Shadows at Twilight

By Grimm Kadence

Seven stories. A little boy must venture into a late-night snowstorm to search for his missing family; a mirror becomes a gateway to endless mesmerizing worlds; planet Earth gets ball-kicked by a massive rogue planet; a young psychic visits purgatory and he's got an agenda; in 1974, a serial killer is duped by his own cult; monsters lurk in a dense forest; and in a cozy winter town, a man in black uses his abilities to help save a gorgeous damsel in distress. With vivid descriptions and satisfying endings, this collection of stories is sure to spark your imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grimm Kadence
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005134303

Grimm Kadence

I am Grimm Kadence, an author of fantasy, mystery, horror, sci-fi, paranormal adventure ebooks. I’ve been writing stories since I was a kid. Most of my stories, if not all, have strong elements of the supernatural. I’m not a long winded writer, but I’ve been told repeatedly by many readers that I’m great at grand vivid descriptions and deft humor. To sign up for my mailing list, visit my website.

Book preview

Shadows at Twilight

Seven Mysterious Stories

Grimm Kadence

Copyright © 2021 Grimm Kadence

All rights reserved.

V1.0

Readers,

I ask only one thing of you: if you dislike this book and want to write a review, please let myself and other potential readers know, somewhere within that review, why this book wasn’t for you. Was it the dark tone of the stories, the overall story/plot, the writing itself, the characters, the gore and adult language or something else? I always appreciate details and specifics, afterall, if I’m unsure of the problem, I can’t fix it in the next book.

To those of you who’ve downrated my books and told me exactly why, thank you; you’ve taught me to be a better author.

To those of you who’ve given four- and five-star reviews on my books, thank you so much! Your reviews are the ones that make all the hard work and late nights totally worth it. If I could, I’d take you all out for your favorite dinner.

—Grimm Kadence

Contents

I Loved You at Your Darkest

To Swear by the Stars

Men Among Giants

Déjà Visité

Oliver

The Porcelain Man

Dark Phases

Author Notes

I Loved You at Your Darkest

Grimm Kadence

For Thomas T.—It’s not much, but I’ve given you an owl. Rest in peace, old friend.

Black Hallows, Colorado; 1990

It was a partly cloudy night. Moonlight shone into Patrick Jepson’s bedroom from tightly secured windows that withheld the mid-January winter air. Toys from a previous life filled the twelve-year-old’s room, toys he had played with before everything had changed, before events that had drastically altered his home life had forced him into a stale state of being. The toys were reminders of a better time. Train sets, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Legos and remote-control cars didn’t matter much anymore.

The days that once brought the excitement one feels from setting up a board game, unwrapping a brand-new action figure or loading up Super Mario Land on his Nintendo Game Boy were pretty much gone. But Thomas, the white cotton-filled owl that went everywhere with the boy, was different. He was the toy Patrick loved more than he loved himself.

However, Thomas wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill stuffed animal. His manufacturer, Shoreside Toys Inc., designed his elegant features to mimic that of a real owl. He stood approximately twenty-two inches tall with a wingspan of forty-two inches, tip to tip. His smooth polyester feathers enveloped him like a silk sheet, covering even his feet, which were anisodactyl, meaning three toes forward and one back. His talons were a deep-black plastic, not too sharp but sturdy.

Do you believe in angels? Patrick asked, as he stared up at the ceiling.

I don’t know, Thomas said in a tired, strained voice, like that of a man who had lived a lifetime. He sat perched at the edge of the mattress and ruffled his synthetic feathers. If they exist, wouldn’t that mean the devil exists too? I don’t want to believe in Satan.

Patrick rolled to his side and examined the bird. What kind of owl are you?

Thomas lifted his left foot to his beak and nibbled on a small displaced bit of plastic that had strayed from his talon. After yanking the piece free, he stood once again on both feet. You’ve never asked me that before. He cocked his head to one side. "Do you know any types of owls?"

Patrick thought for a couple seconds. Only the barn owl. I don’t know what they look like though. I remember Mrs. Phillips, my old teacher, read us a story about that particular breed, Patrick said.

Thomas shook his head and scoffed. They’re eerie creatures; their faces, well, one name comes to mind … Mothman.

Mothman? Patrick giggled. Who’s that? Is he attracted to porch lights?

No, Thomas said, his quick response drawing in the child’s gaze. He’s attracted to death, Patrick.

The boy’s smile faded.

I’m a snowy owl. I blend with the winter accumulation and am known for my speed. I’m a twilight predator, a raptor, … a bird of prey.

Your eyes are so blue. They remind me of the diamond my mother used to wear around her neck, the boy remarked.

Do you miss her?

Every day.

I wish I could have known her before … The owl’s voice trailed off for a moment. Does your father miss her too?

He doesn’t talk about her. Neither of us do. I know he’s sad though. I can see it in his eyes. Before my mom died, he worked at a testing facility up in the mountains, preparing astronauts for long-term isolation. He was on his way to becoming one of those astronauts.

