The Flesh: Chronicle of Temptation

By E. Bacon

In an endeavor to better herself, by chance, slightly eccentric graduate student Alina Bacca finds herself torn between passions. Trapped in a catastrophic love triangle, bound by the affections conceived from her horrific past and the alternative prospect of an impossible future, the twenty-six year old is continually threatened with instability by the irrational as she struggles against an advisory she can not be certain even exists outside her mind.

A love that may have been lost in the physical sense has managed not only to survive, but to transcend into a dark and significant presence that defies this young Abilene Christian University theology major’s most extravagant beliefs. Alina clings to her faith in a desperate attempt to resist being drawn in by the heat of a contrasting temptation as she struggles to hold on to her sanity while fending off the call of an altogether darker pursuit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491723807

E. Bacon

E. Bacon grew up in Chicago Illinois. After a brief career in the Air Force she began writing, a childhood passion, and is currently pursuing a graduate degree. Correspondence to the author can be directed to www.ebaconbooks.com

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Copyright © 2014 E. Bacon.

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 author

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.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2379-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2846-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2380-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901889

iUniverse rev. date: 08/28/2021

Contents

Prologue

Part One   Seduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Two   Provocation

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I

dedicate this novel to

Happiness: The unforeseen product of blind dedication.

You are, and forever will be, my Angel Girl.

To all who facilitated, supported and

believed in this accomplishment.

As well as all who enjoy it.

Prologue

C onnecting clumsily with the cold, abrasive cement immediately orders up searing, sharp pain that slices into my palms and knees intently. It radiates, simultaneously networking upward through the intricate structures of my axillaries and femurs, streaking all the way to my lower vertebrae. In my dorsal genre it procreates and protracts like hot, white light, eventually taking up residence somewhere in the occipital region of my cranium.

A dull, unrelenting hindrance to the cognitive design of my escape.

GET UP!

I urge myself aloud, knowing the urgent threat of impending capture supersedes all aching, but terror tightens my cheeks and grips my heart desperately, anchoring me.

GET UP! I grunt. On my hands and knees, I am clearly visible to the night under the dim cast of vapor light looming overhead. I want to be seen. To be heard. If only to alert some witness to leave behind. As if shoved forward by unseen hands at the thought of being eliminated, I rise abruptly with a grunt of determination, half expecting to be knocked back into the feeble position by my pursuer’s physical advantage. I know in this instant that the happy life I’ve not been allowed to share nearly long enough is to be stolen from me prematurely.

Will it be painful?

Before I know it, my feet are once again pounding the pavement at top speed as if they have a mind of their own, though I fear to no avail.

Fight or flight. My autonomic nervous system has assumed control of the situation. How odd that my last thoughts should be of my academics? I can allow that no more than I can allow myself to surrender to exhaustion. Attempts to pray are thwarted by plots of escape.

I don’t want to die.

Not here. Not without so much as a witness to relay the injustice bestowed upon me.

I need help!

A witness!

Time to get away!

My lungs burn and my throat is raw from the harsh breath forcefully punching through it. And still there is not enough air. I need air! Focused on attaining oxygen, I hold fast to the belief that there has to be a solitary good Samaritan roaming the night at this unGodly hour just ahead that will assist me. Save me! I press forward on my rout, through the agonizing spear of pain at my side, persevering through each clumsy connection with the cement.

I’m not ready…

Death is final. There will be no second chance if I fail now to get away. To get help.

The desperation within me compounds and panic triumphs over strained lungs. I am as aware of the retraction in the gap between myself and my pursuer as I am the constant flow of useless tears streaming down my face. My nostrils burn, violently secreting against the brutal invasion of cold night air. Until now I have avoided veering off the cement path, knowing my decreased prospects if I do, but suddenly feeling merely inches from my pursuer the strategy now appeals to me. Perhaps the scattered brush will offer some level of protection, escape, or possibly even an opportunity to catch my breath.

Each network of branches resembles a serrated whip of sorts, slashing through the raw flesh of my freshly lacerated palms as I struggle to minimize the severity of damage to my face. The feel of warm liquid weeping from my wounds is in stark contrast against the night air. Even with my arms crossed inches before my face a few lashes manage to penetrate the barrier periodically, and I realize the damage has likely already been done there in my haste as each branch is scarcely decipherable prior to contact. The field of view before me rocks, sways and is lulled in and out of focus by the darkness, hovering almost as if a separate threat of its own.

