Five into Twilight

By Xlibris US

Lock the doors. Dim the lights. Sit back in your chair . . . are you ready?

- A frozen pond takes an innocent boy, yet returns another.
- Will God-fearing Merrill befriend the ghosts of Nantucket Island to keep his only grandson safe?
- Charlene hopes her dream will help her win a night of long awaited ecstasy.
- Can Saint Stephanie's midnight priest save David's soul after the darkest sin?
- Heartbroken Sarah receives the ultimate gift for a very wrong reason.
- A deliciously macabre journey into the shadiest chambers of the heart and mind.

Enter if you dare . . . (D. Caine)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499008357

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Copyright © 2014 by Derk Caine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover Design by Jose Aponte

Rev. date: 05/15/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

WEDDING OVERDUE

THE MIDNIGHT PRIEST

NIGHTLIGHTS

THE DREAM CLUB

ANDREW

Lock the doors. Dim the lights. Sit back in your chair… are you ready?

- A frozen pond takes an innocent boy, yet returns another.

- Will God-fearing Merrill befriend the ghosts of Nantucket Island to keep his only grandson safe?

- Charlene hopes her dream will help her win a night of long awaited ecstasy.

- Can Saint Stephanie’s midnight priest save David’s soul after the darkest sin?

- Heartbroken Sarah receives the ultimate gift for a very wrong reason.

- A deliciously macabre journey into

the shadiest chambers of the heart and mind.

Enter if you dare… (D. Caine)

—In his mid-fifties, Derk Caine is the father of three boys (one autistic) and step-father to four girls. Besides his passion for three-dimensional horror writing, he loves playing guitar, fishing, and bicycling.

Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he joined the army at age seventeen and finished high school while training at Fort Knox, Ky. Later, Derk returned to Worcester, and attended Central New England College.

After years of numerous jobs, he was coaxed by his sons, and friends, to let others enjoy his twisted tales—Five Into Twilight is the first collection of many more to come… .

Special Thanks to:

Bev Pierce

Frank Quaglia

Jose Aponte

Chris @ Leo Public School Admin

Kelly @ Southeast School

Dr. Fisher (entomologist)

Bill Principe @ Braman Chemical

Sherrie Urena

Mari Storm

Kathleen Litchfield

Leo Library

Nantucket Island

Mark Newton

For:

David, Travis, and Braxton

WEDDING OVERDUE

by

Derk Caine

Although today’s ceremony never made it to I do, Sarah Nelson had been to the altar five times. But, she wouldn’t scream, or cry, or curse God—not this time.

All she would need is a length of rope, one cinder block, and a deep lake. Provided she wasn’t found by a diver, Sarah would rest peacefully, floating a few feet off the murky bottom for years to come, her long blond hair swaying gently with the frigid current amidst the weeds.

She rehearsed the death plan over and over again in her mind, hoping to keep the steps in order when the time came. Strangely, Sarah wondered if after her heartbeat ceased, and the last pocket of air escaped her lungs, her sparkling blue eyes would close, or stay open staring off into the seclusive liquid night.

Now, Sarah could have picked the Atlantic Ocean to die in; her dad had left her a cottage down on Cape Cod, and an old boat to go with it. No; she was born in Worcester and—for some reason beyond her comprehension—felt the need to die in Worcester, too. Besides, the idea of crabs and sand sharks chunking away at her swollen carcass terrified her. (God bless the unfortunate fisherman that might find Sarah’s head in his trawl.)

Lake Quinsigamond was five minutes from her house, and sufficiently deep: sixty, seventy feet, or more in some spots. Thinking back to her childhood, Sarah remembered the Rte. 9 bridge over the water, and how she liked dropping pennies down and counting, One 1,000, two 1,000, three 1,000… as the flashing coins sank out of sight. Often, she’d make a wish first, until…

. . . One rainy afternoon at school, Sarah’s arch-nemesis, Michelle Rennier, stood nervously by the windows counting in the same way to measure the distance of lightning from the classroom. When the other fourth-graders joined in, Sarah realized that they were right: this was the count for storms, not sinking pennies in a lake. She had been stupid and would never tell anyone what she had done. After all, Michelle had destroyed a fellow classmate, Donald Woods, for much less stupidity. It happened on the very first day of school:

Little Donald had farted in his sleep while Michelle read to the class about her summer vacation. He was her next-door-neighbor and she actually liked him, but that wouldn’t stop her from killing him slowly.

Now, Michelle, herself, smelled like octopus and garlic. She wore thick ugly glasses that she said were Designer and the very latest style. And she spoke too often through her nose due to her mouth being tied up with wads of hidden gum. So, although she was a good throw from ever becoming the most liked student, Michelle could still gain mass appeal by being mean. Mean came easy to her.

