Folklore

By Kyle Reece

An ex marine, grieving the loss of his wife is faced with his worst nightmare on a holiday off the coast of Morocco.

When his brother and best friends disappear in an island clouded in folklore and mystery, Bobby sets out to find them whilst battling against an evil cult obsessed with their own survival, a bloodthirsty monster and an island of dangerous animals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kyle Reece
• Release date: Feb 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370568864

Kyle Reece

explorer of the human condition.

Book preview

Folklore

By Kyle Reece

Copyright Smashwords 2019

Chapter One

A dying cigarette slowly ashed its way into nothingness, perched idly in a glass tray at the back of the musty room. The translucent grey smoke fidgeted with itself in the air as it fumbled about, deciding whether to sneak out through the spaces in the wooden floorboards below or the gaps in the sealing of the wide window ahead.

A dusty closed bible sat sadly next to the ashtray, used, with contempt, as a placemat for Trent’s half empty whiskey glass. Trent usually stopped drinking at around the same mark in the glass every evening. He made a mental note with himself, again, to pour less next time.

Tears of rain bled down the outside of the window pane drawing on flashbacks that blistered Trent’s mind like ambulance lights; images of hollow screaming faces, eyes wide open, men with dry mouths of gargling blood merging with the unforgiving sand. Men he knew well, if only for a night or two.

Trent gripped his fist tight as he felt the feelings of powerlessness and regret burn within him suddenly. They lashed around him like the whipping tail of a fiery phoenix. He closed his eyes and tried his hardest to regain his composure. He could do this. He just had to breathe.

Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours LP swirled around and around. The seventh song was playing now and no one was listening bar Stevie herself.

The clouds around the central Sydney city had reached breaking point, whispering between each other, waiting for the right hour to explode over the murky and monotonous landscape below.

Trent had sat like this for hours, and frankly, today was a good day.

Behind him, Trent’s youngest brother, Mitch, potted around in the kitchen, preparing his weekly lunches for the two of them. Trent was lucky to still have him around. Their third brother, Jai, now lived 4,000 kilometres away in Perth. He was always just a phone call away, but it was different having Mitch around for nights that were especially bad.

The heavy smells of sausage and boiled potato swam their way through the air, elegantly adding a pungent aroma to the stuffy apartment. The Locke brothers’ mum’s Irish heritage managed to pop up from time to time just to say hello, like a game of whack-a-mole.

Trent missed his mum, in the same way that he missed everyone who had left, never to be seen again. Lauren, his ex-wife, he missed perhaps most of all, but he didn’t want to think about her, or the last night he saw her ...

A single orange lightbulb swung above on a thin thread, adding less light to the room than the intermittent bolts of lightning outside had. A heavy overturn of rain flooded the pipes and barrels on the top floor of the apartment building. A flood crashed down and the pipes began to fill back up again.

Trent gazed into his own reflection in the glass. The shining of his token dog tags glittered in the shallow moonlight. His heavy eyes were marked with crows feet and empty, pupils. His long eyelashes were the only soft and slightly more feminine part of his face. His jawline was finely crafted and long and his hollow cheeks made him seem angrier than he once used to look. And to add to his spooky demeanour, Trent had still chosen to remain with the short, black military style haircut he had sported throughout his career.

Another bolt of lightning cascaded down on the other side of the city. Trent’s face lit up with the light, his dark demeanour implanted with deep eyes and a skeletal look. Trent was now an empty shell of a man, brooding over a city buried under indignity, crime and ungratefulness.

Over the last three years the lines between Afghanistan, Ireland and Australia had begun to blur. The streets in each country didn’t felt safer than the last, nor did any country offer good weather or a healthy place to rebuild a new life.

The thunder in the sky rumbled like a band of jungle drums, skipping across the skyline. Trent shivered. He closed his eyes and inhaled again. He was getting better.

His mind absorbed him. All of him. Every inch of his being from head to toe disappeared from his living room window and into a murky dark hole of endless screaming and torture.

Trent’s chest strangled him tight. He felt he was being squeezed from the inside. His breathing grew heavy. He felt it coming on. The hyperventilation was next.

Trent’s mind ignited with a solid memory of rapid gunfire chasing him across the battlefield and the image of his old friend Wilson being shot down in cold blood. He remembered wanting to stop and run back but being unable to do so, he remember not being able to say goodbye, he remembered Wilson’s wide eyed face as he screamed out for help…

Mitch whooshed the blinds closed, dropping them to darkness and silencing the melancholic artwork outside.

