My Strange Acquaintance With Death: A Novel

By Fred Elder

Until he stumbled onto the horrifying murder scene, Thomas had never known such fear. What had begun as an ordinary day turned real bad, real fast!

Now, in a heartbeat, he was running for his life! With maniacs after him, and a blizzard threatening, he must make his way through a deserted town and find safety. He must solve the mystery that now involved him and his friends – what had he stumbled into?

This eerie, fast-paced story involves an ordinary guy thrown into a situation way over his head, some nasty bad guys, a woman done wrong, friendship lost and friendship realized, more than a few bizarre twists and turns, a haunted house, unrequited love and, of course, death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228814672

Fred Elder

Fred Elder is a father of three grown children, and the proud grandfather of Declan. An avid reader from his early years, he is drawn to stories that are fast-paced and lean towards the eerie, macabre, or the supernatural.Fred lives in the Forest City of London, Ontario.

Book preview

Musings

My name is Thomas Morgan, and this story is about the day I died.

No exclamation points! No italics. No bold type to grab your attention. Simply put, life as I knew it ended abruptly that day and, naturally, nothing has been the same since.

But if I died, how could I write this story? Good question.

If you believe in God, you might be thinking He supplies pen and paper as you approach the Pearly Gates? Something like an exit interview as you leave the mortal coil. I couldn’t say. However, based on the way I lived my life to that point, it was a sure bet that no one – in heaven or hell – gave a rat’s ass for my parting observations.

Could I have some type of psychic link to a living person who wrote this down for me? Nice try but no. I spent a lot of time yearning for something I believed was out of my reach and the result were many wasted years. When it came to all the things that are truly important in life, I spent most of my time trying to prove I didn’t know how to use my brain.

Or, even better, you hope there’s internet connectivity in the afterlife. I could be blogging from the afterlife. Great thought, but no. I suppose which direction you head after dying – you know, up or down – would determine what internet speed you get.

Did you stop to consider that you’re the dead one and you’re sitting in an afterlife version of a coffee house, reading my story? You could be sipping a latte, chatting up the lovely soul at the next table, and reading this book.

I wish my story was so simple. While most of this narrative is from my own perspective, there are some aspects where I talk about events which occurred separately from my own but remain central to the story. It was only after I … well, died … that I learned of them.

So, sit back, take a load off your feet, and hear me out.

Without giving away any of the plot, I can tell you this story involves an ordinary guy thrown into a situation way over his head, some really nasty bad guys, an incredible woman done wrong, friendship lost and true friendship realized, a big chase scene, a haunted house, unrequited love, a bunch of violence and, of course, death – all packed into one day.

I know what you’re going to say. How could so much happen to one fellow in just 24 hours? I could try and tell you this was just a typical day for me, but that would be a lie. This was the kind of day that blew every other day of my life clean out of the water.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a day like no other.

I must warn you, however, this story includes short but graphic scenes of violence. While I’ve managed to remove most of the cursing and cussing from my story, there’s no way to erase the malignant shadow which hung over me that day.

Ghost Story

It was a dark and stormy night, I began, at once drawing scorn from the other three sitting around the table. "Heh, I’m just setting the mood. Relax. It really was a stormy night." They leaned forward. Everyone loves a scary story, especially when it’s true.

He walks through the cold graveyard in silence. A specter. A spirit. Nothing more than a memory etched, over time, into the fabric of the looming house. Around him, the cold, winter wind brushes the skeletal fingers of hibernating trees.

It always begins in the graveyard. Cold, frost-hardened ground, with drifts of snow covering the ancient plots, hiding the names that are scratched into decaying tombstones. He leaves no sign of his passage. He makes not a whisper as he completes his passage through the dark grounds.

How many times has he been drawn here– pulled out of the eternal void? How many more times must he endure the unendurable? How many more times will he be tortured and feel such grief? Such loneliness?

Although he yearns dreadfully to find the spot where his wife and children are sleeping, to sink to his knees in the heartless snow and beg forgiveness, it can never be. On this night, he is only in this place to remember his sins, not atone for them.

Instead, he leaves the burial ground behind and crosses the dead grass of the yard, passes through the rear door and into the kitchen. Just once, he wishes hopelessly, this room will bring back pleasant emotions. Memories of better times can filter into his withered mind, but they bring no joy. Every remembrance of his beloved family is tinged, instead, with sadness and horror.

Down the back hallway to the staff quarters, where the madness truly began. The three rooms are so tiny, now; they were much larger when packed with the belongings of their butler, cook, and maid. At that time, there was a vibrancy seeping out of the very walls that told you this house was a place of love and living.

