From Away - Series One, Book Two: a Serial Thriller of Arcane and Eldritch Horror: FROM AWAY, #2

By Deke Mackey Jr.

Impossibly ancient. Eternally patient.Something lurks in the cold, black waters surrounding Mossley Island. An arcane and eldritch horror. Hungry. Craving the flesh - and perhaps the very souls - of all who live there.

For fifty years it's waited. As those who so valiantly defended the island against its last invasion have succumbed to age. Allowing it to fade from secret history into half-forgotten myth.

Now it's mounting a new attack. It wants the island and this time... Its evil intentions will not be denied.

SPOILER-ALERT! From Away is a continuing story told in serial format. It's strongly recommended you go no further, until you've read Book One.

The second eerie chapter in a suspense-filled seven-part serial of buried secrets, dark places and the occult introduces newcomer Dawn to her island family, as they struggle to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of Book One's devastating climax.


But not everyone welcomes her with open arms. Some take advantage of the return of her wayward father to seek vengeance for past wrongs, even as Dawn begins to uncover the island's secret societies, a dark conspiracy that may endanger all of mankind, and her own shocking blood destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deke Mackey Jr.
• Release date: Jul 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994835918

Deke Mackey Jr.

Deke Mackey Jr. has spent most of his life sitting cross-legged in a corner. Rocking in place. Knocking his head against the wall. Quietly telling himself stories. Recently? He's been getting louder. Occasionally, he can be found making trouble at: dekemackeyjr.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Rounding the curve out of the woods, headlights flash across a pale, blonde teenager.

The Jeep wrenches to one side. Narrowly missing her. Kicking gravel. Tearing furrows into grass. Spinning one-eighty. Back onto the lane again. Rocking to a stop. Facing backwards. Lights illuminating the girl once more.

Simply standing. Motionless. In the middle of the gravel lane. A fog of dust settles around her. Hair and long t-shirt rippling in the wind. Bare legs glowing white in the halogen beams.

Far too late, the driver lays into the horn. Blasts the girl. The trees. The empty night.

She doesn’t notice. Gazing off into the dark of the woods. No awareness of the near-miss.

Only when the large man in the passenger seat places a tattooed hand on the driver’s tattooed arm does the small woman behind the wheel let up on the horn. She looks a deadly warning at him. He heeds it. Removes his hand before she’s forced to bite it off.

Turning her rage towards the girl, she honks again. A short blat. Just for good measure.

The girl pays no attention.

The driver shakes her head. Throws the Jeep into reverse. Backs away in an arc. Aiming towards their intended direction. She puts it in drive. Doesn’t have far to go.

Small cabins dot the property surrounding the Talbot Inn. The Jeep pulls up in front of one. Their temporary home. Only a few hundred yards from the nearly-tragic accident.

The man gets out. Tall. Thickly muscled. Covered in grime. He rubs his bald head. Looks back up the lane. Concerned. Spots her. Barely visible under the slightest shard of moon. The girl still hasn’t moved.

The driver slams her door. They share a look across the hood of the Jeep. She’s exhausted. Dirty. Neither patience nor interest for middle-of-the-night teenage girl nonsense. She pulls her filthy tank top over her head. Pauses long enough for the man to take a mental snapshot. Heads for the cabin. For the shower she’s been anticipating most of the long ride home.

The man debates his options. Briefly. Then, follows the woman into the cabin - into the shower - without another thought for the girl.

~

Graham knows the Jeep is responsible. Doesn’t need to look out the window. Who else would be so thoughtless? So inconsiderate?

He leaves his place behind the Inn’s front desk. Crosses the uncomfortable sitting area where no one ever sits. Peers out into the night. Just as a light comes on in their cabin. Confirmation.

He nods to himself. Suspicions satisfied. Of course it was them. At this point, he’d be surprised if they managed to come or go without causing a disruption of some kind.

The Hunters are quite possibly the rudest guests Graham has encountered in six years as concierge at the Talbot. Pushy, obnoxious and demanding from the start. Without the smallest acknowledgement or gratitude. Or gratuity, for that matter. Not that he would ever alter his level of service based on the potential for personal reward. No, indeed. He was not that sort. But it said something about a person, didn’t it? How they treat those employed to help them.

No one has called down. Not yet. This late in the season, only a few guests remain in residence. Graham knows better than to presume they’ve gone undisturbed. He’ll undoubtedly hear about it. In the morning. As they assemble to scarf down continental breakfast danishes. Holding him accountable. Asking what he’s going to do about it. And rightly so. While at the Talbot Inn, their comfort and contentment are his responsibility.

