The Many Deaths of Cole Parker

By Lisa D. Kastner and Taylor Grant

Each of his killers are different people, yet they are equally relentless in their desire to end his life. Each time Cole dies, his psyche is somehow transported into a new reality. Sometimes the reality is similar to his previous life, and other times it is shockingly different. And each time, the cycle of cat and mouse begins anew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947041738

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The Many Deaths of Cole Parker

Praise for Taylor Grant

"In The Many Deaths of Cole Parker and Other Stories, Taylor Grant casually draws the reader in with his conversational storytelling style, his welcoming smile a deceptive mask as he brings the horror hammer down, pummeling seemingly normal situations in a true disturbing fashion.

In the best tales, mortality plays a key role, but it is never perceived in a straightforward manner; more so, questions of identity arise that provoke thought within circumstances that border on dread with no reconciliation in sight. Whether it’s recounting the sinister circumstances of how a woman came to wear a dead girlfriend’s face, or in the masterful title novella, a harrowing cycle of death and rebirth, tossed into different, often violent situations, where an insidious grey man pulls the strings, one is reminded that Grant can bring the horror with the best of them."

-John Claude Smith, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of RIDING THE CENTIPEDE

The Many Deaths of Cole Parker is unnerving, thrilling, and compelling. Taylor Grant takes us on a strange journey through very dark territory. Highly recommended!" -Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of ROT & RUIN and V-WARS

Taylor Grant has an uncanny talent for telling stories that invert our everyday experiences into sympathetic nightmares. His characters are always given the dignity of conscience and choice, even as he deftly manipulates the reader through whatever ingenious turn of the screw he has come up with this time. Whether his name appears on a screenplay or prose, Taylor Grant is a writer who never fails to engage. His stories frighten me and, frankly, always leave me a little green with why the hell didn't I think of that?

-Christopher Ransom, International Bestselling Author, THE BIRTHING HOUSE

Taylor Grant casts a dark, terrifying spell in each of his fascinating stories...Each tale is more riveting than the last, each character more complex and unforgettable. - New York Times Bestselling author Roy Johansen

Acute horror tales that are as enthralling as they are outright scary. -Kirkus Reviews

The Many Deaths of Cole Parker

and Other Stories

Taylor Grant

Running Wild Press

Contents

THE MANY DEATHS OF COLE PARKER

THE DEAD YEARS

ALONE

STATIC

A THOUSAND ROOMS OF DARKNESS

BLOOD

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other titles by Running Wild

About Running Wild Press

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is coincidental.

---

The Dead Years, Dark Screams Vol. 9, ed. Brian James Freeman & Richard Chizmar, 2018

The Many Deaths of Cole Parker, © Copyright, Taylor Grant, 2019.

Alone, Dark Tides: A Charity Anthology, ed. John J. Questore & Eugene Johnson, 2019

Static, Drive-In Creature Feature, ed. Eugene Johnson & Charles Day, 2016

A Thousand Rooms of Darkness, Halloween Carnival Vol. 3, ed. Brian James Freeman, 2017.

Blood, Cemetery Riots, ed. T.C. Bennett, 2016

Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com.

ISBN 978-1-947041-72-1

ISBN 978-1-947041-73-8

Dedicated to my son Zane.

---

All of the best chapters of my life have you in them.

THE MANY DEATHS OF COLE PARKER

Adense fog haunted the streets like a winter’s ghost the first time Cole Parker died. It slid across the low roofs of the neighborhood, pushed by a growing wind that promised a frigid night.

Cole walked his golden retriever, Odin, as he had every night for the past two years. Ever since he and Angeline had found him shivering and cowering near their car in the parking lot of a local shopping mall.

Odin had been a puppy at the time and was missing his left eye. Clearly, he had been abused and abandoned. It took them ninety-three seconds to agree to adopt him.

Odin had required expensive medical attention, a lot of patience, and gentle training. And he had rewarded Cole and Angeline with unconditional love, loyalty, and a playful nature that filled their home with joy.

Now, he was so well-trained that a leash wasn’t necessary. Though Cole used a retractable one as a perfunctory measure to appease his neighbors, and on the off-chance Odin crossed paths with a squirrel.