First, Donald would need a new name; something greatly exaggerating his crime, nothing fancy or original… say… Shit Britches. But, obviously, the teachers would reprimand anyone using the word shit in school. So, Michelle had to put a more widely accepted tag on him (to be approved and used by mixed crowds), something with time tested results… say… Stinky. Stinky is a name that adults find cute; on the other hand, children would find it detestable: Perfect. His new name guaranteed Donald certain tragedies: sitting by himself in the back of the bus, eating alone in the cafeteria, being the last kid to be picked for sides in a kickball game, and, in the twelth grade, being dateless for the prom, then for life, and, someday years down the road, dying lonely in a nursing home, the name Stinky Woods on his toe tag. His wake would bring no one except a priest, who, just before closing the casket lid forever would, in a moment of unconscionable curiosity, bring his nose down to smell the body to see if the name fit.

True: No one liked Michelle; but, they feared her wrath. And when you’re feared people are nice to you, and they will follow you, even when you decide to kill somebody. (Murder has an off-center fascination sewn on its back with bloody thread, and destroying a life can be much more interesting than poking a stick at roadkill.)

Now, Sarah had never done anything to make Michelle dislike her; then again, Michelle liked no one. Sarah’s mother explained that sometimes children are hateful for ridiculous reasons: Perhaps Michelle didn’t like how the teacher favored Sarah, or the fact that Sarah could get all A’s on her tests without really trying. Or it could have been something as simple as bad chemistry (when someone doesn’t like you from the get-go with no logical excuse). Of course, being a fourth-grader at that time, Sarah comprehended only a small portion of what Mother had said. All she knew was that Michelle was a bad kid, and when the TV show spoke about Alcatraz Island she thought of her.

Michelle ended up graduating high school and went on to college in New Hampshire. She still enjoyed counting the distance of lightning from the classroom window although she had never lost the dread of its inescapable annihilation.

Well, it was an October school day during a torrential downpour, that Michelle’s science professor, Mr. Glasgow, lent her an umbrella. At first she had rejected his offer, thinking to wait the storm out instead as usual. Then he informed her that the chance of being struck by lightning was over ten million to one. You have a better chance of winning the lottery, he had said.

Michelle would be much better off today if she had won the damn lottery.

At her funeral three people showed up: Her mother, Mr. Glasgow, and little Donald Stinky Woods. Donald wasn’t little anymore at six-foot-three and two hundred thirty-five pounds, and he never smelled badly. Still, Michelle’s tag name had kept him dateless, then down a long road of drugs and alcohol until he burned out. In rehab Donald studied ancient Indian philosophy, and came out straight as an arrow. Oddly, Donald attended the funeral with a lightning bolt tattoo on his neck. He introduced himself as an old friend from school, prayed over the coffin in strange words, then left. Michelle’s mother took notice to the letters W.O.T.S. air-brushed on Donald’s shirt. Later, she did some research and discovered they stood for Warriors Of The Storm—a cult based on worship and control of bad weather.

It seems like only yesterday, Sarah thought, standing on her bedroom balcony. She could see part of the Rte. 9 bridge over the gray store tops. It all looked so cold and inflexible, with all the compassion of an empty ATM. She recalled her dad telling her how White City Plaza, just beyond the bridge and lake, was an amusement park back in the good-ol’-days. Dad had repeated the same story many times, but Sarah would never let on. Although she was only a kid at that time, she recognized the painful-joyous glow of lost times hovering over his face. The tears that met his smile were tears of joy, and Sarah enjoyed going back there each time in her dad’s memory…

. . . Ferris wheel lights cast a low rainbow in the warm summer night sky above passing roller-coaster-car shadows. And sweet/salty aromas of cotton candy and popcorn rode gentle breaths of wind and children. But, even during Dad’s younger jubilant years, there were troublemakers like Clive Stamper; he ran the worst of Worcester’s teens: The Lake Ave Punks. Yet, regardless of their social incompatability, the amusement park was a haven from their bullying because of Richie Bryant—the band leader with heart-melting perfect pitch. He wasn’t a tough guy; the only time he’d raise a fist was during a song. Still, Richie controlled the most important facet of young men’s lives: The wooing of girls. He could see every inch of the park from the bandstand, especially the sandy Quinsigamond shoreline to the left of the stage, where couples sat watching the moon in nervous anticipation of a kiss. And Richie could change the outcome of those precious moments with just a few intentional sour notes. (English literature had taught us that The pen is mightier than the sword, but in the world of teenagers, Richie taught us that Nothing influences a woman’s mood more than the right music at the right time.)

Sarah turned away from her balcony view of the stoic bridge and store tops. Back inside the bedroom, she held up her father’s picture from the dresser. I miss you, Dad, she whispered.

These days, you could still see the water slides at White City Park standing in the shallows like rusty blue, sea serpents frozen in time. But slides wouldn’t do. Sarah needed a direct drop from the Rte. 9 bridge to complete her mission.

She found a yellow nylon rope in her cellar, and the cinder block at the end of her neighbor’s driveway. The big holes constructed in the block would make an easy job of attaching the rope. And the weight was ideal—not too heavy to lift into the car trunk, yet heavy enough to bring Sarah to the cold lake bottom expeditiously.

Traffic was light as usual for the beginning of the week. She stopped on the bridge, leaving the cement block under a blown street light, then drove to the White City Plaza parking lot, where she left her silver Mercedes.

