The word came like the sound of a body releasing its last breath. It’s like that, is it?

Yeah. It’s like that.

Kanga licked his lips and ran his left hand through his hair, conscious of the way the breeze tossed it back and forth before his eyes. Pit bull’s eyes followed the movement, and as Kanga brought the hand back down to his side, he made his move. Snapping his neck forward, he head-butted the pit bull, sending the stout boy reeling back toward the fire. He was able to stop himself just before falling, and with a strangled cry, ran at Kanga, his hands low and ready to rip. Kanga threw himself to the sand. He grasped at an arm of his opponent as the man passed above him, trying to spin him around. Kanga’s fingers closed on the other’s right wrist as he twisted and jerked. The wrist snapped, the sound like a pine log in the fire. Pit bull went down in pain. Kanga completed the maneuver on his back, capturing the arm in an arm bar, his feet pushing against the man’s shoulder as he pulled. Pain and strain colored the pitbull’s face.

The redhead leapt to join the fray, but Bobby stepped forward and brought his hands up. He shook his head. Stay back, motherfucker. You’ll get your turn. He wished he had an Anderson bat, a weapon he’d befriended in the Kansas train yards. But he wasn’t exactly a beginner with his hands, either, so he would do all right.

I take it that’s your answer? the thin man asked.

Struggling to maintain the hold against the younger man’s greater strength, Kanga grunted and nodded twice.

Fine then. I’ll take your answer back to Marley. He’ll decide how best to proceed.

Kanga released the pit bull who clearly wanted to redeem himself but was held back by the glare of the thin man and the aura of his own pain. Within minutes, the four interlopers were trudging down the beach, heading for the path back up the cliff to greater southern California suburbia.

Bobby watched to make sure they wouldn’t return, and then asked the question he’d been dying to ask. Who is Marley Macklin?

Kanga plopped onto one of the couches and stared off into the night. Someone I should have killed a long time ago.

Excuse me?

I left him alive. That is my sin.

Bobby wanted to ask more questions, but he was silenced by the sea of self-loathing awash in Kanga’s eyes. Instead, Bobby decided to fetch the beer and burritos they’d left stashed up the trail. He could use a cold one. Hell, he could use a dozen.

Obituary from the Daily Breeze

John Henry Watson passed away last evening with his life partner at his side in his Rancho Palos Verdes home of a long-standing illness. Born in Twin Falls, Idaho, in 1943, John served honorably in Vietnam, receiving two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star for Valor. He went on to become a professor of Political Science at the University of California at Dominguez Hills, winning the Estes Kefauver Award for his essays on political corruption which appeared nationally in both literary and popular journals. Memorial services will be held at the Wayfarers Chapel followed by interment at Green Hills Memorial.

He shot free from the withered frame that had held him in thrall for so long, his soul finally unburdened from decades of disease and depression. No longer was he a man battling AIDs. No longer was he one to decry the state of medicine, research and government oversight. No longer was he hollow bones and mottled skin. He’d returned to his prime, that starry-eyed youth who’d quit college his senior year to fight for a country that he loved in an obscene jungled land far away from the rolling hills of Idaho. He rippled with the vibrancy of a twenty-three-year-old, his soul thrumming with power, a bottle rocket soaring across the sky.

The homes of Los Angeles were lit like fireflies along the dark loam of a California night. Headlights from a million cars made the city’s arteries glow with life. The ocean crashed against the coast, a thousand miles of momentum dashed in an instant. Then a light pierced him from everywhere and nowhere. Feelings of welcome and love suffused him. He felt himself smile although he had no mouth. He felt warm although he had no body. He felt belonging right down to his soul.

Then he was ripped from the light by a violent force. Cold darkness surrounded him. Gone was the welcome. Gone the love. Gone, the promise of salvation.

Was this hell? What had he done that was so terrible? Was it the men he’d killed under color of war, or was it the way he’d lived with his life partner? Could it be true that so much love could be so bad?