For on those rare occasions, the affable dog seemed to have no choice but to give in to his natural instincts and give chase.

At the moment, however, he was content sniffing at patches of grass and marking his territory.

Cole shivered as cool tendrils of fog enveloped him. He usually enjoyed walking Odin, but something was making him feel ill at ease.

He was suddenly eager to get home. Waiting for him was his beautiful wife, Angeline, along with a freshly popped bowl of popcorn, and a comedy on cable they had been wanting to see.

It’s a good life, he thought.

No, that wasn't quite right. It was more than that. It was a perfect life. And he often wondered what he had done to deserve it.

A week prior, after a particularly passionate night of lovemaking, he’d said as much to Angeline. She’d offered that amused grin that always melted him, and told him he needed to stop analyzing everything all the time, especially her love.

Lord knows he wanted to stop analyzing. But despite his best efforts, he had never been able to shake the nagging feeling that he was unworthy of happiness. That the contentment he and Angeline shared was temporary.

Odin growled.

It was the second time he'd ever heard the dog make such a sound. The first was last summer when an annoying Chihuahua had harassed Odin at a dog park for almost half an hour. The little jerk had certainly earned Odin’s ire.

But a growl like this was completely out of character.

What is it, boy? Cole said, following the retriever’s eyeline.

At the end of a cul-de-sac, which was the halfway point for their nightly walk, stood a freakishly tall man, watching him from under a street light. Fog swirled around him like an angry wraith.

He wore a gray baseball cap, with the bill pulled down low, casting a shadow that obscured his face. His hands were shoved deep inside the pockets of a long gray overcoat and he remained as immobile as a mannequin in a storefront window.

Odin began to growl even louder, his body completely rigid.

It's okay, boy, Cole said, stroking the dog’s stiff back.

When he glanced back toward the end of the street, the tall gray man was gone.

That bad, huh?

Angeline sat to Cole’s right on their living-room couch, staring at him. As usual, Odin was curled on the floor near his bare feet.

Hmm? Cole responded absently.

They had been watching a movie for quite some time, but he hadn’t been able to enjoy it. The image of the tall gray man had burrowed into his brain and settled there like a worm in the earth.

I’m not an expert, mind you, Angeline said. But I’m pretty sure comedies are supposed to make you laugh... or at least crack a smile.

"I’m sorry, babe, he said. It’s not the flick, I’m just...distracted."

She grabbed the TV remote and paused the movie. It was just like her to drop everything if she sensed something wrong. Empathy was her superpower. And she was a brilliant listener. Work stuff?

Typical client BS. He lied. He didn’t want to mention his frightening experience while walking Odin. There was no need to worry her about it. After all, nothing had happened. Yet the encounter clung to his consciousness like a membrane.

I’m actually relieved, she said, running her slender fingers through his hair. This movie is about as entertaining as watching a car rust.

Cole grinned at that.

What you need, she continued, Is something to take your mind off of work. She offered a seductive look while slipping her hand under the waistband of his sweatpants.

Cole grabbed her wrist firmly. Then, with overly dramatic flair, he said, You know, I’m not just some sex object for you to take advantage of at a vulnerable moment.

Angeline stifled a laugh and managed to keep a straight face. Honey, I’m just trying to comfort you in your hour of need.

I see, Cole said, slightly loosening his grip. So, this is really about compassion and not about my irresistible sexual magnetism?

Angeline stifled another laugh and nodded with exaggerated sincerity. Absolutely. Your sexual dynamism is without peer. I just want to ease your suffering.

Cole barely kept a straight face as he released her wrist.

In that case, pleasure me at will.

Angeline broke then, roaring with laughter.

Cole lost it too. And in that glorious moment, the terrible presence of the tall gray man was all but forgotten.

The warm water felt good cascading down Cole’s skin, as did the tingling afterglow of making love to Angeline.

But not even the warmth of the shower could entirely drive away the chill left by the man under the streetlight. Though he couldn’t explain why, he was convinced the gray man had meant him harm.

He dipped his head under the stream of water again, hoping to wash the image away. Reaching for the soap, he remembered the first time he’d tried to wash Odin in their shower and what a catastrophe it had been. The removable shower head had scared Odin to death and during a wild attempt to escape, he’d caused Cole to fall, sending them both tumbling into a ball of flesh and fur.

