Aki's Gift

By Howard Scarrow

Clarence Stodden will never forget the day he received that package. Aki's Gift follows Clarence and his oldest friend, Maggie Bauer, as they attempt to rid Clarence of Aki's terrible curse before it takes him over completely.

Inspired by classic horror, Aki's Gift takes place in a small Southern Ontario town where things like this aren't supposed to happen. Clarence must learn to finish something for the first time in his life before he is consumed by Aki's curse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard Scarrow
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999123802

Howard Scarrow

Howard Scarrow was born in Simcoe, Ontario, but has lived in Sarnia for most of his life. He is an avid fan of stories and storytelling mediums, particularly film and video games. An imaginative, creative person in his own right, Howard is more at home in the worlds he creates than anywhere else in the world.

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Aki’s Gift

A Novel by

Howard Scarrow

Copyright © 2019 Howard Scarrow

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This novel is a work of fiction. The locations, characters, and incidents contained within are from the author’s mind, and not to be mistaken for accurate depictions of any person, place or thing, living or dead.

First Published: June , 2019

ISBN: 978-1-9991238-0-2

Published by: Howard Scarrow

Edited by: Howard Scarrow & Colin Anderson

www.howardscarrow.com

[e-mail]

For my parents, Rick and Wendy, for being more proud than worried when I said I wanted to be a writer.

Prologue

It was one o’clock in the morning, mid-February, and cold as all hell. Ray Stodden hated winter work, especially when it involved being outdoors. We’re where you need us, he’d always told his clients—back when he had more than just the one—but he never said anything about the bitter cold. Not a damn thing. As nice as it was to be close to home, at least in concept, Ray still hated Canadian winters.

They were getting worse.

And here he was, back home. This time with his crew—six men, including Ray. They were sifting through some subterranean catacombs, recently discovered, about an hour northeast of Sarnia. Sarnia was a small city in Southwestern Ontario, population seventy-one thousand and counting. To the north and west of the city, stretches of highway and farmland. The St. Clair River ran along the eastern bank, through the neighboring town of Corunna, a quick fifteen minute drive south. Sarnia had been Ray Stodden’s home for his entire life. No matter how far he ran, he always ended up back here.

Ray was 57 years old, average height and build, with graying hair cut short, combed back. He had heavy, dark eyes, and he looked as though he were always gritting his teeth, like he had a permanent chip on his shoulder. It was colder in the stone tunnels than it was above ground, the cold nipping at him even though his heavy winter coat with a fur-lined hood.

How are we looking? he called out, his voice echoing in the tight stone tunnels. He could see his breath. It annoyed him. The stone walls were icy, shimmering slightly when touched by the light of their flashlights.

Will Beaulieu looked back over his shoulder, his headlamp shining into Ray’s eyes. Sorry ‘bout that, he said, lifting the light. Not too long now. Wall’s definitely hollow here. Ten minutes, tops.

Ray nodded. Will turned back around. They had brought small power tools, but the narrow tunnels and distance from the truck meant nothing that couldn’t run off battery. They had to rely mostly on hand tools—chisels, pickaxes, etc—nothing you wouldn’t expect to see in a civilian’s truck. Fast, light, and without a trace; that was how they were required to operate. It wasn’t just their employers that demanded it. It was their mission statement. The last two points, however, only served to undermine the first. Hence the late-night dig—fewer distractions, less chance of getting caught, and they’d have time to clean up what they could.

The County had moved to protect the tunnels, as soon as they were found, six months earlier. There was a stretch of land, deemed unsuitable for farms, where a development was planned. Before they could break ground, however, the ground broke beneath them. A large section of the tunnels below collapsed, a worker injured in the process. Lucky for Ray and his crew, to avoid public interference—as if the public would ever interfere, so unlike them—the County buried the discovery, until they could deem the tunnels safe.

That’s when someone started putting some pieces together. It was how Ray ended up on this damn job, even though it cut into two of his favorite things, especially as he got older: sleep and warmth.