He was ripped from the darkness. The lights blurred beneath him as he flew toward a tired red beacon amidst a gray vortex. As he got closer he recognized shapes within the swirling cloud, a head, a hand, sometimes a body fully formed. Faces passed, forlorn and without hope. The maelstrom rose hundreds of feet into the sky, centered on a light inside a building somewhere along the water’s edge of San Pedro. The souls, for that was what they had to be, were caught in the winds drawn inward toward the light.

Like moths to a flame, came a horrible thought.

Even more horrible was that he’d become a part of the strange vortex and had thus become a moth. And as he uncontrollably circled the red, pulsating light, he couldn’t stop the incremental creep toward it.

Where once was grace and hope, now was pure despair. For wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, had nothing to do with God, the devil, salvation, or damnation.

Chapter 2

The next morning found Bobby sipping coffee at a sidewalk table of the Lighthouse Deli, a Greek-owned restaurant resting at the end of South Pacific Avenue near Sunken City. A little upscale, Bobby helped the cooks set up most mornings in exchange for a free breakfast. If there was one thing he loved about California, it was the food. He could have anything his heart desired. Nothing was off-limits. This morning it was a nopales cactus omelet, home fries, flour tortillas and lots of coffee. He was on his fourth cup but needed another two or three just to get his body functioning.

They had kept drinking until three in the morning. Kanga had been in rare form. Once the adrenaline from the fight had dissipated, Kanga dispatched five metallic red cans of the Mexican beer before he’d said word one. When he finally did speak, it was to the ocean.

"Marley and I had been best friends since high school. We used to ditch afternoons and chase the waves up and down the coast. We were inseparable. You ever have a friend like that? Ever have a friend who you did everything with?"

Bobby had thought about his life in the Graceland Home for Children. He’d made friends, but most left before a few months had passed, leaving Bobby for their new mommies and daddies. Making friends was easy, sure. Keeping them, well, that was another problem entirely.

"We were brothers from other mothers, and no one could keep us from our friendship. Even when I got Suzanne pregnant with Laurie, it was Marley I'd been faithful to. He wanted to go to South America, so I went with

Reviews for Halfway House

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Ok, this is the second time that I have attempted to read this book. I maybe got a little bit further this time around but not much. Although, I found Kanga and Bobby interesting it was not enough for me to stick with this book. Especially when I was expecting an horror story. Ok, to be honest, maybe the horror does come in later but I stuck with this book for 13 chapters and there was nothing but a lot of talk. Not even talk about the halfway house, expect for that brief mention of it on the last page of chapter 11, which was 96 pages into the story. Whatever secrets the house holds I will never know. This could have been a good book but there needed to be more mention of the house and the evil it held in the early chapters to keep me intrigued.

[okwari_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm not quite sure what to say - I enjoyed the supernatural aspects, the sense of community among the characters... I think the Elvis thing threw me, and not in a good way. Also, I did find I wished that (spoiler) could have saved everybody. It just seemed the book went the default route at the end.

[csweder · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is the tale of an adult orphan (the possible son of famed Rock and Roll legend Elvis), who has made his was to San Pedro, a suburb of LA. In LA he takes up residence with an old surfer, Kanga, falls in love with Kanga's daughter, and gets mixed up with a violent gang war between Mexicans and El Salvadorian gangs. Then of course is the paranormal plot line--turns out this old witch (who once stopped a Japanese attack on the continental US) is collecting all of the souls of the residents of San Pedro and keeping them in a purgatory of the Halfway House. This is where she gains her power and how she continues.


If it sounds like there is a little too much going on, it's because there is.

i really wanted to like this book--and by the looks of the other reviewers, many did. I think that for me there is just too much going on to fully develop everything. It was a little too fantastical for me, but it may be just right for you. There are some good moments and glimpses into the characters that make it a worthy read.

[angee240 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I like to read, but this book couldn't hold my attention. It had too much going on and it made it a bit A.D.D. I like the writing just wished the plot had stayed on track and not wandered.