No time.

Had my ears not been desensitized by my own panicked sobs perhaps I may have heard the crisp crackling of branches, or the schism of snapping twigs encroaching.

Perhaps then I may have veered off course yet again in either direction.

Perhaps one leading to safety.

As my pursuer’s shadow falls upon me nearly indiscernibly within the shelter of the brush the inevitability of the situation bares down further yet, and I collapse once again, seemingly under it. I haven’t the time to process what has happened. As warm, bitter, coppery liquid fills my mouth, haze does not permit me focus before I’m mercifully denied consciousness by the very person I’d have run to.

"...when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and

sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death."

James 1:11

PART ONE

Seduction

Chapter One

T he sleek, emerald colored 1976 Ford Mustang blazes down the smooth, ebony stretch of secluded drag we’ve connected with via Texas highway three fifty-one, lined on either side by thick, country woodland. The V8’s excessive one hundred, thirty-four horsepower engine boldly proclaims our presence miles in advance. Despite the mammoth carbon footprint left in its wake the car is Shane Bacca’s pride and joy.

As he glances over at me, I, Alina Bacca, attempt to blink away the drowsiness of the two day drive from Chicago to Abilene. Weary of the open road I push aside the unruly, chocolate and sun bronzed strands that stray from an otherwise tidy braid over my left shoulder. Normally I prefer to get as much sleep as my schedule permits, which this car trip should have been conducive to, but I’ve found it impossible to get more than a restless nap with Shane’s erratic driving. Concern for my personal safety induces disturbing recollections, played against the undersides of my eyelids by my subconscious like a malevolent film projector.

One would think the otherwise sheer boredom of this scenic endeavor alone would keep me near comatose, but my mind is preoccupied, searching my soul. Chasing a compulsion for enlightenment to the opposite side of the country after an obscure, potentially intangible destiny, I’m forced to resign that if this is a mistake then so be it, as we’ve nearly arrived. It would not be my first.

Dipping into Shane’s extensive pill stash for a sleep aid as he suggests is not an option. I generally have an apprehension, if not an affinity for medication stemming from a negative adolescent experience. My partiality toward plant-based vitamin regiments counters what would otherwise be a phobic avoidance of pills. A progression I’m proud of.

For all the wrong an illegally administered medication once did me, the dramatic effects the routine addition of mixed trocopherols, hyaluronic acid and a handful of the like have facilitated since my high school track coach’s suggesting them some years ago counterbalances. In addition to providing a suitable substitution for medications prescribed, I’ve managed to appease my self-conscious quality as well.

Perhaps I simply should’ve given up my father’s cooking years ago. In either case the slight hue of balanced nutrition finally radiates from my skin nonetheless. Because I’ve placed a great deal of credit for my mood and energy elevation with health, consequently I appear to have become something of a fanatic to everyone around me, though I don’t consider myself to be. Neither would anyone granted access to my ninth grade yearbook picture, with my then plump cheeks covered in angry blotches the limp bob I’d sported could do nothing to hide. But that would only happen over my dead body. I’ve taken measures to see to that.

Thus, proper nutrition is a necessity for me. Not an elective. Riffling through my iPod’s playlists for my yoga mix, I’m aware my actions often cause me to appear to be many things I’m not. Having been dealt a rawer hand than most, the correlation between the factors of physical, mental and spiritual health intrigue and sustain me.

Nevertheless, I’m deflecting now. Nervously deflecting.

Who can blame me? Picking up and moving halfway across country to pursue the religious fulfillment of a less lucrative career than the one my current education would provide had I not gone to the effort is questionable behavior. But what’s done is done. Except it isn’t. There’s still time.

No.

Not one more thing left to wonder, what if? This, I can control.

Watching Shane maneuver the wheel, so carefree, I want to be more like him. Comfortable. Innately calm. So intelligent. So beautiful. I don’t know why it is that males have greater luck when it comes to the gene pool selection. It may be difficult for some to believe now but attractive qualities haven’t come as easily to me as they have to other members of my family. While I make it a point to sleep at least eight hours a night both my brothers are capable of going without it for days on end, when grocery bags probably hang from my eyelashes already from my presently disrupted schedule. Needless to say, our current bout of sleep deprivation wasn’t my idea.