Their client had been quiet specific, quite thorough, and quite adamant that they retrieve his artifacts. He had provided Ray with documentation; histories of the pieces, and the one who they originally belonged to, along with specific instructions not to share the information with his team. Ray didn’t usually withhold information from his guys—he generally didn’t have to—but he did this time. Even Ray wished he hadn’t known what they were after.

It’s why he did what he did.

The sound of his men breaking through the wall took Ray out of his trance, snatched him from his thoughts as he was replaying the pieces of his plan, over and over again, as if to assure himself that he’d be okay; that they’d be okay.

Will was taking off his gloves, walking towards Ray. We’re through, he said. He slipped his gloves into the back pocket of his dirty work jeans, and wiped some sweat from his brow. Will was in his thirties, older than Clarence—Ray’s son—but only by a few years. That said, Clarence was very much born in the right time; Will reminded Ray of men he knew when he was growing up, a classic work ethic and attitude. It’s why they were so close.

We got them? Ray asked.

There’s a chamber, small one, Will propped open a cooler, pulling out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the top and took two large gulps, kicking the lid of the cooler down and sitting on top. Structural integrity looks good, too. The wall was a facade, a bad cover. Whoever built it was just trying to hide what was inside, and quick.

Inside the chamber?

Will nodded. The others are in there, now, he said. I’m just going to enjoy my water first. He took another huge gulp; the bottle was almost empty.

Be careful with that, Ray said, pointing back to Will and walking towards the newfound hole in the wall. You’ll make yourself sick.

Thanks, dad. Will downed the rest of the bottle, standing just enough to reach between his legs and grab another.

The hole was only four feet tall and two across, small enough for a child, not a grown man, so Ray had to crawl through. The hood of his coat got caught on some bricks that had not yet fallen, pulling them loose. One landed hard on the small of his back, just above his hips. The coat absorbed most of it, but he could still feel the sting of the corner. It was always the corner, never the flat side. He groaned, biting his tongue to stop the string of expletives bubbling up in his throat from pouring out.

On the other side of the wall, when he could stand, he rubbed where the brick had hit him. He scanned the room, watching as Tony, Ian, and Gustavo—the rest of the team—picked through rubble.

The hidden room was small, the ceiling lower than most basements. At six-and-a-half feet tall, Ray had to crouch while he was inside. He guessed, at it’s lowest point—the ceiling was imperfect, naturally vaulted—that it was barely five feet. Even that was generous. The chamber was, otherwise, a square; ten feet across in each direction. It was tight quarters for a group of grown men. His back was going to be sore tomorrow.

The other three were pulling large slabs of rocks, pieces that had broken off and fallen from the ceiling. There was water dripping from cracks, and Ray could see the soil peeking through. He reached up, mindlessly fingering at the soil in one of the cracks. It crumbled and fell, still moist. Water must be eating it away, he said to himself, following the cracks. Ian dropped something behind him, and Ray snapped to attention. He spun to face the rest of his team.

You guys got anything? Ray asked, feeling along the ceiling with his right hand, to make sure he wouldn’t bump his head.

No, Ian said, kneeling over a pile of small rocks. Not here.

I’ve got some books here, Tony said from another corner. He held one up. It crumbled in his hand. Not much use, though.

Ray nodded. When they had first scouted this area, a week prior, he was unsure that they really had located the artifacts. It wasn’t until Will discovered the weak wall on their way out that he began to think otherwise. Hidden chambers, in Ray’s experience, were good for business. A hidden chamber, and the hope that comes with it, very quickly replaced the default doubts that Ray otherwise kept.

Ray had learned to always set the bar low, every time he could. He used to be excitable. He can distinctly remember two of the best days of his life, sullied by the years that came after them: first, his wedding day; second, the birth of his son.

Since then, Ray has become more metered in his excitement, choosing to believe that the worst will come before anything else. It always had.