Now, back to the kitchen and down a short hallway to the front door. The dining room lay to the right. He can imagine the long harvest table that once filled the room; it was the heart of the home. It invited family and friends to sit in its chairs and partake of the food and drink piled high on top of it. Oh, and the stories and adventures that were once shared around that table. Now, he can only gaze at the empty room with an agonizing sense of guilt.

Leaving it behind, he walks into the parlor. If the dining room was the heart of Graham House, this room was its soul. Every night, the family congregated in this grand room, each choosing a favorite seat and, in the way of the world in those times, contribute to the essence of family.

Stories were told around the fireplace. The children took turns telling about their day at school and what fun they had with friends. They would gather around their radio – that Philco Model 95 allowed them a glimpse of the exciting and scary world that existed outside their small town. Sarah played the piano beautifully and none of the classics – Bach, Strauss, Beethoven or Vivaldi – were beyond her capability. But that piano also served as accompaniment for everything from religious standards to the latest songs.

None of those memories bring him joy. How was that possible when it was his fault they came to an end? Can you remember fondly anything that you are responsible for destroying? Finally, he turns and approaches the wide stairway that leads to the second-floor landing. But he can go no further. He wants to climb those stairs. He wishes he could. Upstairs where the children slept, where the very worst of it happened. But he isn’t allowed this grace and can only howl with rage. And in impotence.

What year is it now? He has no sense of the passage of time and no way to measure it. Ten years? Fifty years? Certainly not a hundred years. Could it have been that long? The house has fallen into such a state of disrepair that any amount of time was possible. There has been no life inside these walls for far too long.

Every year, on the anniversary of his horrible crimes, his essence is drawn here. How many times has he been forced to remember that night? How many times has he relived the events which had driven him to madness? How many times has he begged to atone?

Too many to count.

Now, from the dead space above, this house’s darkest place in so many ways, a cold wind rushes down the stairs. It seeps into him, flooding his very soul with visions of that terrible night. As always, he is startled by how vividly he can recall every horrific detail. Every sound, every smell, every touch, every sight from that night returns to jar his melancholy soul.

Worst of all is the taste. Yes, the coppery taste of blood in the air is his most terrible recollection. It’s the blood of his servants, of his children, and of his beloved Sarah that haunts his every thought and memory. That tortures what remains of his existence.

There is nothing he can do to stop the madness from happening once again. And as much as he wants it to end – needs it to end – he also knows this liturgy of evil he is about to relive is all that remains of his family. Without this torture, could he remember those he destroyed? Would he forget the faces of those who once cherished him? Those who were most important to him? Those he loved.

But, still, hasn’t he been punished enough? Will he never stop having to pay the price of that night’s madness? Will he never finish paying for the insanity he visited upon this house? He dares to hope that one day he will be granted his rest.

But not tonight. Out of the terrible darkness of the years, his nightmare begins – again. Around him, the decaying house is reborn to its former magnificence. Now, once again, he stands in that same house, alone with his guilt and cursed to bear witness to the horror of his actions. His bloodless heart beats wildly in his chest as the awful vision begins.

Sarah woke from a troubled sleep.

Sitting up in bed, she listened to hear again whatever sound had woken her. Outside, the winter wind was blasting snow and sleet against the house. The windows rattled and the wood sighed, but none of those noises had woken her. She had lived in this house, in these mountains, for many years, so winter storms were nothing new to her. Besides, with times as they were, there was a different kind of storm brewing.

She looked over to the other side of the bed. It was still neatly made; Wilbur hadn’t come to bed, yet. But it wasn’t his absence that had woken her, either. Ever since the town lost the railway, and especially since that terrible stock market crash, her husband spent most nights walking the rooms and hallways of their home.

She didn’t know what was on his mind or what he was looking for. Sarah worried for him, but it wasn’t her place to question him. Her responsibility was to care for the children and the running of the household. This was a respectable household.

She looked around the room but there was nothing out of sorts. No closet door ajar to creak on its hinges. No window sash half opened, letting in wind that might have ruffled the curtains. Whatever had awoken her had no place in her home. Whatever it was, it was foreign to this place.

She turned again towards his side of the bed. In the loneliness of night, her concerns for Wilbur were magnified. In bed, when she couldn’t sleep and Wilbur’s comforting form was lying beside her, Sarah sensed that something deeply troubling was on his mind. Something dark and – she feared – sinister, was eating away at him. Something he was trying to battle with little success.

She glanced around the room again.

What woke her? Could it have been another of those disturbing dreams? She had been suffering from bad dreams for more than a week now, dreams filled with vivid pictures of crying children and blood. This was out of the ordinary for her, having rarely suffered nightmares before.