What stopped him?

Patrick looked into Thomas’s blue eyes. The grief.

The sounds of a sudden burst of broken glass, deafening bangs and sickening thuds all called out from a disturbing commotion downstairs, penetrating Patrick’s closed door and filling his bedroom. Patrick sat up, and Thomas whipped his head 180 degrees to face the door. The violent struggle accompanied panicked and muffled cries, as if the muted screams were forcing their way through a chloroformed rag or the beefy palm of someone much bigger.

That’s my dad, Patrick whispered through heavy breaths.

Someone’s in the house. Someone’s hurting him, Thomas said. Get under the covers, Patrick.

As the thrashing, clanging and shrieking sounds worked their way from one end of the house to the other, Thomas spread his long wings, revealing the beautiful spatter pattern of hundreds of speckled black flecks that trailed across them. He dove from the bed, jumping with all his might until his wings picked up the room’s warm air and balanced in a steady, swift flight.

The predator sailed past the dusty bookshelves, the beanbag chair and the sky-blue kite that dangled from the ceiling on a string, whipping it around violently in the sudden gust. Thomas flew to the door and hovered near its handle, flapping his wings with such force that the tacked-up posters and track ribbons on the surrounding walls waved and shook in the tremendous wind.

The bird’s plastic beak bit and jabbed at the lock until it clicked into place, securing the boy in his room. Thomas returned to find Patrick buried in blankets, the boy’s eyes peering out from a gap in the wool covers. The owl took one last look at the door, then dipped his head under the covers and joined his friend.

Patrick clicked on a plastic flashlight, and the two huddled together in the heat from the boy’s trapped breath.

It’ll be over soon. We just have to wait it out, Thomas said.

A loud drawn-out holler that sent an icy chill over Patrick’s body interrupted the thrashing chaos downstairs, but only for a moment. A series of scrapes and thumps followed.

What if we’re next? Patrick asked, as tears streamed down his face.

If they come in here, I’ll stop them. I won’t let them harm you, Thomas said.

As the violent sounds died out, Thomas rubbed and nudged his head against Patrick’s shaking hands. It’s over. They’ll either leave or … they’ll find us, Thomas said.

The boy removed the blankets and clicked off the flashlight but remained in the bed. Thomas crawled onto Patrick’s chest. What about the window? Can we get on the roof? Patrick asked.

Thomas hopped to the foot of the bed and stepped onto the windowsill. He cocked his neck at the window. It’s too icy. You’ll fall.

"I wish I could fly."

Thomas reconvened with the boy and snuggled into his arms. I won’t leave you. I’ll peck out their eyes before I let them get to you.

• • •

Patrick lay in bed, staring out the window, watching the sky as dark gray clouds moved in front of a giant moon. Snow had been coming down for the last ten minutes, and it had been about twelve minutes since the commotion downstairs had stopped. Patrick and Thomas hadn’t said much; they had used that time to listen for more danger, but the quiet in the house calmed their nerves, and each passing second reassured them that they were now alone. Patrick closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the fading shock nearly had him drifting to sleep.

Is my dad dead? Patrick asked his feathered friend, who stood on the wooden nightstand next to the bed.

I will never lie to you, Patrick. I’m not sure of the fate of your father. Why don’t I go check?

The boy sat up and placed his feet on the hardwood floor, then slid them into his slippers neatly placed for easy access. I’m coming with you.

I’m not sure that’s best. If the attackers are still down there—

What if my dad’s hurt really bad and is in need of an ambulance? What if he only has minutes to live? You can’t use the phone. You’re a bird. We’re already wasting time. I’m coming with you. Patrick clicked on the flashlight and made his way across the room.

The boy pressed his ear against his bedroom door. He heard nothing, not even the downstairs TV or the annoying electrical hum from the living room space heater. His fingers twisted the lock, and he slowly pulled open the door. When a rush of cool air flowed over him from behind and jostled his shaggy hair, chilling his shoulders and rushing his heartbeat, Patrick looked up in time to see Thomas’s glorious wingspan silently sailing overhead.

Thomas tucked in his wings to avoid the doorjamb, a well-timed maneuver that was a bit too close for comfort and, in turn, made Patrick gasp as he watched with wide eyes. The owl disappeared down the long hall lit with a multicolored shifting night-light.

Patrick clicked off the flashlight, not wanting to alert anyone to his presence, and then crept down the hall, hugging the right side while simultaneously avoiding the known creaky spots in the hardwood. He reached the staircase and peered down, spotting all the broken glass and the sharp ceramic shards spilled out over the floor. Patrick scampered down the stairs and stopped at the bottom; his weight crunched the debris, digging the glass slivers into the laminate floor and up into his slippers’ outsoles.

Thomas sat perched on the only upright kitchen chair, examining the mess. His wide bright-blue eyes held a stern gaze that went from the greasy hash browns—spilling from the electric skillet now upside down in the corner by the pantry—to the apples, oranges and bananas crushed on the floor next to the center island. The bird eyed the purified water dispenser; its cracked base laid on its side in a puddle of water, as its tank had separated in the chaos and had rolled its way to the staircase, leaving a trail of liquid behind.