[bjkelley · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The description of this book made it seem interesting - an epileptic loner out to see if he really is the son of The King of Rock and Roll (Elvis), but unfortunately the author's writing style was not one I liked. The story was ok, but I wouldn't read anything else by Ochse, he's just not for me; however, others could find he's their favorite author.

[bookwormteri · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

There was just too much "other" stuff in this book. I got the plotline, the witch is getting revenge for what happened to her daughter. Okay...let's focus on how that's affecting people and the town, but gang wars and a guy searching for his dad (that a nun told him was Elvis) and......just too much. The actual plotline gets lost in this novel.

[copefiend2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book is a tough one to review. I enjoyed parts of this book as if each of these sections were vignettes. The scenes, characters, and storyline(s) from each of these vignettes where great however they did not work as a combined book. I have read other books from this author and have never has any issue with cohesive storyline until now. I feel he could have developed two or three distinctive and separate stories from the ideas presented in this book. Overall I am only rating this at 2 1/2 stars due to the above.

[brandiec-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

2.5 starsI expected Halfway House to be a great Halloween read; it was not.The underlying premise - that a supernaturally-powered house snatches the souls of San Pedro's dead from the doors of Heaven or Hell, as appropriate - was interesting. However, Ochse stitched this premise to the tale of orphan Bobby Dupree's quest to confirm that he is Elvis Presley's illegitimate son, and the seams show. Many of Ochse's choices made no sense: Why was Bobby, who had no real connection to San Pedro, the protagonist instead of Lucy, the gang leader who had the most direct contact with the Halfway House and its curse? Why was Bobby given a gratuitous disability, epilepsy, which added nothing to the plot? Why were the subjects of pedophilia and pornography introduced, only to be dropped abruptly without advancing the story? Other key questions, such as why the Bruja turned on San Pedro, the origin of the Halfway House's wardens, and the ultimate fate of the misappropriated souls, were never answered. The ending was completely unsatisfying, again primarily because of its focus on Bobby.Ochse's writing was engaging and built sufficient interest and momentum to keep me reading, but his poor execution of the plot made this a below-average read. Ochse should discard the storyline surrounding Bobby and focus on Lucy.I received a free copy of Halfway House through LibraryThing in exchange for an honest review.

[macygma · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I really tried to like this book. Really, I did but it just didn't happen. There are several stories to be told here; and somewhere I got totally confused! Bobby Dupree could have been the only main character and all would have been well. or Kanga. or several others but I, for some reason, couldn't wrap my mind around the concept. It is a great horror story, though and if you are into this genre you will love it!

[cdhtenn2k10 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I think Ochse misses the mark with this book. He has crammed two different stories into one book, and this hurts the stronger story. Ochse has written a really good crime thriller, and muddles it up with an uninteresting supernatural bore fest that only gets the story's full attention towards the end, and by then I couldn't have cared less . The crime story should be fleshed out (easy way-turn the accident that kills one character into a deliberate act, and boom, something for the protagonist to investigate to draw him further in), and all supernatural elements dropped. Ochse's writing is solid. Sentence to sentence is strong and clean. The characters are interesting and the dialogue is good. The action is quick and clear and easy to follow. That's why this is so disappointing. The crime story is so well written that it highlights how weak the supernatural story is every time we cut away to it, and it destroys momentum.There's a really good book lurking around in there, and a character in Bobby Dupree that could be used again and again.

[hopback · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There are two skilfully interwoven threads to this story. The first revolves around the very real-world life of Bobby Dupree, a socially awkward orphan on a quest to confirm the true identity of his celebrity father. Based in southern California his adventures lead him to meet many gritty but likeable characters as he befriends surfers and members of the local San Pedro street gang.This real life adventure intertwines with a horror story centred on the Halfway House of the book’s title where souls of the departed San Pedro residence are trapped by a decades old curse.This colourful and creative tale is engagingly well written with plenty of action and surprising turns. I am very pleased to have discovered it and can certainly recommend it.

[amyrph · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great paranormal thriller. The main characters were very well developed, each with their own agenda throughout the story. I could actually picture most of the main characters, particularly Bobby and Kanga. The plot moved right along and I couldn't put the book down until I finished! Looking forward to seeing more from this author.