If it had been one of the children stirring from a bad dream, they had managed to settle back into sleep without her help. Silence reigned once again inside the house. Then, it slowly dawned on her that it was too quiet.

Usually, she could hear the clumping of her husband’s shoes on the hardwood floor downstairs as he was paced. Tonight, she heard nothing. If he was attending to one of the children, she’d certainly hear some whispered conversation.

She knew that sleep was out of the question until she solved the mystery. As a mother of six children, she had an extra sense that told her when something wasn’t right. She had to know what this something was before she could ever hope to sleep. As she swung her legs out of bed and put her feet down, the cold of the wooden floor shocked her to full awake. Donning her slippers, and reaching for her robe, she made for the bedroom door.

It was just as she reached for the doorknob that she heard the noise again. Even though the sound was strange to her ears, she was certain it was the same sound that had woken her. It might have been the slightest whisper of a breeze, or a gentle gasp for air, but it was followed only by silence. She opened the door and walked out onto a landing that ran the full width of the parlor down below. She walked to the banister and looked down.

Where her bedroom had been cool, even cold, the landing was pleasantly warm. The large fireplace in the parlor below continued to radiate heat through the house.

There was no sign of her husband. While uncommon, it wasn’t beyond reason that her husband was in the kitchen, preparing a snack for himself. She considered going down the stairs to look for him when another small sound drew her attention behind her. It might be a gentle gasp or sigh, but one cut off sharply.

Off the landing, behind her, a short hallway led to the nursery. The two youngest of her children slept there, closest to her own room. Further along the landing were three more bedrooms.

There were candles illuminating the landing, giving her enough light to make out all the bedroom doors except the nursery. She walked over to the nearest sconce and lifted the candle out of it. Now, able to light her way, Sarah moved into the hallway.

As she approached the nursery door, it swung open. She stepped back, initially surprised as a dark shape moved from the room. She smiled, however, when she realized it was Wilbur. She began to say something, but he raised a finger to his lips.

Again, she moved towards him, a smile playing on her face. His face, strangely, looked almost featureless to her. It must be the way candlelight is reflecting on him that makes his face seem so blank, she thought to herself. Blankest of all were the black orbs of his eyes.

When she was very close to him – he just stood there, waiting for her to approach – she noticed something strange about his hands. They seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. As if they were wet. For some reason, she stopped a few feet short of him.

Now she could see the same illusion of wetness on his shirt and pants and … yes … his face and hair looked wet as well. She began to speak but again he signaled for her silence. They stood there, silently. What was happening, she wondered. She shivered as a small gust of cold air ruffled her housecoat.

That was when she saw the knife.

It was that terrible knife that once belonged to Wilbur’s father – the one that had proven useful in the back alleys of Glasgow - held in his right hand tight against his leg. How many times did she ask Wilbur to get rid of that cursed thing? How could he consider the blade a family heirloom when it brought so much misery to anyone standing against it?

Something was dripping off it and onto the floor. In that instant, she knew it was blood. And she realized with a chill that her husband was covered in it. Her first instinct was not to run; she couldn’t leave without her babies. Sarah tried to make her way around the stranger – and that was exactly how she thought of Wilbur at that moment - but he moved to block her from reaching the nursery.

When he shook his head, an ugly thought began to worm its way inside her mind. Had Wilbur done something terrible to one of their children? While she slept just a few feet away, safe and snug in her own bed? Her mind couldn’t begin to fully grasp the enormity of that notion. Could a thought so bizarre and incomprehensible only moments before be true?

She may have stood there longer, frozen to the spot, but he suddenly lurched towards her, drawing the knife from his side and raising it over her head. She bolted for the stairs, dropping the candle as she turned and ran. Alone, she couldn’t fight the monster her husband had turned into. She had to wake their staff. The butler, a longtime servant, would help her. There was no question in her mind that she would be able to help her children. At that point, she couldn’t grasp that her entire family was in danger.

It had been a wonderful day. Sarah and the children had tobogganed in the morning and built snowmen in the afternoon. Cook was busy baking pies for a town celebration to be held in the following days. After dinner, the family gathered in the parlor and listened to Rudy Vallee’s new radio program. There was a real excitement in the house. Now, just bare hours later, the house had descended into madness.

As she made for the stairs, her crazed husband followed with a slashing motion that grazed her shoulder. She couldn’t scream, the fear was too great and overwhelming for her to handle. All she could do was flee from this monster.