She had always dressed well; tonight Sarah would stay true. She had wrapped the yellow rope around her waist as a belt, in fear that a passing police car might suspect something. Her brightly-flowered summer dress matched the rope, white flats, and half-moon earrings in citrus glow.

As she began crossing the bridge the sounds of the old amusement park followed her. Then she heard her dad: Where you goin’, Honey? They’re about to start the roller coaster.

Soon, Dad, she thought, reaching the blown street light. On her ring finger she wore four gold bands carefully placed in order of her failed marriages. (The memories of those men might go into the next world with Sarah’s spirit, but the rings were going down with the ship.)

Once she had tied the rope to the block and her ankle, she balanced the cement anchor and herself on top of the guardrail, dangling her legs high above the shimmering water.

The pungent odor of algae and fish rising off the lake seemed stronger than ever. For the first time Sarah noticed the smells’ unique ability to blend together and stand apart at the same time. An airplane, streaking across the horizon, gave the illusion of being just a few feet above a nearby rise of evergreen trees. Blinking red lights along the plane’s wings made her think of Christmas and how much she would miss it… even the snow.

Headlights approached from the Worcester-most end of the bridge. A pick-up truck overloaded with college boys rolled by yelling, Do it, Bitch! Do it now! Screw the world! One drunken youth tossed a handful of coins at her, screaming, Get a life, you loser!

Sarah slid off the railing.

The cement block yanked her down in a streak of stars and shoreline nightlights, the lake floor greeting her with the mental intensity of a runaway elevator hitting bottom. Sarah’s eyes bulged as her lungs exchanged air for water. Icicles of terror drilled savagely under her numbing skin. Shudders turned into convulsions, convulsions into one last twitch; then… stillness. (The movie was over, the credits, too.)

Sarah was separate from herself. She sat on a rock nearby, surrounded by tall flowing weeds, watching her vertically suspended body sway gently with the current.

Her crystal blue eyes had remained open, and she comprehended how insignificant color could be in a colorless place. She wandered closer to arrange the corpse’s hair, only to find her fingers passed through. Close by, in a clearing on the Quinsigamond floor, a group of tattered spectors gathered watching.

Double-crossed gangsters, cheating wives and husbands, were among them, and judging by their varied stages of decay, some had been down longer than others.

The tallest spector wore a kingly robe made from weeds and adorned with freshwater clam shells. His skeleton had one piece of meat remaining at the top of his skull—a skin cap which anchored a royal crown of white spiked hair. And if you were to make his acquaintance you might think he looked at you with a warped kinship, yet you would be mistaken, for those unblinking beady black eyes are not his; they belong to the wild eel living behind his vacant stare.

The widest spector was also the shortest due to his having no head; both hands were missing, too. Unlike the tall king, he was fully fleshed with exception of a large hole in his belly, which allowed a row of intestines to trail behind while tiny fish darted in and out taking tiny bites before dashing away to spit out their rotten little mouthfuls.

These wandering abominations were once humans. Some had been killed; others had killed themselves. All were merely shadows of their former lives. (If these creatures were representing a mathematical symbol they would be division, because above the line they were different, but below the line they all had one common denominator: Hopelessness. They wouldn’t be going to God’s Heaven or Satan’s Hell. These outcasts were home to stay, trudging the depths of Lake Quinsigamond until they decompose—flesh, bones, and souls.)

The headless man moved towards Sarah. He was joined by the tall king who was searching for a queen. Then someone called through the void: Come back, Sarah… come back.

The voice grew, changing from woman to man.

Come on back, Beautiful, he coaxed. I know you can do it. Try, damn it! Try!

Another voice said: You did your best, Doc. I’m sorry.

Yeah, he replied. Me too.

Do you want me to note the time?

What’s her body temperature?

Warmer than when she came in. That’s for sure.

Anything’s warmer than when she came in, Elisa. Give me a number.

Eighty-three.

Okay, he said reluctantly. I’m going home—early day tomorrow. Thanks. Leaving the emergency room, Dr. Wayland caught the reflection of Nurse Elisa Macmillan pulling the sheet over Sarah’s discolored face in the door glass. And for a split second he thought he saw another person standing next to the bed. Walking down the hallway, Doc Wayland yanked at his rubber gloves, and a door creaked open behind him; he turned to the sound. A shapely, naked young woman, with lustrous black hair, swayed seductively towards dead Sarah’s room leaving a trail of water.

Hey, wait a minute, he called after her, his tone trapped between alarm and humor. Where the hell are you going?

The naked woman turned to him. Don’t give up, Doc, she said giving him a wink that sent a gush of water streaming down her cheek. Smiling a meaningless smile, her teeth melted away, dripping like milk from her chin. Her head liquefied, then her body, leaving only a puddle, which quickly slid beneath Sarah’s door stopping midway to raise a watery finger, summoning Doc Wayland to follow.

He scanned the quiet hallway hoping that someone else had shared his vision, but the nurse behind the kiosk was busy on the computer, and an obese man