My brother and I’ve been on the road since eleven o-clock yesterday morning. An impending return excursion would seem brutal to me in this late July heat. Thankfully this trip has only been one way for me. This isn’t the case for Shane, who’s resided in Texas for the past eight years. I can’t for the life of me figure why he’s chosen to drive his classic muscle car nearly twenty-two hundred miles round trip other than perhaps his frugal nature, as I’m picking up the majority of the tab for expenses. I don’t ask. Sure, driving the car going must’ve been nice enough but the milage incurred for this return seems brutally diminishing on the automobile’s value. It’s been quite advantageous for me however. One of his rare visits to see our family roughly coinciding with the beginning of the school year, by design, to facilitate my new frontier.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the music. Shane, lost in the scenery, doesn’t require music for speed, and doesn’t prefer it at all if it isn’t rock. My earbuds are as much of a consideration as the meal tabs I’ve picked up.

With my extended career as a student inching ever closer to a close I’m attempting to spare funds wherever I can and sleep deprivation is a lot cheaper than a plane ticket. As I turn up my fourth bottle of warm water since leaving our resting point in Springfield Missouri, I glance at Shane and just have to suppose it’s true what they say about guys and their toys. He doesn’t mind putting miles on his beloved automobile as long as he gets a chance to play with the prized machine he keeps a weekly shine on every so often. It’s only one of the ways my brother could be considered unconventional. To look upon Shane for the first time one would most likely presume him to be only slightly self-conscious, perhaps a bit mysterious and probably rough around the edges.

Such an off-base first impression isn’t without its rational. He’s inherited many of our mother’s soft features, the delicate line of her jaw for instance, in accordance with the heavy, shapely brows, luxurious lashes and expertly trimmed retro sideburns of our father’s Greek heritage. His eyes, more liquid gold than amber, are something of a mystery. The envious tinge of yellow in his skin must have been inspired by them. He’s hansom. Lovely even. Certainly, self-conscious enough, but there isn’t a rough edge to him to speak of. That portion of his look equates to one hundred percent deception.

Though grateful to my brother for both the ride and the distraction from my doubts, I can’t share this suffocating space with him much longer. However, relaxing the scenery beyond the car, the air surrounding our little air conditioned bubble is too humid, and we are not close by sibling standards. Our extended time together has long since grown awkward. I’d initially assumed we’d get to know one another better on the open road, a feat more readily accomplished when two people actually converse over general topics of interest instead of retracting from one another like defensive hermit crabs. All I’ve learned of my brother is that I know all that is required to know of him for the time being. My presence and familial support are enough at present. Shane’s accustom to his privacy. I’ll give that to him in exchange for his hospitality. Anyway, any bond would be forged over time, not merely opportunity.

Patience is our way.

Shane systematically glances over at me for the third time since we exited the expressway.

Would you like me to take over the wheel for a while? I offer cynically, knowing the testosterone driven territorialism he demonstrates over his four-wheeled toys will deter him from any lingering concern over my state of mind during this lagging trip. With that he commits our mother’s delicate features and those mysteriously pigmented discs back to the road before us. Had we switched off, eliminating the need to stop and rest every eight to twelve hours or so we would certainly have reached our destination by now. Shane rarely demonstrates dominance, or any semblance of testosterone for that matter, over anything non-mechanical outside his stocks. Not for family, women, currency or otherwise, yet manages to remain in constant good standings with all of the above.

Being naturally intellectual above all else, he appears to lack ambition, often claiming to be following a staggered path, much like our patiently ambitious mother, who as a double minority raising three children, spent her youth straining herself between family obligations and a long sought-after education in medicine. Now, as she’s a dedicated pediatrician, Shane with his easy way, neglects to recognize the ardor-clad traits that propelled her to her current position, asserting that he’ll create some well-respected position of his own in the near enough future. His cars, this one and the shiny, black duplicate currently under restoration in his garage, much like his meager net worth, have been accomplished through third eye stock market investing via a profitable, self-launched Internet business he got the idea for back in High School.

I, in all my junior high exuberance, can recall packaging his custom miniatures, high quality, homemade blood and severed limbs, elaborate costumes and film equipment purchased at discounted overseas bulk rates, for redistribution. Given his knack for all things artistic and financial, he simply came about the notion while assisting our younger brother, eight years his junior, with an amateur film project. Thus amaturefilmledgends.net came to be due to Clayde Bacca’s favorite pastime, yet has manifested into a profitable home business, for which young Clayde, currently enrolled as a freshman film major at the University of Illinois at Chicago after two years of European travels, where I’m now an alumni, ironically takes no part.

