The Stain

By Ruschelle Dillon

Born of bloodshed, a prolific stain, fed by the sins of earliest man....

The Simmons moved into 228 Briar Street. With two growing children needing a stable routine and a house to call home, Marc and Claire settled into the old red brick, unaware of the neighborhood’s dirty little secret. In the dark and unfamiliar depths of the basement it lurks. It desires to manipulate the family into destructive chaos as it has countless times past and as far back as there were settlers in this plot of land, feed upon both flesh and the ecstasy of its dark influence. And not just in this house. It is old, mischievous, and inherently evil. It is...THE STAIN.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Bed Sheet Books
• Release date: May 15, 2020

Ruschelle Dillon

Author Ruschelle Dillon grew up in Johnstown Pennsylvania with two great loves; humor and horror.To most people, these two interests are on opposite ends of the entertainment spectrum. But Dillon has always enjoyed bringing both together, like a modern day “Odd Couple” living in her mind – and her work.Her latest effort to do so has produced “Bone Sai”, a novelette published by Black Bed Sheet Books about a visitor to Japan whose “worst trip ever” includes an earthquake, a nuclear disaster, and a bug bite with a wicked side-effect.Dillon taps into her unique ability to laugh at things that go bump in the night with Bone Sai. The story is set in Japan, during the 2011 Japanese earthquake and tsunami. A visitor encounters a perfect storm of events that results in a mutated bug bite – on quite possibly the worst possible body part for a man to have a big bite. The result is a monstrous zombie part with a will of its own.--from The Daily American http://articles.dailyamerican.com/2012-07-02/ourtown/32512949_1_humor-and-horror-kindle-laugh

Book preview

The Stain

A novel by

Ruschelle Dillon

The Stain

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

May 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Ruschelle Dillon

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Nicholas Grabowsky

and copyright © 2020 Black Bed Sheet Books

The selections in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN-10: 1-946874-16-7

ISBN-13: 978-1-946874-16-0

The Stain

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

Antelope, CA

I was born of bloodshed. A prolific stain, and I have saturated the soil on this plot of earth since before its cultivation. Fed by the sins of earliest man I grew; my tendrils ripped through rock and burrowed into wood, poisoning this cursed patch of land.

Although nothing green sans the biting nettles and suffocating weeds would sprout, men built small hovels where they toiled and reproduced.

When children arrived, I pricked their tender feet, twisting their frivolous and flirtatious games until their amusement mutated into fevered battle grounds now ripe for lapping puddles of their blood and tears. I grew strong and fat on their violence and mortal fears. Greed, excess and desperation plague these rotters who have somehow been deemed worthy to traipse across the vast dirt, sands and seas. I listen for every plea, every wish, every prayer from those who crush the tender blades of grass that surround me.

Even though my roots are anchored to this wretched plot, I have seen generations bear screaming fruit, grow plump and eventually wither away in the breath of a calculating breeze. Every newly-born slab of flesh gratifies my existence with an awful purpose. That purpose is nothing more than to amuse me. To keep me entertained in vitriol and blood. I am what you have made me. Born of bloodshed. A prolific stain…

***

There was nothing special about the house on 228 Briar Street. It was red brick flesh draped over splintered pine bone. Neighboring homes along the narrow street were built in the same Pennsylvania traditional style of the 1930s, but the faux Germanic roots of this home grew deeper into the anthracite rich soil.

The current façade hid its stained and ugly past behind a freshly-painted and mortared mask, a keeper of hideous secrets.

From the red maple trees latched into the Pennsylvania mud, whispers blossomed and sailed through the wind like their prolific seeds. But only in the most fertile minds did those saplings take root and sprout. But those rumors couldn’t burrow deep enough into the blood-baked earth to grow into the ancient and hideous truth.

Over the years, the house enticed families with its spacious bedrooms and sprawling back lawn. But their enthrallment was quick to wither as the house chewed through each and every eager family, coughing them out into the street. Without a whimper or a scream, they abandoned the soulless beast masquerading as their home.

The Simmons moved into 228 Briar Street unaware of the neighborhood’s dirty little secret. With two growing children needing a stable routine and a house to call home, Marc and Claire settled into the old red brick hoping to no longer exist as job gypsies, doling out rent on noisy duplexes and homes that would never be theirs.

2

Mom, Jasper’s in my room again! Olivia screamed as she dragged her three-year-old brother out of her bedroom by his arm.

Don’t be mean to your brother, yelled Olivia’s mother Claire from the bottom of the stairs. He’s not used to you not sharing a room with him.