Angeline was of no help, of course. She was doubled over in laughter.

When she finally caught her breath, she pointed at them on the shower floor and said, I can't tell which of you has the hairier butt.

She began to laugh even harder then, and despite himself, Cole couldn't help but laugh along, too.

He grinned at the memory, and by the time the long shower was over, he knew that Angeline would be asleep. She was perhaps the only woman on the planet who fell asleep faster than a man after sex. And he had teased her endlessly about it.

As he stepped into the dark of the bedroom, he noticed the shape of her body under the covers and grinned. He loved the familiarity of their routine. It grounded him.

After drying his hair with a towel, he put on his comfiest (and rattiest) sweatpants; the ones Angeline had threatened to throw away on more than one occasion, after which he would always threaten divorce.

He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table; it was just past midnight. Odin would already be asleep in his preferred spot in the hallway just outside the master bedroom, near the warmth of the heater vent.

Cole sat on his side of the bed, trying his best not to wake Angeline.

But as he lay back to get comfortable he saw that she was awake and staring at him, her eyes lit with terror, like live coals. Duct tape was stretched tautly over her mouth and a hunting knife was held to her throat.

It was the tall gray man.

He was lying behind her in the spoon position, and Cole hadn't looked closely enough at the form under the thick blankets to notice.

Cole froze, gaping at the disfigured man, whose crepe-like skin was as gray as his clothes, like a grotesque Halloween mask of melted flesh. But that wasn't the worst of it; his eyes were completely black. It was as if Cole was staring into two bottomless holes.

The situation had barely registered when the gray man lunged at Cole and impaled his heart with a 9-inch blade.

The pain was exquisite.

He heard the sound of Angeline's screams through the tape over her mouth, but they quickly faded like a dying echo.

And soon the shade of his killer’s eyes was matched only by the blackness that consumed Cole.

Blackness turned to gray. Gray turned to white. White turned to consciousness.

Consciousness turned to shock.

He’d been murdered!

There was no mistaking death. He remembered his consciousness leaving his body, and then a transition to some altered state.

But now he was here. Driving a classic Ford Mustang through a remote stretch of desert at night.

No one sat in the passenger seat or in the back seat. He was alone on an even lonelier road.

Was he having some sort of lucid dream?

Or had the murder been a nightmare and this was reality?

Cole’s hands shook uncontrollably. He pulled over before he lost control of the car.

His whole body trembled while he tried to make sense of what was going on. No, that hadn't been a dream. He remembered all of it in terrible detail: the duct tape over Angeline’s mouth; her face taut with terror; the man with eyes like burnt holes in a blanket; and the 9 inches of steel that pierced Cole’s heart.

He had been murdered by the tall gray man.

The thought of that, along with the thought of what may have happened to Angeline and Odin overwhelmed him.

I have to call Angeline!

He glanced around for a cell phone but didn’t see one. He didn't recognize the car, and yet there was an inexplicable sense of familiarity. He'd never been in this Mustang before and yet he had some innate knowledge of it.

It was a 1966 GT hardtop model with a V8 under the hood; rear-wheel-drive, with a 3-speed gear box and went from 0 to 60 in 7 seconds. He knew because he’d tested it before.

But he hadn't.

And yet he had.

Perhaps he’d gone insane. What other explanation was there for what he was feeling and thinking? He had two sets of memories: his own, and someone else he’d never met before.

He suddenly remembered working on the car for an entire summer, swapping out the original 200ci straight six for a V8 with a modern overdrive transmission.

But that was impossible because everyone knew that pumping gas and filling up his tires with air was the extent of his mechanical ability.

He reached into the glove box and found the car registration. The address wasn't his, but the name and birthdate was: Cole Parker, November 2nd.

He flung it away as if it had burned him.

What the fuck is going on? he shouted.

He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror and screamed.

It was his reflection, and yet it wasn't. His features were the same, but softer. Doughy. And he looked old beyond his years. His eyes were bleary and his skin looked like it hadn’t seen the sun since parachute pants were in fashion. His thick shock of hair was now receding and he had deep crow’s feet around his eyes.