What about you, Gus? Ray turned to see Gustavo cradling something in his arms, transfixed. Gus?

He turned around.

They’d found them.

Now, time for Ray’s plan.

The Routine

Clarence Stodden was growing tired of the routine. Every morning, it was the same: wake up, eat breakfast, brush his teeth, sit at his desk, and stare at the wall until it was time to eat, shit, or sleep. At some point, amidst all of that, Clarence hoped to produce something, anything, that he could turn into a paycheck.

Clarence was a freelance graphic designer, creating digital art for local businesses and smaller companies. It had been a good gig, for a while, until everyone with a Wacom tablet and a pirated copy of Photoshop burst onto the scene, offering competitive prices, or—the true killer—the classic discount for friends and family that set the standard that art was now free. Billy watched a YouTube video, just so his uncle could save a few bucks punching up the sign for his used car lot. That way, Billy’s uncle could afford a new boat.

He didn’t like it, but he didn’t see the point in complaining. Clarence had been a complainer in his younger years—his twenties had been full of thoughts and opinions, meticulously created and curated, chomping at the bit to share with anyone who would listen—though he had calmed considerably now that he had turned thirty.

The ‘dirty thirties,’ they called them. He didn’t know why. He had also heard that life ‘started at thirty,’ a statement that fell apart the moment he gave it more than a second’s thought. Clarence didn’t like to subscribe to those mindless ways of thinking; it was part of the reason the routine began to bother him so much. Automatic responses, that’s all they were. He had been out to show his portfolio just twice in the past month—it was February, post-Valentine’s, a relatively quiet time before the big shopping holidays started again—and each time he was asked how old he was. When he told them he was thirty, almost a decade older than his contemporaries waiting outside, that’s what they said:

Oh, the ol’ dirty thirties! Fake laugh.

Hey man, nothing wrong with that. You know what they say: ‘Life starts at thirty!’ Encouraging smile.

Clarence didn’t know what it mattered, or who they were, the ones saying all these things; he just wanted a job.

He had been applying for desk jobs. Stable gigs that offered guaranteed hours and benefits. His twenties had been a fine time for Clarence to try and make it as a starving artist. As he crossed over into his thirties, he heard the sound of his father’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him it was time to get a real job. The dream was over. Time to wake up and go to work like the rest of us.

Clarence wasn’t ready to quit that easily. ‘Stubborn’ was usually the word that Clarence would wrench out of his friends, whenever he was feeling particularly introspective and curious what his most defining trait was. It wasn’t determined, or driven, or ambitious; it was stubborn.

It wasn’t his choice. He would often argue—truthfully—that we only had so much say in the development of our personalities and, while he didn’t know who to blame (though a few more drinks and he may have some ideas), he only hoped that with time, and patience, everyone would learn to deal with him.

He always paused after patience, to sell the bit. That way, when they started laughing, he wouldn’t feel so bad about himself. He knew what they were going to say, each and every time he asked. He was just hoping that one day, all the things he thought he was doing to improve, to better himself, would work, and they would have something else, something different to say.

The routine persisted. Wake up, doesn’t matter what time anymore. It used to be, when Clarence was working on commission, he was working from home; he could come and go whenever he pleased, wake up when the mood struck him. Once the commissions started to dry up—at least, the ones who’d pay for them—and Clarence found himself on the hunt for a ‘real’ job, there had been an attempt at a regular schedule. Alarms were set for eight o’clock in the morning. The coffee pot was programmed.

Now, he didn’t even make coffee anymore.

Breakfast became another optional part of the routine. Clarence started to gravitate towards the easier foods, the ones he could make quickly, just to quiet his stomach: oatmeal, scrambled eggs in cartons, potato pancakes. There was a part of him that felt spending too much time in the kitchen wasn’t a productive use of his time. Time that could be spent working on something. Anything.