She was on the stairs before he could try another slash. At the same time, she realized the steps below her shimmered in the light of the gas lanterns still burning in the parlor. It looked the same as the blood on her husband’s clothes and the floor outside the nursery. But how could that be? Where could so much blood come from?

Even as she was thinking this, her foot landed in a bloody slick and shot out from under her. The result was that too much weight came down on her other leg and her knee snapped under the tension. Crack!

She fell heavily onto the stairs, causing considerable damage as she tumbled the rest of the way down to the parlor floor. Finally, in a broken heap, she laid still, on her back, face pointed towards the stairs. Towards Wilbur.

He was walking down the stairs, slowly, unconcerned with the slippery puddles of gore. In fact, it seemed to her that he didn’t have a concern in the world. Her husband was gone; all that was left was a shell of his former self filled now with some terrible resolve.

He loomed over her now. His eyes were blank, vacant, but a sheen of tears added a hint of sadness to them. Another chill rolled through her broken body as her husband kneeled beside her.

Help me, Wilbur, she gasped through the excruciating pain.

Unflinchingly, he raised the terrible blade above his head. She could see nothing of his former nature in his eyes; they held no mercy.

We’ll be together, soon, he whispered. They promised me. They told me this is the only way we could all be together, forever.

Oh, Wilbur. Please, she was able to whisper.

They talked with me. They explained everything. There was so much truth in what they said. So much comfort and understanding. For just a moment, his eyes were soft. Then, in a split second, they returned to a hard, empty gaze and he plunged the knife down.

Finally, she was able to scream. She didn’t scream for her own life because it was far too late for that. She screamed for her children. She screamed at the hopelessness she felt in every fiber of her body. And she screamed for her husband, who had become this empty, terrible thing.

She could do nothing to defend herself. With her scream still echoing through the house, she could only lay there and watch the knife as it was buried in her chest.

The ladies sat back from the table, satisfied. I was good at telling that particular story, having honed it over a lifetime living in White River. There was no better way to send chills through someone’s soul than to tell them a rippin’ scary ghost story.

Yeah, I know. This is supposed to be the story of the day I died. That’s only a few pages away, but a couple of the characters who played a part on that most special of days – well, they showed up the night before.

Len’s

Hicham and I were down at Len’s.

Len’s Tavern was on Main Street, right at the edge of what we locals called the Down Town. Not downtown, as in where all the businesses were – though that’s exactly where all the businesses were – but Down Town because half the town was on the top of and escarpment and half at the bottom.

Like any bar or tavern in every small town, Len’s was the focal point of evening entertainment for a certain segment of society – primarily lonely, single people. On that night, however, with a major blizzard just starting to build in the mountains west of town, there were fewer people than usual.

Rarely would you see tourists in Len’s after dark. Without an inn or hotel, and just a small but growing number of B&B’s, and the new Resort a considerable drive away over treacherous mountain roads, tourists tended to clear out of town before it got dark.

Now, most people – other than us regulars – might refer to Len’s Tavern as a dive. I wouldn’t necessarily characterize it that way. While it was a bit dingy, or worn down, or soiled, or grubby, it certainly wasn’t squalid or seedy. Really, it was perfect just the way it was; all the regulars agreed on that point.

Of course, if you had any problems or concerns with the place – hell, even if you had some constructive criticism – it was better to keep it to yourself. Len wasn’t what you would call ‘open’ to criticism. Len thought change was bad.

And, really, the grand old tavern had a lot going for it. The old, weather-stained wooden beams that made up the outside walls beckoned you to enter. The dark paneling that covered the inside walls wrapped you in its warm embrace. The friendly cheer of familiar faces insisted that you return night after night.

Yep. Len’s had a lot going for it.

Several dart boards adorned one wall. Over in the corner sat two shuffleboard tables. In the middle of the room were good-sized round tables just perfect for sitting around and socializing. On the side of the room furthest from the bar, on a small stage, sat the oft broke karaoke machine. There were three TV’s hung on the walls, all programmed to sports channels.

The feature that dominated Len’s Place was, of course, the bar. Except for the narrow door coming in off Main Street, the bar ran the entire width of the room. It was solid hardwood, polished over the years by countless arms and elbows. The stools were plush and inviting, even after sitting on them for hours and hours.

Behind the bar Len, without help most of the time, took care of business – dispensing drinks and snacks, advice and admonishments, and endlessly regaling customers with folk tales and stories from around the region. The place was rarely busy enough to need a second bartender and he sure as hell wasn’t going to deliver drinks to your table – so, no need for staff.

While I’m saying that Len’s place was great, I must admit it could have used a little TLC, or even a little sanitizing. As it was, the female regulars knew better than to visit the toilet after nine o’clock. I will admit, however, that I never gave Len any suggestions. It was the only bar in town, and I didn’t want to do anything foolish like being banned from it.