Our family actually isn’t as close knit as my move to Texas would imply. Our parents divorced a decade ago, seemingly without warning or reason. Even to this day they’ve yet to offer an explanation other than simply having grown apart. Consequently, the event has rendered a bias rift amongst their children. Shane and I’ve so admired our mother that I believe we’ve come to adopt her circumspect personality, to which her fiercely independent complex has been unfortunately tethered conditionally. As a child I knew my father need only go to work. The household had been run like clockwork by my mother’s diligence alone. Never a missed school event, microwaved dinner or unattended scraped knee.

Meanwhile, currently Clayde and our father literally live and work together at the family restaurant, or more so in the spacious apartment above it. Our mother, having invested in the acquisition of the business post-divorce, is a very silent partner. Were it not for my seizing the opportunity to reside free of charge while completing graduate studies, I’d almost certainly not have seen Shane for another entire semester or two. Ironically, I’m closest to Clayde. Dear and gentle, I think of him as the best credit to our family since our mother. Though Shane and I, with our spotted pasts, have more in common than either of us choses to acknowledge. With the majority of familial warmth reserved for the holidays, the cellular phone has always been the Bacca family’s truest lifeline.

As I observe the tree line closely for the diminutive rend in grey oaks and evergreens that will mark the entrance to what I can scarcely bring myself to deem a town, I suppress a reminiscent shutter. Our destination? Castelgrove. A minuscule, century old, countrified settlement just off interstate twenty, west of the Buck Creek area, and thirteen miles west of Abilene Christian University where I’m enrolled for the fall semester. Some two and a half years prior, after completing his masters in computer science and bouncing around Texas, Shane, like a handful of other advantageous individuals over the decades, had utilized this community’s unclarified history and the abandoned state of disrepair that has led to poor property values, profitably.

I, like my brother, couldn’t be less interested in what I can only assume as a theology major, to be hillbilly tales of boredom. How he found this place I’ll never know. But if he hadn’t Abilene Christian University never would’ve caught my eye, and I wouldn’t now be pursuing my second master’s degree, this one in my first passion, theology, to coincide with the more lucrative one in psychology obtained back in Chicago. Carrying two majors had been one thing as an undergraduate, but when it’d come down to time to make a career decision, I’d made the practical selection at the time. However, the profession had seemed incomplete before it even began. Thus, my journey begins. Perhaps I’m not a practical young woman. Perhaps I’m nothing like my mother after all.

Shane spent the last two years of his education in the Texas University dormitory as a supervisor, preceded by four years in the heart of New York rooming with three other guys he attended NYU with so it’s possible he acquired his need for privacy anywhere between the two destinations. He admits most others his age move on from Castelgrove shortly after turning whatever profit they can, either unable to support the unforeseen financial ramifications of homeownership or eventually tiring of the drab social scene. Having taken no interest in anything beyond the scope of his personal investment where the whispers are concerned, Shane’s content with limited mortgage payments.

That and the fact that he met a girl here the second he settled in. Internet searches of the place produced only sparse information on a death row inmate who’d apparently resided in Castlegrove for some time, although none of the murders the man was credited with are linked to the actual town itself. This information isn’t what gives me the shivers. Glancing out at the trees in anticipation of the demure community, ominous conceptions of the ill-kept houses as I’d last seen them dwindle in hindsight. The profit seekers, my brother included, have done this area a great service, notwithstanding motivation. However, at Shane’s present rate of renovation I stand the chance of completing graduate school entirely free of room and board.

Chapter Two

W e’re gradually losing daylight. As the burnt orange glow alas falls upon the diminutive rend in the tree line I’ve been seeking for miles, a sigh of relief escapes my lips. The road trip has finally come to an end. The mustang turns right onto a mainly dirt, gravel road. The orange glow gives way to the shadows of the treetops. I fail to suppress the insignificant flutter of excitement within my stomach as the sounds of birds and insects immediately dominate the air. The tight road continues on for what feels like several minutes, weaving and curving before a large clearing appears. I immediately feel as if I’ve fallen back an entire century or two through time. Is this what excites me so about this place?

Yes. This car has become a time machine of sorts, transcending through the typical world as most experience it, to a simpler one, lost just behind our own.