Why do you do this to yourself Trent?

Trent slowly turned his head up to look his younger brother in the eye. He reached over and grasped his whiskey glass, taking a quick swivel.

It was fascinating to see how the differences in the brothers’ experiences reflected in their faces. Mitch was only three years younger than Trent, but the physical differences seemed more extreme. Mitch also had a longer, thin face which moulded well with his pencil figure but where Trent had muscle and heaviness, Mitch had energy and light. Mitch’s face was wrinkle free and his glittery blue eyes still projected naivety and optimism, just like Trent’s once had.

I’m fine Mitch.

Trent turned back, looking over to the desk shoved uncomfortably against the back wall. Wooden photo frames sat across the top of the bench. One of them was evidently splintered, a second was either empty or contained a photo so dark and faded that it was impossible to interpret but the third contained one of the happier memories of Trent’s life.

Falls Music Festival, Byron Bay.

Not all of Trent’s memories were bad.

*

Trent’s energy was depleting very quickly. He wiped away the long, curly sandy locks covering his face, slowing the trail of sweat dancing down his forehead. He had originally meant to get a haircut before Falls kicked off but soon after decided that he was going to enjoy the Heath Ledger look a little longer; at least until the end of summer.

Mitch, you have to slow down. You’re not going to make it to the end of the night.

The temperature was quickly reaching 40C and it was showing, moreso today than it had been all week. Trent and his friends had spent the last few nights crammed into a homely tent on the far side of Tent City, it had been a challenge, but it was all worth it in the name of adventure. Over the last few days, he had wondered at what age people really stopped having huge adventures like this one.

In his tired mood, Trent definitely didn’t feel like he could keep up with his brother for one more afternoon, especially sober. As the sun was glaring down heavier and heavier, he was finding it increasingly difficult to find a shaded spot to spend the day and there was only so much folk music he could take with a migraine that paid him a visit every few hours.

It’s only two o’clock damnit. You don’t even have enough tokens for two more drinks.

I’ll just go and get more, it’s not that hard, said Mitch sarcastically shrugging towards the flooded token stand at the top of the hill.

Trent looked over at the long line of drunken twenty something year olds swaying back and forth in a semi straight line to the bar.

Abigail smiled at Trent who was clearly losing the battle against Mitch. Trent, he’s going to be fine. You had your turn yesterday, just let him have some fun.

Trent turned to look back at Abigail. If she wasn’t three months pregnant she too would be out in the mosh pit going crazy to the sound of the electric guitars. Abigail was the same age as Trent but a lot less mature and serious than he was. Before she was pregnant, Abigail was the type of girl that really knew how to have a good time. Trent loved that about her, she really balanced out his seriousness. Abigail drooped her brown eyes at him, the guilt trip always worked. Trent sipped back his Corona. He supposed he could let it go for one more day.

At twenty six years old, Trent Locke was one of the most charming and handsome men you would meet on the east coast. He was exceptionally attractive, in a quirky way, not that he liked to admit it though. Trent was slightly shorter than average height, and had light sandy hair, mirrored almost in opposition by his dark stubble and moustache. He had a lean, toned physique and a sharp curved jawline. His eyes were a deep emerald. One of Trent’s eyebrows was slightly higher than the other, but it’s likely that he was the only one who noticed that. People often compared him to the typical Aussie-surfer look, with comparisons to Mick Fanning and Chris Hemsworth thrown around like confetti.

Mitch slapped his arm around Trent’s shoulder. Although Mitch was two years the junior of his brother, he was ever so slightly taller than him. A hemp necklace with a smooth clear, crystal swung loosely around his neck. His short, thick caramel hair was messy and almost every inch of his shorts and singlet was caked in white dust and brown mulch. Mitch was having a great time.

Sorry, Mitch said, but it’s my turn.

Abigail laughed. Mitch, Matt Corby starts in ten minutes, she said looking down at her watch, Go grab Alex, and the others, get some water and come back and meet us here. We’ll make our way over to main stage together.

The heat from the afternoon sun was beginning to take its toll on the group, baking the friends alive. It was a constant challenge between being the at the front of the mosh pit for the artists they really wanted to see, and staying shaded and hydrated.