He gazes out across the grounds. The darkness all but impenetrable.

What had they been honking at? It’s almost too easy to believe there was no motivating factor involved. Just noise for its own sake. Simply announcing themselves. But as someone who deals with people, Graham knows: Things aren’t often done for no reason at all. The reason for honking is usually to move something out of the way.

Which begged the questions: What was it? And: Did it get out of the way in time?

It’s always been Graham’s fervent belief that his task as concierge is to ensure his residents’ maximum happiness. In this case, by removing any signs of death or destruction before someone inadvertently stumbles across it.

With that in mind, Graham dutifully retrieves shovel and flashlight. Ventures out into the night. In search of whatever Mr. and Mrs. Hunter may have left behind.

~

Graham is looking for a corpse. Or something on its way to becoming one. He plays his flashlight across the pea gravel. Follows the lane. Hoping for a bloody trail of gore at the very least.

Macabre, but he knows it’s better to find something than nothing. Otherwise, he’ll never be certain. He won’t be able to return to the Inn. To relax. If he makes it all the way to the Hunters’ cabin empty-handed, he’ll have no choice but to secretly examine their fender for evidence. An invasion of client privacy by any measure. Something he always strives to avoid. If that turns up nothing, he’ll spend the next month waiting for a resident to happen upon a mouldering carcass somewhere on the property. Not exactly the wish-you-were-here memory he hopes guests might take away from their stay at the Talbot.

Just ahead, his flashlight finds two deep ruts. Dug into the lane when the Jeep’s brakes suddenly grabbed. Graham follows. Head down. Off the road. Up onto the lawn. Trenches carved into the grass. He enumerates the tasks necessary to undo the damage before it becomes a permanent feature: Raking gravel. Filling grooves. Planting grass seed. Or would it make more sense to lay sod?

The trails curve. Cross one another. Ultimately end up back on the road. Pointing in the opposite direction. The Hunters definitely tried to avoid something. Graham moves his flashlight beam back up the lane. Nearly has a heart attack when it illuminates the girl.

Barefoot on the stony road. Wearing only an oversized black t-shirt. Stock-still. Staring into the woods. The girl from Cabin Six. Staying there with her father: The Lesguettes.

A resident. In need of his assistance. Not what he’d expected, but he prides himself on quick adaptability.

Graham gathers his wits. Moves towards her slowly, so as not to startle. Miss Lesguettes? He’s pretty sure he heard her father call her by name. Dawn?

If she’s noticed him, she’s not showing it. She focuses on the treeline. Or something hidden in the darkness beyond. Graham continues forward. Aims the light at her feet. Keeps her lit without blinding her.

Hello? Dawn? It’s Graham. Your concierge?

Her mouth is pressed closed. Brow furrowed. Concentrating. Her hands are clenched. Fists.

He reaches out. Gently taps her wrist.

Miss--

She lashes out. Connects with his jaw. Knocks Graham backwards. Into the grass. He spits blood. Tongues the inside of his cheek. A ragged place where he bit himself.

Scrambling to his feet, he finds her terrified. Head darting back and forth. Looking in all directions. Where...?

Graham holds his hands out. Protection against further attack. You’re at the Talbot Inn. It’s two in the morning. I just found you. Standing in the laneway.

She looks down. At her feet.

On the Island.

That’s right. He nods. Exaggerating the movement for clarity. I’m Graham. If you’ll allow me, I’ll be happy to escort you back to your cabin. Then we’ll--

No. She seems to be calming. No longer confused. I mean... Yes. I’ll go back to the cabin, but please... Her pale blue eyes find his. Earnest. Desperate.

Please. Don’t tell my dad.

CHAPTER TWO

A nearly black piss-stream dribbles into a styrofoam cup. Almost certain to be the single worst coffee Netty has ever looked forward to. From the steam rising, she guesses she will be looking forward to it for a while longer. Allowing it to cool to a temperature somewhere beneath that of lava.

She waits for the vending machine to stop hissing and spitting. A green light tells her the hatch is unlatched. She slides it open. Reaches for her cup. Tentative. Testing lightly with her fingertips. Too hot to carry. An insulating napkin barrier will be needed to transport it back to Max’s room.