The scattered houses emerge, varying greatly from one another. Some immensely extravagant, colorful, spectacles, demanding your attention with passage, while others appear beyond dilapidated. Shacks just nails shy of collapse. The latter must be long since abandoned, still others, impossibly modest in stature and crying out for condemnation should’ve been. A few of these smaller homes have burned down over the years and been boarded up by the locals, but several stand charred as partial skeletons of their former framework. At least one I see with the original outhouse. Two barns. All heavily shrouded by proud grey oaks standing tall intermix desert willows, scattered amongst the evergreens. All the properties are strategically spaced considerable distances from one another, almost systematically, even in the cases of the lesser dominions.

In spite of the dilapidated structures, I do see the allure Shane must’ve succumb to. Like a diamond in the rough. Perennial Aster and desert honeysuckle sprout up along the graveled dirt’s edge, crawling across an artery of real estate devoid of trees. Shane cuts the air conditioner off and rolls his window down. Immediately the thick, startlingly humid aroma of fresh vegetation seduces my olfactory perception, inducing a legitimate feeling of serenity. I find my eyes closing as I inhale the heavy atmosphere. Sweet. Bona fide. While Shane’s body language never betrays his nonchalant demeanor, I do sense some excitement in his homecoming. These past few weeks in The Windy City have been the most time since his graduation he’s spent away from the place.

The Mustang rocks ever-so-gently southward off the perpendicular, east west running road, onto a flagstone pathway, arriving at its destination. A two-story, stone, cottage-style house against the furthest most bank of this outfit. Dead at both ends to the surrounding woodland. The nearest neighbor a mile ahead on the western end.

Shane cuts the engine, leaving the windows down and pops the trunk where his and my bags are stored. I waste no time exiting the now muggy vehicle, immersing myself full on into the thick cloud of moisture beyond it.

I’m extremely grateful we haven’t arrived in the midnight hours as I note that there’ve been no organized streetlights along our path. Only a few individual posts on private dwellings. Here individual, LED solar stakes line the walkway toward the front of the antediluvianan house, much to the effect of the after-market halogen headlights on Shane’s vintage mustang. With predominantly only the lighting associated with the homes themselves aglow, the eccentric community may have taken on an entirely less inviting tone had our arrival been further retarded.

To my great shock, improvements have obviously been made since last I saw the place a year ago, such as the new roof and flagstone walkway. Impressive because the majority of the dilapidated homes here are of similar dimensions, while all of the most considerable estates appear to be those occupied and well maintained. Shane, employing his slow and steady artistic tactic, fully intends for his to rival regardless of size.

Silently I ascend the short series of weathered stone steps toward the cottage-style architecture with Shane and the lightest of my burden of essential personal effects. Sibling to the stainless mixer in tow, the heart of what my brother refers to as my unnecessary barrage of appliances, my stainless, state of the art food processor waits patiently in the car for now. Aside from these items I don’t require much. My brilliant indigo bedding, matching curtains and laptop have been sent ahead while the clothing I’ve managed to cram into the single behemoth of a vintage trunk Shane currently encumbrances, comprises the whole of my lot of personal possessions.

The French influence on the home is most obvious externally. Victorian architraves shroud the overgrown ivy. Approaching the arched, timber door on iron hinge work I instinctively regret that these masonic elements appear to’ve been lost in the modernizations afforded to the grander renovations in the neighborhood. Structurally this house appears to be in remarkable condition for its age. Several decades over a century perhaps.

I’m assuming that the weeks preceding the start of classes will be filled with indentured servitude. Shane assures me there’s considerable hostel-like labor associated with my particular room and board package. As the front door is pushed open, I make my way past a short, derisorily vacant, ceramic tiled entrance into a startlingly spacious and above all, finished living space.

Warm nutmeg scales the walls from refinished original hardwood to tastefully bright, ivory crown molding. A fared, large-scale stone fireplace stands out boldly as the clear and rightful focal point of the space. One may have assumed the modest sprinkle of furnishings to be intentional, in an attempt to divert attention back onto the architecture, but a more accurate assumption would probably be that the buck has simply stopped here. My brother being quite frugal is loath to part with a dollar he can pocket.