Mitch smiled and looked up at Trent as if he were expecting permission. Usually Mitch would kick up a fuss by being babied by his older brother but he seemed to be enjoying his protective behaviour right now. Most people would think that Trent was the older brother who was always there to bail out the troublesome junior, but the truth was that Mitch was there for Trent just as much as he relied on him. If anything, their middle brother Jai had been the most work in managing cheeky behaviour whilst growing up. Nonetheless, the brothers had had a solid relationship since birth and would die before they let the other go down.

Don’t look at me like you need my permission. You’ve ignored everything I’ve said to you today so far, said Trent lightheartedly. Go on.

Mitch darted off to find the others.

What’s wrong? Abigail asked.

Nothing, he said shaking his head and unwrapping his arms. I’m really keen for Matt Corby, he said, changing the topic, you ready?

Trent, I know you. Just relax. We only have one day left, Mitch is a big boy now and he can take care of himself.

I know, I know.

Good, she said dropping the seriousness from her voice, you guys aren’t eight and ten anymore.

Trent smiled calmly. How are you feeling? It must be weird being at a music festival and having to be a total square.

Abigail whipped her phone out of her back pocket and scrunched up her eyes attempting to read the messages. Yeah, you choose your poison right? I’ve got a bit of a headache though, she said. Rory says they’re already in the mosh. Abigail looked up and behind Trent.

Okay, let’s go.

Trent’s friends weren’t hard to spot, all one had to look out for was the most eclectic looking group of young people there was congregating in the one spot.

The local DJ blasted the radio-ready tunes, controlling the crowd like a puppeteer to jump and sway to every beat and melody with Matt Corby yet to be seen.

The mosh pit slowly became a jungle of girls and guys heralding each other on their shoulders. Being one of the most sober people right now, Trent smiled, wondering how such a mixed group of people had come together at this festival, all for the exact same thing.

Take Alex for example, after high school ended he had gone on to study graphic design. It really matched his image too. He was tall, skinny and kind of awkward looking. His squeaky North London accent moulded him into the perfect mix between gentleman and ruffian. Alex was at the back of the group, awkwardly bouncing up and down in his cargo pants and reading glasses.

Riley and Rory were twins, not identical, but you could still tell. The boys had somewhat of a mediterranean look about them, but seemed to get really defensive whenever anyone asked about their heritage. The twins had been happily managing their parent’s bar, paying their way through youth. Trent envied their care free view of life.

Then there was Dylan. Dylan was a law student, who was at first apprehensive to coming to Falls Festival in Byron Bay, but after realising he was the only one in the group who wasn’t going, bought a ticket anyway. Dylan was perhaps the most baby faced future lawyer in the history of the planet, part of that probably stemmed from his Maori heritage. He had put his degree on hold several times to travel the world and now carried with him an attitude that made him seem ten years older than he was.

Father of the group, Miles, was the only friend who had already reached the grand old age of thirty at this point in time. He sported a chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. His biceps were like tree trunks and yet he had the caring personality of a new mother. The only sign of his age was the light outline of crows feet creeping around his eyes, even though he did get asked for ID a lot for a thirty year old. Miles was that one friend who hadn’t gone to school with the others, but had found his way into the group through his time in the marines with Trent. His friends liked to joke about how his Scottish accent often made him sound like he was speaking in another language.

Matt Corby walked on to the stage, met by a deafening roar of adoring fans. Trent and Abigail covered their ears with light hearted smiles. A thunderous applause broke out matched by whistling and items of all sorts being thrown into the air. Matt Corby, the handsome 28 year old folk singer, clutched the microphone from centre stage in his hand with a modest laugh. He raised a hand to silence the overwhelmingly crazy crowd.

He looks like a woodland creature, said Abigail to Trent, noticing the flute tucked underneath his arm.

Yeah! Haha. Why is everyone screaming already? He hasn’t even started singing yet.

Don’t be such an old man Trent! said Abigail with a laugh.

Matt Corby didn’t say a lot when he fixed himself firmly in place on the stage. Trent squinted, trying to work out whether he was a really shy person, or was just really stoned.

Thank you. Thank you, said Matt Corby with a deep grumbly voice. It’s so great to be here with all of you today. The screaming continued for a little longer to which Matt laughed, which honestly only encouraged more screaming.

Do you really think he’s all that handsome? Trent asked Abigail.

Her eyes widened as she nodded slowly.

I’m very excited to be here today, as always, but today especially. This is the first time that I’m going to be playing some of the songs from my new album. Are you having a good time Falls? The crowd broke into another wave of screams and a glistening white smile tore across his face.