A belated final spurt catches her knuckles with a boiling mist. She yanks her hand away. Instantly in tears. Sobbing. No longer able to hold in what she’s worked so hard to hide from everyone around her. This surprise burn: The final straw.

She doubles over. Gasping for breath as she lets it all out. Grateful it’s after visiting hours. Fewer bystanders to potentially witness the spectacle: The Sheriff breaking down over a few red dots on the back of her hand.

As the tears abate, guilt descends. Surrounded by suffering. Rooms full of people with every reason to bawl their eyes out. While she is so incredibly fortunate. Her son - caught in an explosion three days earlier - will be released tomorrow. Cuts and bruises well-tended to. Minimal shrapnel excised. Nothing vital pierced or threatened. A few minor scars. Most will fade in time.

Physically, anyway.

It could’ve been so much worse. It was. For Aaron.

Netty bites her lip. Stops herself from sliding back into misery. Wipes her eyes. Her nose. Grabs the coffee from the machine. Heads back down the corridor.

Ahead, a door opens. A tall woman emerges. Older. Face creased by gentle kindness. A large crucifix hangs over her conservative black dress. A basic wimple covers her head. She pulls the door closed behind her. Lost in thought.

Netty’s face darkens. Her back straightens. Any temporary weakness she’d permitted herself is flushed from her system with the few deep breaths she’s allowed before the nun turns towards her.

Oh! Surprised to find anyone in the hallway at this late hour. She nods. Sheriff.

Agatha. Netty pointedly drops the honorific title from Mother Agatha’s name. After visiting hours, isn’t it?

The nun smiles. Allowances are made, aren’t they? For public servants such as ourselves.

Mm. Netty doesn’t need to look at the card next to the door. Paula Fields. Terrible, what was done to her.

How fortunate for us all then, that you are on the case. Mother Agatha moves past. To the elevators. The culprits, I’m certain, are as good as caged.

It was truly savage. Perverse. The work of inhuman monsters.

"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." She presses the down arrow. It lights. Inside the wall, gears begin to grind.

That mean you’ve come to lay hands on the sick?

Simply ministering to the faithful. And you, Sheriff... Mother Agatha places a hand on Netty’s arm. With a great deal of effort, Netty manages to leave it there. We were all so sorry to hear about your son. And the Lesguettes boy as well, of course. I want you to know we’ve kept Max in our prayers.

Kind of you. But it seems the doctors have things covered.

The nun frowns. Releases Netty’s arm.

Her elevator arrives. Bings. The doors slide open. She makes no move to step aboard.

It could be you’re right... Our intercessions may well have no effect. Purest vanity to believe the entreaties of a few old biddies might have any impact on the will of the Almighty.

Tired of waiting, the elevator doors close.

Perhaps Ms. Fields would be better off if we were to just... Leave her be. Mind our own business. Allow science to do what it can to mend her. That’s what you think, is it?

Netty’s teeth clench. Like it or not, she knows what service the nun is there to provide. Knows what Paula’s chances are, without her help.

In fact... Mother Agatha continues. I’m willing to leave the decision in your hands, Sheriff. Just you say the word, and never again will I or any of the sisters of St. Neot’s darken Paula’s doorstep. Is that what you’d prefer? To deprive the woman of whatever... Assistance we might offer?

Netty stares daggers at the nun. No.

No? The doors shoosh open. Giving her another chance. No, what?

Netty grits her teeth. No. That’s not what I want.

Mother Agatha steps into the elevator. Turns to face Netty. No, that’s not what you want... What?

Netty blinks. Realizing what the woman wants. Gives it to her: That’s not what I want... Mother Agatha.

The nun smiles. Beatific. As you wish.

She presses a button. The doors slide shut. The elevator descends.

CHAPTER THREE

In the days since it happened, they’ve shared the commute. Picking up Sylvie on the way to the docks. Dropping her off on the way home after patrol.

Truthfully, no one felt she should be working at all yet. So soon after losing Aaron. A single day spent away, then back in the boat. She should still be in mourning. Focused on her family. Letting them focus on her. But she wouldn’t have it. Said she needed to work. That she’d go crazy without the routine to hold on to. And everyone knows: There is no arguing with Sylvie.

Burl glides his beat-up truck through empty streets. Still dark. Too early for anyone to be up and around. Crammed sideways into the afterthought back seat, Roscoe has ceded his customary shotgun position to Sylvie. The trio drive in silence. No conversation. No music. No radio. Just the engine’s grind. The familiar world in which