[rlaversa · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Its a strange book, but interesting. It drags a little at the beginning, and I had a hard time getting into it. I also had a hard time developing any emotional attachment to the characters, which to me is an important part of reading a story.

[momweaver · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the first book that I've read by Weston Ochse. I will definitely read more from him. It's impossible to describe the plot as it sounds completely ridiculous, but read it for yourself. It is really a very good book.

[yoyogod · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I haven't read a lot of Weston Ochse's books, but I thought all the ones I've read are great, including Halfway House. An orphan who may be the son of the king of rock and roll is searching for his birthright. A local gang leader is fighting to save San Pedro, California from a violent invasion by MS-13. An elderly surf bum is reconnecting with his estranged daughter. There's also a dead bruja who is devouring the souls of anyone who dies in San Pedro so she can sustain the curse she cast on a group of Japanese soldiers who murdered her daughter.I thought the characters were well done, except for the villains who were a bit two dimensional. The plot did, perhaps take a bit too long to get to the titular Halfway House, but the events leading up to that part were still interesting. This is a great book for any horror fan.

[caroltilson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A wonderful saga of a loner and his paper dogWeston Ochse weaves an incredible story about an Epileptic orphan who receives a death bed confession from one of the only two people who he felt cared deeply for him in his life, Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes tells him about the envelope that was left for him when he came to the orphanage. It is from Colonel Parker. This envelope contained information regarding his mother, who died in childbirth, and his very famous father, Elvis Presley. Elvis had nothing but pain in the fact he could not be a part of Bobby’s life. The letter also stated that Elvis had left his Double Platinum Award for Heartbreak Hotel as Bobby’s inherence. The second adult that Bobby looked up to was Kanga, a surfer sometimes known as Captain Kangaroo. As a child, Bobby had no luck being adopted because of his Epilepsy. A couple would bring him home, and it only took one small seizure, and right back to the orphanage he went. His Epilepsy also kept Bobby from having close friends growing up. Sister Agnes did her best to brighten up not only his world, but that of other orphans as well. Sister Agnes posted pictures of dogs, and the children were allowed to adopt these paper dogs and make them their own. Sounds silly, but it is the perfect solution for a lonely child.When Bobby learns about his parentage, he is over 18 and most of the time he stays with Kanga on the beach. Bobby decides to take what little clues he has and he begins the journey to claim his inheritance. Thus, the journey begins. And it is a great journey. The book kept me interested, ready to see what was on the next page. This book holds lots of sadness, but also lots of joy. This book shows us the struggles of growing up an orphan, which is not all that common, but deserves to be told. I enjoyed this book and would recommend it to others.

