The Fear Line

By Eric Polk

Peter Danbury of hockey's Washington Co. River Rats is at the end of the line. His team is about to miss the playoffs once again and, not to mention, his career hangs by a thread. Desperate, he acquires three new players who strike terror into their opponents...and himself. Included is the bonus story The Gallows Beyond The Hill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Polk
• Release date: Feb 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005811730

Eric Polk

Eric Polk is an American author of horror and slipstream police procedurals. His work has been featured in the online publications Alienskin Mag and Death Head's Grin. In addition, his short story The 12:07 to Stoningham was published in Rhonny Reaper's Creature Features anthology. Currently, Eric lives in Ohio with his wife Joleen, and their two cats.

Book preview

The Fear Line

Eric Polk

Copyright 2021 Eric Polk

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Peter Danbury stepped through the front door; his shoulders pointed to the darkened linoleum tile in his home’s entryway. He tossed off his shoes. Kippy, the family dog, and protector of the basement steps, bounced up, yipped his welcome back.

Shush, he said. It was some time past midnight. Peggy was sleeping, his dinner placed in the fridge beforehand. It was an implied covenant of their thirteen-year marriage. Kippy danced around, licking doggy lips, awaiting his guardian’s response. Peter loosened his tie, slung his jacket on the Ottoman by the coat rack.

They were brutal, the few watching the Washington Co. River Rats hockey team lose their sixth game in a row. The building wasn’t even a quarter-full, but the scant, boisterous attendees made it seem as if it were standing room only. When the score was 7-1 in the middle of the third period, they threw empty cups on the ice. This caused a delay of game penalty, created another power play score for the Erie Ice Dogs. The beat writers called him Coach Dinglebury in the sports section; the fans just called him a dumbass. After the latest defeat, his two best players were called up to a triple-A affiliate on the other side of the state. Even worse, a three-game, eight-hundred-mile road trip beginning the day after tomorrow stood over the horizon. At least they wouldn’t be around for the rest of the torture.

Peter sat down in a chair by the bay window, sighed. Dinner was the furthest thing from his mind despite the wonderful pot roast awaiting. Kippy hopped onto his lap. That was the good thing about the mutt. He didn’t care the Rats had lost six in a row.

Tomorrow would be a light practice, not that the players cared. The Rats were a collection of castoffs and the injury-prone as many of those playing in the Appalachian Hockey Association. They were holding reality back for a season or two more before taking small-time coaching gigs, trotting off to Europe, or giving up on their furthest glories and returning to the so-called real world. Tomorrow was also the weekly call from the GM. The prospect filled him with dread. If they’d had won a game last week, the impending reaming wouldn’t feel quite as bad.

This is backwater Podunk, old-time hockey, the GM told him when he was hired two years ago. She was a few years older than Peter. Unlike him, her moments of hockey grandeur centered around Olympic gold and a tryout in the NHL. There have been three guys who’ve gone on to the NHL in all of the years the league has operated, and they didn’t last more than ten games. Peter related. After a junior hockey career that took him as far as an alternate on the Olympic Men’s team, his pro career stagnated. He spent his days shifting back between double-A and triple-A hockey before getting a call from Buffalo to fill in for an injured player. Eight games, two goals, three assists, five points. Not quite Hall of Fame numbers.

Kippy, reading