Fateful

By James Cooper

Seven short stories, revealing the unpredictable faces of Fate. Drama, darkness, fear, and pain rule over the life of every character in “Fateful.” Some of the tales might chill you, while others will leave you speechless, questioning your own faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329478633

Book preview

Fateful

F A T E F U L

Copyright©2015 James Cooper

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

Published by James Cooper

First edition: 2015

ISBN: 978-1-329-47863-3

Stories:

Introduction

1. The Henry Woman

2. In cold blood

3. Best friends

4. Wings of faith

5. Footprints in the snow

6. Way out

7. Into the mist

Notes on the stories

Introduction

Since I was a child, I`ve always been fascinated and curious about the unknown. About that other part of our world. Stories about ghosts, haunted places, strange and unexplained phenomena, urban legends… These are the things that make me shiver, but at the same time arouse my mind and imagination like nothing else. That`s why I decided to write about them. I want to present this side of our world, which a lot of people would describe as paranormal, unknown or unnatural. But in my opinion, a great part of these phenomena are so natural to our world and our existence, that it`s better to sit down, examine, and to try to understand them, rather than refusing or stigmatizing them. I strongly believe that our world has some other side, a spiritual one, but we just don`t have an access to it.

Fateful. I couldn`t think of better name for this book. When I was considering the title, I just went through all of the stories and asked myself, What`s the common element? What is the thing that can be seen in every story? And for me this is Fate and all of its embodiments. Every character has his or her own fate, goes to a different path and meets in a different ending. That`s why, for me, Fateful sounded suitable.

I try to write engrossing and intriguing stories. That`s the first thing I want to achieve. Then, I focus on the sensations. I want my readers to feel something; to be involved, to be provoked, to be chilled or even shocked. And something that I would like to mention… You will read this book, you will like some of the stories, while some of them you might not. But, after closing the book and leaving it aside, just keep in the corner of you mind that some of the things that have happened to the characters, might happen to you…

James has an excellent, rather exquisite, insight into the human condition; his animated characters aptly portray for the reader, both the best and worst of humanity.  With tragic, yet touching tales, like that found in Best Friends, or those that demonstrate the darkest deeds mankind is capable of, such as narratives like Wings of Faith and In Cold Blood," each short story holds gems of insight for the reader to carry away from the work. With every turn of the page, James has an uncanny way of using his writing to lift the veil on human behavior and reveal both its beauty, and sometimes, its darkest of secrets.  From the sublime to the sinister, the unforgettable, multi-faceted tales in the short story anthology Fateful will have every reader questioning the role that destiny, choice, and the sheer unexpected has in the forging of every human experience."

-Dayna Winters, editor

The Henry Woman

Everything happened on a peaceful November night, nearly one year ago. I had just given the manuscript of my last novel, Vicious Skies to Andy Chester—my literary agent—and received the check for my previous book—The Tower. The money was actually good—one more check like that and I would finally be able to change the rusty Toyota Camry, which I was driving back then, with something that would consume less fuel and ride more comfortably. Besides that, the money was enough for me to do nothing but to write for the next two or three months—enough time to finish the novel that was swirling in my head. Now, I’m a bit slower, but I am already used to that.

Driving back home, I was thinking about the five-digit number decorating the bottom right corner of the check in my wallet. I smiled and said to myself, You did it, Frank, you did it! You deserved that! No more doubts, no more anxious thoughts! The thing I had most wanted for the last two years had finally come true. I wasn’t just a writer, I was a successful writer. And even though I’m not much of a drinker, a shot or two in some local bar, was the way I decided to celebrate my success.

When it comes to drinking and driving, the picture of Eddie Frederick—a classmate of mine, and one of the most good-looking guys in high school—always comes to my mind. I remember him getting in that red Corvette, rented by his father, wobbling from side to side, with a bottle of vodka in his hand.

How much did he drink? some girl asked.

I don’t know. Maybe a bottle.

But he’s gonna crash somewhere…

Probably, I said. If I had tried to take the bottle from his hand, surely I was going to end up with a punch in my face, so I did nothing.

We need to do something! He can’t drive like that!

Yes, but I guess he has some other plans for the night.

Eddie! the girl cried out and ran toward the car. Eddie! You can’t drive right now! You are too drunk God dammit!

Eddie? Who’s Eddie, baby? the guy mumbled. I’m not Eddie, anymore. I’m Mr. Infinity! said Eddie and got into the car.

I didn’t see him after that night. The coffin was sealed and I think it was for the sake of good.

The traffic lights at the crossing of 17th and Washington turned red, so I slowed down and nailed the tires right before the white line. There were no other cars on the road, but I waited anyway, with my last cigarette burning in my mouth. I took a long final drag, squeezed the butt with two fingers, and stuck it into the ashtray, as if it was an annoying bug. The car had filled with smoke, so I rolled the window down, and the gray, bitter mist quickly began to disappear.

I shifted to first gear, waiting for the red to turn green, when some blue, shimmering light coming from the street on my right, caught my eyes. The light was coming from the sign of a local bar, called Ronnie’s, as half of the letters looked a bit dull and shady. The bar was known in the city as the place where nobody goes to, and I, personally, hadn’t been there. But back on that night, something drew me like a giant magnet in its direction, and without even knowing how, I had already turned right, driving towards the bar. Even if it was empty, as its reputation suggested, it was totally comfortable for me. Being or drinking on my own had never bothered me at all.

I parked in the lot in front of a convenience store, which was right across the bar, bought a pack of Camels, crossed the street, and entered. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as empty as I thought it would be. In the back, a bunch of rockers, with leather jackets and arms covered in tattoos, were raising bottles of beer and laughing loudly, banging on the wooden table. At the bar—a couple of old, skinny men, probably in their sixties, were drinking in silence.