He touched his face, ran his fingers over crevices that hadn't been there the last time he’d looked.

He was gazing at some nightmare version of himself. Yet it was real.

Somehow it was all real.

He stopped fighting against his conflicting memories then, and instead let them filter in. They were vague at first, like trying to imagine a blank spot in an unfinished painting. But the longer he allowed them to form, the more they began to come into focus.

He had been driving somewhere important. There was a desperation to it. And the destination was nearby. He could sense it.

But as he took in his surroundings, it made no sense. He was in the middle of nowhere, desert in every direction.

He heard the sound of a car engine pulling up behind him and saw the red and blue lights of a police car flashing in his rearview mirror.

His muscles seized up. His heart began to pound. But that was to be expected. A cop with flashing lights was never there to deliver good news.

He watched as the police officer stepped out of his cruiser. He was what Cole’s father referred to as a ‘well-padded’ man. The man’s gut was the size of the national debt, stretching the limits of his uniform in a way that looked painful.

Fear bubbled up from deep within, and it was more than the typical unease when a cop comes up behind you. This was coming from an indefinable, new side of himself. He had done something terrible, hadn’t he? Something he didn't want this cop to discover.

No, scratch that. He hadn't done it. This other Cole Parker had done it. And just as the officer approached the driver’s side door, he remembered.

A dead body in the trunk.

Cole jumped when the officer rapped on the driver’s side window.

The cop aimed a flashlight at Cole, then toward the backseat and Cole's heart froze. He rolled down the window and attempted what was surely the worst smile in the history of smiling.

Something wrong, officer?

The rotund officer’s eyes were like searchlights. I could ask you the same, sir, he said, and his double chin jiggled as he said it. Car trouble?

As Cole looked into the officer’s face, he had the startling realization that he knew him.

It was Frank Bannon.

But that was fucking impossible. Because the Frank Bannon he knew was a successful dentist with an athletic build.

He was also Angeline‘s abusive ex-husband and would have preferred that Cole was dead.

It was then that he noticed the name tag on the officer’s shirt. It said ‘F. Bannon’.

Fucking impossible.

The officer noticed him staring in disbelief.

"Something wrong, sir?

Something wrong? Cole thought. Every-fucking-thing is wrong! I’m not who I’m supposed to be, you are not who you’re supposed to be, and I have a dead body in my trunk.

No—no, Cole said, knowing it was best to avoid sounding like a crazy person. Just really tired. Thought I’d pull over to rest my eyes.

Where you headed?

Cole felt panic creeping in like an unwanted guest. He had no idea where he was, much less where he was going.

Oh, sometimes I just drive to clear my head. Y’know—when I can't sleep.

Uh huh, Bannon looked unconvinced. You realize your tags are expired, sir?

Of course they are, Cole thought.

I need to see your license and registration, please.

Cole remembered that he had flung the registration somewhere inside the car. He tried to act casual as he searched for it, but his body was shaking like a drunk the morning after.

Just write me the damn ticket and leave, he thought. If he decides to check the trunk...

Sir, I need you to keep your hands where I can see them.

Sorry officer, I'm just trying to find my registration.

He suddenly remembered the wallet stuffed in his back pocket and felt a moment of relief.

But while pulling it out he had the realization that it wasn’t his wallet. It was a zippered trifold.

He hated zippered wallets.

Something wrong, sir?

No...no. I'm fine. Cole tried another smile, and it felt even more atrocious than the last. He unzipped the wallet, flipped it open and showed Bannon his driver’s license.

Please remove the license from your wallet.

Cole did as he was asked, and the license quivered in his fingers like a captured butterfly.

Bannon jotted some things down onto a notepad and handed Cole’s license back. Mr. Parker, when was the last time you smoked marijuana in this car?

I don’t smoke—

But of course he did. This Cole smoked his ass off. Somehow he knew that. In fact, hadn’t he gotten baked less than an hour ago? They were not his memories, and yet they were.

Unfortunately sir, I smell marijuana, which gives me probable cause to search your car. Please get out of the vehicle, sir.

Look, this is ridiculous—

Sir, get out of the car, Bannon said grimly, placing his hand on his weapon. "I’m not