[jcompton-289965 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Sometimes, you get the idea that a book is simply telling the wrong story. It's a weird thing to suggest. The story in the book is the one the author chose to tell, obviously, so it's odd for a reader to say it's "wrong." Wrong as opposed to what? Well, "wrong" as opposed to the story the author apparently meant (but fails) to tell, and / or "wrong" as opposed to the story the author could be telling based on the people and ideas introduced in the story, but left stranded on the periphery.There are several flaws in Weston Ochse's Halfway House: the dialogue ranges from generic to unnatural to shamelessly expository; all too often the characters' emotions come off as forced and unrealistic; the plot is all over the place, as well as the tone. But the ultimate flaw that dooms this book is that it's following characters and action that seem to belong to a different story. Bobby Dupree, an orphan and former gang affiliate, is a young man in search of his heritage (namely, in search of the proof that he's the son of Elvis Presley). He's also battling epilepsy, which is less of a character trait and more of a "plot coupon" to be cashed in whenever needed for the story's sake. His friend Kanga is an older, surfing hermit with an estranged daughter and a past involving a friend whom he once gravely injured by mistake many years ago. A Los Angeles gang that is introduced through said daughter (Laurie) features in the mix heavily as the story progresses as well. These characters would be a nice point of focus in a pulpier work. Unfortunately, that's not what Halfway House is.Halfway House aspires to be a sort of urban supernatural horror-drama. I say "aspires" because it doesn't really succeed at being any of those things. There are moments of imaginative excellence here and there, but they're lost in the sea of Bobby and Kanga's storylines. First and foremost, there's the terribly under-utilized Laurie, Kanga's daughter. She works as a nurse in what we're told is the "bad side of town" and knows a local gang leader well enough to set Bobby up with a meeting. She has an estranged father who only recently came to California and into her life, and a strangely intriguing (to her) new love interest in Bobby. Given the attempt to make the Southern California setting out to be a character of sorts in its own right, you'd think she'd be an ideal to at least be a consistent POV character, given that--of her, Bobby and Kanga, she's the only one who actually grew up in and really knows the area. She's also the centerpiece that connects Kanga, Bobby and the gang members, all together, yet, as a character, she's taken for granted, and we barely get anything from her perspective. Early on, the only ties to the titular Halfway House (where souls mysteriously congregate) are little interludes, introduced by obituaries, that turn the spotlight on a recently deceased person entering the afterlife. These passages are exciting, frightening, and most of all interesting. I wanted to read more about each of these characters and their more authentic emotions--emotions you could empathize with. Alas, these passages are also fleeting. When things turn back to our feature players, things get decidedly less interesting, even as they grow more outlandish. As the story progresses, the characters that Bobby and the gang members meet become increasingly one-note. They're lined up to be easily despised and disposable. A pedophile here, an obscene jerk there, more and more gangsters. This wouldn't be so bad if the book were leaner. A noir-ish, pulp story or brisk crime / action novel would be a good fit for Bobby's tale. But Bobby's quest item--a platinum plaque Elvis allegedly left to him, his illegitimate son--proves elusive, so the book drags like a meandering fantasy story or video game where the lead is constantly told his the quest item he seeks is in another castle. At various points the story bogs down, sometimes for several paragraphs, sometimes for the bulk of a chapter, either with unearned sentiment or pointless info-dumping. At times it seems Ochse just wants to share some things he knows about comic books or movies or some other subject with us; things that don't help the story move forward, or give the characters or environment any real color, or are even all that interesting as factoids on their own. It just feels like Ochse had these things on his mind at the time and figured he'd throw them into the book. Hell, why not waste three pages on characters arguing over Superman vs. Green Lantern in the back half of the book to make a point that's tangential to the plot, and could have been made in two or three sentences? Again, in another story, one that had earned a slower pace, these little elements might be welcome (if used properly). With a story like this that ought to be much tighter and move like an express train, these random distractions destroy any momentum that might be building up.Meanwhile, as Bobby continues to hunt for his platinum artifact, Kanga is the first to actually reach the titular Halfway House where one communicates with the dead. There he ends up stuck in emotional quicksand for a few chapters; going through the motions, but going nowhere, before finally coming upon a sense of something sinister at work. It takes about 2/3rds of the book to get to the point where the main action finally starts even thinking about approaching the Halfway House, which is almost a quirky afterthought for much of the story up to that point. I really can't stress that last bit enough; a novel that is ostensibly centered around a place where the souls of the dead can still communicate with the living instead devotes most of its attention to gang warfare, conflicts with seedy, ready-made villains and a quest to see if Bobby's actually Elvis's son. Another dialogue-heavy info-dump in the last third of the book tells us why the Halfway House draws spirits to it. No significant clues or hints to the mystery (outside of the by-then distant prologue). Just, "Oh hey, we're talking about this now, so let's just tell everything there is to be told about it and get it out the way."Again, this novel has more than its share of flaws, and its moments of promise, but what ultimately derails it is that it's simply focused on the wrong characters and the wrong things.