Olivia rolled her hazel eyes, Well, I’m used to it.

Before the move to the new house, she and Jasper had been bunkmates. For three and a half years Olivia reluctantly shared her room with her baby brother. Now that Jasper had a room of his own, she would make certain he wouldn’t need to enter hers.

Like a little mother, Olivia pointed her finger in her brother’s reddening face.

He needs to respect my personal space, Mom.

Jasper screamed.

Claire stomped up the stairs and, as if impervious to Jasper’s ear bleeding screams, lifted him onto her hip.

I told you to be nice to your brother. This move has been tough on him. And honestly, why does a fourteen-year-old need space?

Liv sighed.

Claire wiped the tears from Jasper’s flushed cheeks and kissed him.

Well, I need ‘space’ to clean up your brother. Do you think you could go downstairs and help me get dinner ready? I need you to whip the potatoes.

Olivia pursed her lips, Fine.

The bowl is ready. The milk is on the counter. But I forgot to grab the hand mixer out of the box before your dad took it down to the basement. It’s in the big box marked ‘kitchen’ next to the washer and dryer, so you should be able to find it easily.

Liv trudged downstairs repeating a defeated, Fine.

This was the first time since the move that Olivia ventured down into the basement. She flipped on the light switch at the top of the stairs. With a dull buzz, the light bulb above the washer and dryer awoke, illuminating her way down the old wooden stairs. The groans and cracks under her feet were unfamiliar. Liv took the stairs cautiously, even though she knew from watching her parents navigate them with boxes the past week that they were sturdy.

The basement was dark. The light wasn’t bright enough to melt through its dim corners. Liv was thankful the appliances were directly at the bottom of the stairs. The box labeled ‘kitchen’ was exactly where Liv’s mom said it would be. Relieved she wouldn’t have to explore the unfamiliar and shadowy depths of the basement, she tore open the box and began digging.

The hand mixer was bright red. It was easy to find in the mishmash of utensils, odd pots and Tupperware containers…with and without their matching lids.

Happy to find her quarry without much effort, she smirked.

Score.

As the words passed her lips, the light bulb above her head popped and exploded, raining flakes of glass all through the thick curls of her auburn hair.

It was Liv’s turn to scream.

Only this time her mother didn’t come running to her aid, as she did for her brother.

Clutching the mixer tight to her chest, she ran up the stairs. Still not familiar with her surroundings, Liv skinned her knee, overestimating the height of the bottom step. Falling face-down on the open staircase, she let out a low groan, losing the mixer in her descent.

Dammit! she seethed, not caring if her mother heard her salty tongue.

Her distress and frustration was quickly replaced with terror as she heard a thin gravelly voice directly underneath her.

Tsk, Tsk. You’d best watch your mouth Oliva. Oh, and if I were you…I’d run.

Without question she obeyed the spine-bending voice and began her ascent to the top of the stairs. Her flight for sanctuary was cut short when something seized her ankle.

Tears of utter fear burned down her face, rousing laughter from the voice below.

You need to be quicker Olivia…much quicker and sharper to escape me. That’s why I love children. They’re not quick or sharp. That’s why they’re so much fun to play with.

A cold snap ripped through Olivia’s body as smooth, slender fingers wrapped around her ankle, clutching her tighter.

Come down here and play with me, the voice hissed. I insist.

Olivia felt herself being pulled through the open staircase; the voice’s serpentine fingers coiled around her ankle, rending into her flesh. Instead of a bloody scream, only a thin whistle escaped from her throat. But between her legs escaped a warm flood, soaking the denim of her jean shorts.

Her eyes grew wide through the tears as she felt a deliberate thud on the wooden staircase. Undeterred, her would-be captor followed Liv up from the basement. Like a feral animal, Liv clawed towards the light beckoning from atop the stairs, digging her fingers into the rough wood. The physical pain from tiny splinters impaling the tender meat under her finger tips was dull and toothless compared to the abject terror ripping and tearing its way through every fiber of her fourteen-year-old body.

With a burst of adrenaline, Liv launched herself up the remaining steps and slid on the linoleum, into the kitchen. Fearing the thing had reached the top of the stairs, she whirled around on her hands and knees, slamming the basement door shut.

A familiar soothing voice brought Olivia back from her hellish encounter, Honey, are you alright?

She ran her hand through the flattened curls of her daughter’s naturally curly hair.

What’s all this in your hair? It looks like glass. Did you hit the light bulb with your head?

Olivia just nodded.

I told your dad we need to move that. Giving her frightened daughter a quick once-over, Claire could