I struggle to relay my shock respectfully. It wasn’t all Hope’s vision, he explains, beating me to the punch. Hope Douglas is Shane’s tall, blonde, paralegal, off-again, on-again girlfriend of the past four and a half years. If ever a couple were more reflective of one another’s negative qualities I don’t wish to encounter them. Usually, she and her narcissism return with him to Chicago for brief vacations and holidays, but auspiciously the two are currently off again. Our father’s the only one in the family who genuinely appears to take the relationship seriously. I offer one of the many politely disingenuous compliments I routinely offer Shane in regard to Hope as I make my way into the kitchen, where my previous budget theory is confirmed.

By the look of it only the appliances have been updated. Though it’s clean, the monotonous ivory tile glints from the backsplash to the countertop I unload my burden upon, gleaming all the way across the floor. It all needs to go. A large, glass sliding door, a renovation of a former occupant, opens up the space, allowing ample, much needed light into the room from the backyard. Thankfully there’re no additional windows here, where a bird’s-eye view of the unmaintained property hurts my eyes. The tile continues throughout both the downstairs, as well as the upstairs bathroom, for which there are a total of two and a half monstrosities altogether courtesy of Shane’s main level master suite addition, equipped with a separate entrance.

The hardwood has long since ended by the upper level, though Shane’s continued it up the staircase, accentuating the curvature of a fine, polished oak balustrade.

Of the remaining three bedrooms I’m afforded the modest, west facing quarters farthest to the rear, boasting a petite walk in closet and configured master bath. It feels quite drafty in comparison to the two awkwardly narrow, conjoined spaces Shane utilizes for product storage and assembly. Which is preferable for the Texas summer heat. It isn’t as if there’ll be much of a winter to concern myself with. Shane hasn’t been so polite as to carry my trunk up the stairs before showering and retiring for the evening. I lug it up the steps, just beside the entrance.

The lighting in the room is sparse and dismal other than a single, large, horizontal window, with one dimly lit bulb working overtime from the center of the ceiling. The gloomy illumination reflects even more poorly off the dingy, formerly white walls. Shane’s arranged a bare, queen size mattress set on rails in the corner of the room nearest the door. After a couple days on the open road, it’s more appealing than I’d ever imagine it could otherwise be. Besides, I have enough linens to compensate.

I decide to leave the unpacking for the morning, when I can give the place a thorough cleansing. The cloths have survived thus far in the trunk. Without so much as a pillow to its credit I know if I were to lie out on the obviously firm mattress the following morning would be filled with aching regret. Longingly I remember the pillow I left on the front passenger seat. Just as I turn to exit the room the yellow light flickers briefly, blinking off, then on again. Realizing the room probably hasn’t been used in some time, therefore the bulb is most likely asunder in its connection, I glance about for something to stand on for leverage. At 5’9 the object need not be immense.

The space is empty of furnishings with the exception of the mattress set. Fortunately, the far corner of the closet produces a small, artful, stone stool. Probably once used for the outdoors. Possibly in a long-ago back yard garden. With Shane’s thumbs as black as the approaching night, the likelihood of any such treasure ever being restored under his occupancy is slim to nil.

Intending to work quickly to beat the heating of the outdated, incandescent bulb, however losing the race, my scorched fingers find the glass to be securely in place. Not caring to leave the only seating confined to the closet I lug it against the wall beside the door before glimpsing something move within the frame of the closet from the corner of my eye. Having been in such proximity, and far too large to’ve been any sort of bug or animal, I assume the light has flickered once more on a blink. The house is ancient. The electrical wiring must’ve been a fancy upgrade years after it was built and not often updated. Certainly not during Shane’s occupancy. As I exit the room, I can’t help but glance back at the closet a second time before returning to the car.

The young, amethyst night is lovely. As I step out into the fading dusk the thick smell of fresh, country air purges my airway. Most of the humidity has gone, and the crispness it’s been relieved by I find to be exceptionally soothing. Being surrounded by woodland on three sides is a foreign feeling. Raw exhilaration, creeps its way into my bones. The expedition to the car is instantly modified. Placed on indefinite hiatus after my second step onto the cracked, stone porch in lieu of a glimpse of the final transition of color playing against the pallet above.

Sliding down the railing to sit on the abrasive step, I’ve missed the main event for the most part, the retreat of the principle sun, but the finale is nice enough. Now it’s all just a waiting game as members of the highly rated diamond sky begin to reveal themselves. All is still with the exception of the overpowering symphony of cricket mating calls.