Slowly, Clarence stopped spending his days at his desk, staring at the walls. Clarence started to wander, finding himself growing restless, reading and rereading books on his shelves, combing the streaming services he hadn’t canceled yet for something new—or old, he wasn’t picky—to watch. He wanted so badly to pass the time, as though he was waiting for something to happen, an end to the routine, the next stage; whatever it was, he didn’t know.

He just couldn’t wait much longer.

He had become a prisoner in his own home, but he’d done it to himself. He knew that. He had no illusions about that. It was just that he had to work. It’s what his father had always taught him: Work. Clarence wished there was more to it than that, but there wasn’t. From a very young age, the concept of work was drilled into him, buried deep like a mental time-bomb, set to go off if enough idle time had passed. If you aren’t working, you aren’t contributing, which means you aren’t worth a damn. His father never said it, not in so many words, but Clarence knew the true meaning of those lessons.

Clarence had started showing the signs of his craft. While he had jokingly positioned himself as a starving artist in the late 2000s, he had never been hard-pressed for money. He had been fortunately unfortunate at his previous job, a print shop, working a press. Thanks to a disability claim, Clarence found himself virtually retired at twenty-two, taking full advantage of his time at home to pursue his dreams of being an artist.

Ethel, an older woman who Clarence had worked with at the print shop, had dropped a box of paper on Clarence’s foot. While it did break some bones, he mastered crutches fairly quickly. By the time Dr. Kidd put his foot down, telling Clarence it was time to return to work, he had built enough of a client-base that he didn’t need to return to work. He had landed his dream job! That’s what he’d said to Dr. Kidd, anyway, when the idea of work was floated.

Now, as he set out, looking for something menial, if not tangentially related to his dreams, Clarence resembled the starving artist more than he ever had. Clarence was six foot two, but barely one-hundred and eighty pounds. His hair was short and shaggy, dirty blonde. He normally did not sport a beard, but laziness had taken hold and he was wearing a week’s worth of stubble. He wore thick plastic-rimmed glasses. For as bony and angular as the rest of him was—shoulders, elbows—his face was soft and round. His eyes, a deep green, were sunken and tired.

He had lived the dream. Now, he looked like the real world had found him, chewed him up, and spit him out. Was it time for Clarence to rejoin the world?

It didn’t feel like that to him.

No one asked Clarence what he wanted.

As if he even knew.

Clarence had skipped breakfast this morning. He stood in his kitchen, eyeing a packet of oatmeal, deciding it wasn’t worth his time. Once he added grabbing the milk from the fridge; acquiring a clean spoon and bowl; and cooking time, the oatmeal just didn’t seem worth it. Instead, Clarence decided that he was feeling particularly inspired, so he opted on a half-pot of coffee and a cigarette, found in a pack that had been long lost in his desk. He was hesitant to do the math as he hauled on the smoke—he had quit nearly seven years before all this—choosing instead to relish in the disgust he was feeling for himself. He bought the pack out of frustration, months earlier, only sneaking one, at first. Now, the pack was half empty.

Clarence let the smoke dangle in his lips as he stared at the computer screen, tracing the lines he had made. Clarence loved his method, but only when it was working. He always started with a complete image in his mind, even if he couldn’t see the whole of it. He would dismantle it, piece by piece, scanning it line by line, recreating small shapes until he was ready to start piecing them back together. When the juices were flowing, Clarence would be at his desk for hours without moving for anything.

The image in his mind had cleared, as they sometimes did, and he was left staring at lines that just didn’t make sense to him anymore. He couldn’t even remember what he had started with anymore. He stared at them long and hard, wondering what they were supposed to be part of—what he was supposed to be part of—until he felt a hot ember from the cigarette fall and land on his chin, making him jump in his chair, ashes falling everywhere.

Shit! He stubbed the smoke out in the ashtray and dusted the ashes from his crotch. When he was satisfied he was no longer in danger of spontaneous combustion, he glanced down to see that