[thorlac-236421 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have read Mr. Ochse's Seal Team 666 books, so I had some idea of his storytelling ability before starting Halfway House. It is a departure from the military environment of his previous books, but it does not slow him down one bit; the word choices and scene setting felt largely natural and reasonable. Mr. Ochse could have leaned on stereotypes for several characters but he chose to make them interesting instead.I found this book at times engrossing and at other times difficult to read. The difficulty was due to not wanting to witness the characters endure more pain. I cared about these characters (well, oddly, not so much with the protagonist--I just didn't connect with him.) That doesn't happen to me as often as I would like. I think that the incident that kicks off the book could have been more descriptive, especially in regards to the witch's motivation. Yes, what happens in the first chapter is horrible for any parent to experience, but the author seemed to spend too little time describing her mental and emotional state before jumping to present day.In closing, I enjoyed Halfway House and intend to seek out more of this author's work.I received this as an eBook via LibraryThing's Early Reviewer program.

[saginawhorror · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I could not put this book down! I read it all in a few hours. Weston Ochse has such a way with his stories. It was a liitle less of a horror novel than i was expecting but still stayed interested the entire time. Highly recommend this and all other Weston Ochse titles.

[veronica.sparrow · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoy many types of genre but my absolute favorite is the horror genre. I have to admit that I was "spoiled" by Stephen King. The way I judge a horror novel is if I like and want to know more about some of the main characters and if there is some "meat" to the story and it is not just a plain "blood and guts" horror fest. I have been disappointed so many times that when I first started to read this book, I assumed it would probably be an ABC type of horror book. I am pleased to say that I was very wrong. It is a horror novel but is so much more. It is a view of urban life, and in particular, gang life, surfer life style, and orphans. The center of the story is the Halfway House and orbiting it are a few very interesting characters. Lucy, the gang leader, Kanga, the seasoned surfer, and Bobby, the epileptic/loner searching for his place. I actually grew to care about Bobby and surprisingly, Lucy. I received this book for free on LibraryThing in return for an honest review and am glad I did. I have actually found a new (for me) author in my favorite genre.

[mootma · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When I received this book, I guess I was expecting something different. I was wrong and so glad to be wrong. Very interesting book and the author threw some curves in there that made me go "huh?" in a good way. Some of the people that passed away were a shock but it added to the story. I felt a little dissatisfied that the only way to prove he was the son of Elvis was by a platinum record, didn't make much sense. But I sat up late and finished the book in two days, that's how interested it kept me. Good book.

[samantha.ann · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

While this book wasn't was I was expecting it to be, it turned out to be a pretty decent book. The characters are likable and interesting. I found this book to often be slow at different parts and I struggled at first but then was able to settle into it. Good read!!

[sheriawilkinson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Halfway House by Weston OchseBobby Dupree is an epileptic loner, he grew up in a orphanage in Memphis Tennessee. He truly believes he is the son Of Elvis, for that is what he was always told. He makes friends with an old surfer, they make an unlikely pair, but become great friends.Then there is halfway House, a place noted to have strange happenings take place inside. Legend has it that the souls of those who died in the area are all inside the infamous house. When a tragedy occurs in Bobby's life, it seems that it all revolves around Halfway House. He has unleashed something evil, a seventy year old curse. It is up to Bobby (And friends) to try to make things right.A well written suspense/thriller/paranormal/horror story. Bobby was so likable, being orphaned and alone his whole life, just wanting answers. I loved the suspense, and thrills that filled the pages of a fantastic read. I stayed up into the wee hours of the night reading, I just could not put it down. I highly recommend to those who love a great paranormal/horror story.

[journalstone-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Halfway House…a place shrouded in mystery…standing shunned and ignored…yet seeming to devour the souls of everyone who dies in San Pedro. Bobby Dupree…an epileptic loner from a Memphis orphanage who is on a journey to find out if he truly is…the son of the King of Rock and Roll. When Bobby’s quest becomes entwined with an old surf bum and his estranged daughter, the 8th Street Angels, and a dicey porn director, he discovers that Los Angeles holds more opportunities and dangers than he could have imagined. Discovering he's at ground zero to a seventy-year-old spiritual curse, all the chaotic events in Bobby's life begin to circle back to the inscrutable force of the Halfway House…