The calm evoked by the feeling of assumed semi-isolation is wondrous. I’m generally unable to escape my demons, per say, through work, study or even for a moment in private. They’re always just below the surface, piggybacking through my activities. People offer the rarest reprieve. Though I don’t prefer to think of them as such, family and friends alike occasionally serve the purpose. My brother and I have in common lifetime best friends from our childhood neighborhood serving as our very own doppelgangers in waiting. Certainly, having our share to detract from, on rare occasion we’ve been less selective than is preferable in our chosen diversions. Shane more so than myself of course. Not that we’ve ever exchanged stories but traveling loosely within the same circle as we do… You hear things. Though I’ve never experimented with recreational drugs, sex, alcohol or criminal offenses, I’ve endured things that haunt me during darker times.

Apparently, I don’t deal with the tragedies of death and the like well enough, according to the professionals. I’ve never confided in anyone without a PHD, other than Tessa Cross, on such matters. One of three matters I commonly refer to as The Dark Times in my mind. All given final resting places in shallow graves within.

Prior to these horrendous events spanning from adolescence to early adulthood, childhood had been rather mundane. What’s followed my personal tragedies has thus been a natural progression in my opinion, so I refuse to further medicate the depressive disorder Dr. Levine has attempted to diagnose me with because I’m simply not depressed. More accurately I’m no longer depressed. Having dealt with the appalling circumstances beleaguering me as any feeling individual, unprepared for the woes of life by a blissfully, fanciful childhood would’ve. In my learned opinion the label no longer applies and thus sits beside the full pill bottles in my wastebasket back home.

I’d only began seeing Dr. Levine toward the end of high school in an allied attempt to help Tess, who still sees him to this day. It’s due to my gratitude toward him that compelled to pursuing the education that will allow me to pay it forward.

I smile in spite of these dark thoughts as I often do. After all, though I’ve endured I’ve overcome. That alone is worth being grateful for. The quiet catastrophes of the past have only led to the tranquil, determined young woman of today. Looking up at the stars emerging from their inky cloaks, I’m reminded of where I am and how long the road has been, both figuratively as well as physically. I rise to my feet abruptly as a loud clammer cuts through the still of the night, unsettling my tranquil thoughts. My heart crawls back inside my chest once I’m upright.

The sound of yet another nearly obscene engine rumbles in the distance. I can see a single headlight in the obscurity, advancing along the perpendicular path, approaching faster than I’d think one would navigate these circumscribed roads. As this house is at the edge of the clearing, I wait for the light to turn off

Reviews for The Flesh

[anagarika0sean · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Mr. Barker is simply one of the best authors today.

[thioviolight · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a collection of four (long) short stories -- really weird, morbid stories at that. Properly disturbing!

[sharonlflynn_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It has been at least 10 years since I read any Clive Barker and I found it quite enjoyable to revisit the genre. This is a collection of 4 stories, each of which blends the world as we know it with a monstrous and supernatural world of our nightmares. Some of the nightmares are familiar from popular media, such as the Candyman figure of the second story - The Forbidden. Some of the nightmares are reminiscent of our childhood fears, as occurs in the first (and for me, scariest) story - In the Flesh. Barker's talent is in expressing those horrors in such a way that it makes the skin crawl and the hairs stand up while you are reading.

[altheaann · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is a collection of 4 novelettes from "The New Master of Horror." (not so new anymore!)

The title piece, "In the Flesh" deals with a petty criminal trapped in a jail cell with a first-time offender who's messing with more than he bargained for in the spirit of his executed murderer grandfather....

"The Forbidden" is the story the movie Candyman was based on. I'm sure you've seen it. The story is shorter, snappier, and more powerful. (And set in England! Huh!)

"The Madonna" reminded me of a modern Lovecraft story.... a business deal with a mobster turns into something far more when chthonic horrors lurk in a closed public pool complex...

"Babel's Children" - not so much a horror story as a paranoid conspiracy theory. Who do you think is *really* controlling the world governments???


Good fun, all of them..

[tobinelliott · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm still finding the quality increases as I work through the volumes. But I have to say, though it doesn't say much, there was one quote that I found quite chilling, from the story The Forbidden:

"Don't kill me," she breathed.
"Do you believe in me?" he said.
She nodded minutely. "How can I not?" she said.
"Then why do you want to live?"

Brilliant stuff, that.

[niquetteb · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is actually a collection of 4 short stories. "In the Flesh", "The Madonna", and "The Forbidden" were great! "Babel's Children" was so-so. The stories are gripping and it's hard to put the silly things down!