Now that I think about it, it could have used a good paint job, too. That dark paneling, I mentioned. It was outdated before I was old enough to drink. The whole Fifties look had gone out of style when? Yeah, back in the Fifties. Len, however, was a traditionalist – and against spending money unless he absolutely had to. The old juke box at the end of the bar was usually out of service. He often considered buying a new one but that would have meant spending money. When it was working, the records inside hadn’t been changed since the Fifties, so the regulars were sick of hearing them. Still, the beer was cold, the conversation good, and the atmosphere friendly.

Explains why few out-of-towners ever spent an evening there, doesn’t it? For anyone demanding a refined atmosphere for their drinking and socializing, Len’s had nothing to offer.

And, really, as I said, seldom did Len’s Tavern see any out-of-towners after the sun went down. The nearby Resort had three bars and two dance floors, so it drew away most of the tourists and even the meager supply of younger townsfolk. Len did an okay business, I suppose, relying on tourists during the day and the drinking excesses of us regulars in the evening.

Hicham and I were among those regulars who propped up Len’s business. In fact, it was said many times around town that Hicham and I could support the economy of the entire town with the money we spent on drinking. Truthfully, we spent more money buying other people drinks than ourselves.

What can I say? We both enjoyed being the life of the party.

Brewing

On that Saturday night, with the wind howling outside, announcing the approach of what forecasters were calling a major weather event, there were fewer patrons than usual. People were staying at home, preparing for the onslaught.

For anyone who lives deep in the mountains, a major winter storm was worth preparing for. These storms brought howling winds that funneled into valleys and reached near hurricane speeds. They brought huge amounts of snow, some from the storm clouds and some off the nearby peaks. They brought bitter cold that could freeze skin in minutes.

Hicham and I had settled in to watch a hockey game. As lifelong fans, Saturday night held a special place in our hearts in the same way that NFL fans salivate over Sunday afternoons. The first period had just ended, with the Vancouver Canucks up 2-1 over the Toronto Maple Leafs. Hicham and I had been talking all evening about our favorite subjects.

We were both private business owners, working out of our homes, so we had some unfavorable views of bureaucrats and how they like to interfere with business. We were both Canadian, so of course we talked about weather. And we were both red-blooded males, so of course we talked about women.

The one subject we stayed away from was love, however. This was a sore topic for both of us. Hicham was still bitter about his marriage break up and I – well, you’ll soon understand how sad and complicated my love life was. Instead, as a safety mechanism, we joked around a lot about sex and acted as if we didn’t ever want to fall for another woman.

Hicham and I had discussed many times how a guy’s brain simply can’t handle the stress of looking at an attractive woman and act rational at the same time –we referred to this phenomenon as the brain flush. Men, everywhere, are aware of its existence. So, rather than sitting there, pining, we focused on having a good time and looked for women who met our three major requirements.

First, of course, they had to be women. No vacationing university students, thank you very much. While we weren’t that much older, both in our early thirties, we weren’t interested in silly conversations about campus life, social media and the latest fashions. We wanted women who were past the buzz of early adulthood and still managed to wear a smile. Believe me, Len’s was no place to start a conversation with someone wearing a frowning.

Second, they had to be without men – no troublesome attachments to get between them and us. Experience had taught us to wait for a few minutes just in case the attachments were merely trailing behind, parking the car or finishing a cigarette; making our move too early had resulted in threats of bodily harm in the past.

Third, they had to have a good sense of humor. Not every woman who walks into a bar is looking for unsolicited advances, so identifying this sense of humor can be difficult. But a woman who comes through that door with an interesting backstory, and who is willing to listen to yours, and can laugh at both, she’s worth the trouble of approaching.

So, just to be clear. Hicham and I didn’t spend our nights at Len’s looking for someone to take home. While we promised each other not to pine in public for lost or unrequited love, we were both consumed entirely by them. Socializing in the bar provided an opportunity to push our disappointments away, even for a few hours.

I needed to use the washroom, so I excused myself from the table. You know, it wasn’t as if the facilities were dirty, they were just outdated and dingy. The toilet seats were worn, the cubicles heavily covered with graffiti, and the sinks were chipped and stained by age and other things.

I think Len needed to change his philosophy about the maintenance of his bathrooms. Maybe if he realized people in general – and females in particular – would drink more if they didn’t have to worry about using the facilities, he’d spend some time and money on making them a bit more user friendly.

To my great surprise, two beautiful women were sitting at our table when I got back, talking animatedly