The air inside felt heavy and musty. The music was flat and bluesy, the light was poor, but I decided to stay. I sat at the bar next to one of the old fellas. A young girl (no more than 21), with brown hair falling just beneath her shoulders, came to me and waited for my order.

Jack Daniel’s, please… With no ice, please.

The girl began filling the short, aluminum cylinder with the smooth, amber liquid. After that, she poured it into a square glass and placed it in front of me.

So, this is the ‘place, where nobody goes to,’ huh? I asked.

The girl barely smiled and said nothing.

"Well, maybe you should change it to the ‘place, where somebody goes to’," I said and lightly laughed.

I drained the glass in one huge swallow. The girl followed the curve, which my arm drew in the air, as she had already predicted my next move.

One more, please.

I opened up the pack of cigarettes and took one out. I lit it up meticulously, took a slow, deep draw, and pulled the ashtray closer to my hand.

You’ve been working here for a long time? I asked.

She looked at me with her shy eyes and nodded.

And is it really empty all the time or is this night an exception? I tried to sound serious because I really wanted to know. I hadn’t been to that bar before, and I didn’t go there afterward.

The brunette just shrugged her shoulders in answer and placed the second glass of Daniel’s on the bar. I thought it was the right time to pay her, so I took a fifty-dollar bill (the only fifty in my wallet) and laid it on the bar with a confident hand.

Keep it, I said.

The girl just took the money and put it under the desk, without saying a single word. After that, she leaned against the wooden shelf behind her and crossed her arms. I turned myself around and said, "Well, perhaps this is also the ‘place, where nobody talks’.

The old guy next to me slightly turned his head. As the lamp above him brightened his right half, I saw that his skin was dry and rough like sandpaper; his cheek was hollowed, and his forehead was furrowed with long, deep wrinkles. Above his lips, an unkempt ginger mustache was hanging like a piece of wool. The little remaining hair on his skull was gathered in a greasy ponytail, sliding down to his back.

Stacy’s dumb, buddy… he said in a hoarse voice.

A sudden wave of disappointment splashed upon my confidence.

Oh! Oh… I’m sorry! I said to the girl. Really! If I only knew… I’m sorry!

She nodded and spread her lips in a humble smile.

What about you? I asked the man after a while. Don’t you like talking to somebody while you’re drinking?

He looked at me and lisped, Whatcha want, buddy?!

Nothing… I just… Forget it!

I turned around, took my drink and moved a couple of chairs away from the guy. I didn’t like talking to strangers; I wasn’t good company, either. And the closer I was getting to my forties, the more difficult it was for me to have a normal conversation with anybody.

I was sitting there, drinking fancy whiskey and pleasantly puffing gray smoke into the air. The warm, tender hands of the alcohol were creeping up on my shoulders, making me feel more and more relaxed. The sweet aftertaste, which the whiskey was leaving in my mouth, was giving me a pleasant feeling of satisfaction. Besides that, the thought about the money hadn’t left me for a single second and was standing in my mind like a giant gate, ready to be open.

The old fella began searching his pockets, obviously looking for something. The search lasted less than a minute, and by his desperate face, it seemed it was futile.

Dammit! the man swore, then said something to the guy sitting next to him. He shook his finger in the air and pointed it towards his neck. The man swore again, then glanced аt me and cried out, Hey!

I tried to pretend I wasn’t hearing him.

Hey, you there…

I raised my eyebrow, with a questionable expression written on my face.

You got a cigarette or two?

This sounded like an invitation to me, so I took the pack of Camels and my drink and sat next to the man. He opened up the pack and pulled a cigarette out with his bony fingers. The knuckles of his hand were as bulged as bullets.

I’m Ezra, he mumbled and reached his hand.

Frank… I said. As I grabbed the guy’s hand, I felt how rough and firm it was.

So, Frank, lemme guess… Lawyer?

I chuckled.

Far from the truth… I’m a writer.

"A writer? And what exactly do you write about, Frank?"

I write about this and that…

This and that… Ezra repeated and lit the cigarette up.

Now’s my turn. A truck driver?

Ezra blew the smoke through his nose.

It’s not so hard to guess…

Do you have a family? Wife, kids?

No, he said dryly.

"Have you been married?

Once. We divorced thirty years ago.

Maybe it was for good, I said.

Yeah, maybe…

Have you ever wanted to get married again?

No.

What… You don’t like women anymore? I joked, but a second later I realized it was a bad idea.

Ezra slowly turned to me and the light from the lamp brightened his entire face. A pirate bandage was crossing its left half, with a round piece of leather covering his eye.

Jesus Christ! I pulled my body back.

You see that? Ezra pointed towards his left eye. After that, he leaned closer to me and said, "If you were a woman, you wouldn’t want me to be your man, right? Neither your friend, neighbor, lover, not even the man sitting next to you while you’re waiting for the doctor."

Then, he drew his face back and sipped from his drink. When I plucked up enough courage, I asked, How did that happen?

The Henry Woman, Ezra replied in an even tone.

I gave him a puzzled look and asked, Who’s Henry and what the hell have you done to his wife, to end up with this?

Ezra looked at me and said, You never heard about the Henry Woman?

No… I answered. I even think the only Henry I knew died last summer from a heart attack.

So you’ve never heard the story about Sir Henry and Lady Annabelle? Ezra asked surprised.

By my confused look, Ezra already knew my answer to his question. He took a couple of drags, left the cigarette in the ashtray, and said, "Listen, buddy… I’m gonna tell you a story, which I didn’t believe was true until this happened to me."

Ezra moved the bandage away. The skin around his eye together with