I thought he doesn’t really tend to talk much on the stage? asked Abigail.

He doesn’t looked half as stoned now as he usually does.

Trent turned to face the others. Dylan was already beginning to Snapchat the angelic Matt Corby. Trent couldn’t help but chuckle at the serious, concentrating look on his friend’s face as he held the phone steady. Just then, Rory threw his fingers into his mouth and whistled with one hand, flinging the other arm wide into the air and knocking the phone clear out of Dylan’s hand. In the blink of an eye, the phone flew into the wilderness of the crowd of flailing arms and sweaty adolescents.

Rory, you idiot! Dylan screamed out.

Rory, Dylan and Trent immediately scrambled to the floor, attempting to quickly find Dylan’s phone. It was like finding a needle in a haystack.

I’m sorry! yelled a drunken Rory.

Just then, Trent looked up to see a hand before him, gently cradling the phone. He rose to his knees and was met with a smile that warmed his heart in places he never knew could feel warmth.

Here, said the young lady, you’re kind of lucky this time. Usually all you have to do is look at an iPhone and it will smash.

She was about the same height as Trent, had long locks of blonde hair and a smile that could light up a city. This woman glowed with the light of the sun itself with blue, diamond eyes that mesmerised. She was Hollywood beautiful. Trent quickly tried to work out whether she should have been part of the backstage crew.

Trent felt his heart stop almost straight away. Never in his life had he ever seen such beauty. He tried to get himself to together to thank her but the words wouldn’t come out. She seemed to notice because she giggled playfully.

Dylan grasped the phone out of her hand with a swift nod and thank you before continuing to leap up and down as Matt Corby softly settled into his first song.

You should know that those things cost an arm and a leg to fix too, she said looking at Rory who seemed mesmerised too by her beautiful blue eyes.

Trent playfully swiped a hand across his friend’s face. I guess we owe you a thank you then uh-

I’m Lauren, she said.

Trent.

Chapter Two

Alana Elaine quickly combed her short, Hazel ponytail back over her shoulder. She had been straightening it over and over again for the last hour. In the mirror she pushed her eyebrows up and down and pulled her cheeks back and forward, tightening and un-tightening her face. She usually loved the way she looked but right now she needed to feel like she was at the top of her game. Alana slapped her palm against the fingerprint sensitive lock, allowing her out into the hallway. She strutted her way through the wide chambers like a woman who was the ultimate boss and knew it. Today was the day that she would receive the acclaim she deserved.

Alana slid her fingers back and forth nervously across the screen of the iPad in her hands before tucking it away behind her back.

Operations control on standby. Malfunction count minimised. All necessary precautions adjusted, she muttered to herself.

Her mind raced over every possible way the conversation today could go and thought of every possible answer to each scenario and question.

Alana threw her hand against another fingerprint opening which slid across the exit door. As the doorway opened she met with three men, each dressed in grey with thick black stubble and wrinkled skin. The men wore wide brimmed hats and carried with them leather suitcases. She had never dealt with these three contractors before, her company and the departments she dealt with often liked to send in third party suits who would change with every inquiry or order.

Director Elaine, I presume? said the man closest to the front of the three.

The man in the suit was stick thin and wore a pair of rounded glasses with a slight crack on the left ocular. He held out his bony, freckled hand and grinned with a smile that made Alana uncomfortable without explanation.

Yes, she said. Hello Mr. Smith and welcome to the Angel Industries Laboratories, Isla del Rayo. I hope your short flight from the mainland wasn’t too testing.

Alana took an awkward knee bow before her guests and immediately regretted it, assuming how silly she looked and felt. She then straightened out her industrial white dress and spun on her heel. Alana reached out a hand and preciously shook hands with her other two guests, Mr. Moon and Mr. Austen.

Not at all Director. In fact, it’s far nicer to be away from the unforgiving heat, continued Mr. Smith with his uncomfortable smile.

Alana smiled back, awkwardly. Suddenly the nerves kicked in like the throttle of a car engine. She thought she would be fine, but the real test was about to begin. Alana lead the small group through the laboratory.

"Gentlemen, let me cut to the chase. Crime is at an all time low. Our officers have become flinchingly bored with the mediocre things that their jobs consist of on a day to day basis and our streets across the country have become safer and smarter, however, worries and fears over terrorism and terrorism threats continue to plague our landscape. The world is changing gentlemen, and unfortunately in time all men and women will have the power to harness the destructive power of