Thomas hooted twice and then let out a succession of grating chirps. He looked back at the boy and shook his head. I don’t know, Patrick. The bird hopped onto the center island and studied the open back door that swayed back and forth in the breeze, while the worsening weather spit snowflakes onto the kitchen’s linoleum. Your father’s gone.

When a gust of wind pushed the door into the wall, the cracked glass above the handle shattered and spilled to the floor, the pieces resting in a spatter of blood that ran across the linoleum and out into the snow.

Patrick walked to the fridge, sidestepping the toppled trash can and a half-empty liter bottle of cola. He focused on a magnetic notepad that towered above him, stuck to the upper freezer door.

Pay Larson … ASAP! Patrick read aloud. Ugh, Larson.

You know him? I’ve never encountered him. Thomas raised his left foot to his beak and pulled a small shard of glass from the plastic toe, then spit it onto the table. That will not buff out, he said, examining the cut.

The first time I met Larson was at the bowling alley. He drank a pitcher of beer in a matter of minutes. He called me Patty the whole night.

Patrick knelt down low, examining the dozen or so tiny blood droplets that had splattered onto the floor. He ran his index finger through one of the smudges, studied it for a moment and then wiped his finger clean with a nearby clump of wadded-up paper towels. Could my dad have snapped?

Snapped? Thomas asked.

Yeah. You know? Gone crazy. Do you think he did all this himself?

Has he ever been violent before?

Not toward me. He has a temper though. He yells at the TV whenever Fox News is on. Patrick stood on his tiptoes until his fingers reached another piece of paper, stuck magnetically to the fridge.

It read Patrick, open in case of emergency!

I forgot about this, the boy said, now holding the note. My dad put this up a few months ago. He examined the handwriting and then showed it to Thomas.

Thomas read the words and then looked around at the disaster. I think this applies.

Patrick pried open the seal, unfolded the note and read aloud, "P, call 9-1-1 for police, medic or fire. No matter the circumstance, be sure to contact Dr. Thrasher. He can always help." The boy skimmed over the rest.

Dr. Thrasher’s phone number: 970-555-0973

Dr. Thrasher’s address: 317 Old Mill Road

Our phone number: 970-555-9630

Our address: 001 Apollo Drive

Patrick glanced across the kitchen near the wall clock to find stripped wires dangling from a dime-size hole. He scanned the room until he located the telephone; it lay in a heap of garbage near the kitchen’s center island. The base’s circular dial had broken off, and the receiver was cracked and smashed. Patrick walked to the damaged telephone and picked it up. The phone’s done for.

Yes. No dialing out on that. The bird hopped to the other side of the island, navigating through a mess of spilled salt, pieces of broken dishes and sopped dishrags. Look here, Thomas said, craning his neck to examine a sheet of paper. Most of the text is smeared.

Patrick picked up an overturned chair and stood it properly, then crawled onto it to get a better look at what Thomas had found. This is from Dr. Thrasher’s office, he said. This paper is soaked in—the boy leaned in close and smelled the liquid—bleach.

Odd. Thomas looked around. Was your father cleaning?

"The only words I can make out are It seems Patrick … diagnose … lifetime. Patrick leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Well, that’s useless," he muttered.

Maybe it was bad news? Maybe that’s what sent your dad into a rage? Thomas lifted his head and stretched his feet to elevate his height. Patrick?

Yes?

Do you smell something burning? Thomas asked, glancing around the place.

Patrick opened his eyes and nodded. Smells like melted plastic. I know because I used to melt my G.I. Joes in the backyard.

We’d better find it, Thomas said. The bird hopped up onto the chair’s back and then opened his wings and glided over to the tipped trash can. He landed on its smooth front, then hopped onto the floor and searched the adjacent room from which they’d come.

Watch the glass, Patrick said, following close behind his friend.

The two neared the staircase, getting a look at the nearby living room, which seemed to be less of a disaster than the rest of the place. Upon entering the room, they found the source of the glass.

It’s my dad’s glass trophy case. The shards are everywhere, Patrick said.

Thomas nodded. I can’t walk on that.

Come on. Patrick lifted his arm, and the bird flew up and perched on the boy’s forearm. Patrick struggled with the owl’s weight. You’re heavier than I remember.

Maybe you should start working out, Thomas suggested. It’s not like I’m gaining weight.

All right, I’m sorry. Jeez.

The living room held two matching leather love seats that surrounded an intact glass coffee table. A dated but well-kept console television looked out over the space. Toward the back wall, three sets of cracked wooden shutters dangled from the fogged-up windows.

A flicker of a light caught the bird’s attention. Patrick, the lamp. It’s burning the carpet!

Patrick turned to see the fallen lamp in the far corner of the room, its illuminated bulb resting in a gooey mess of burned carpet, all of it surrounded by a displaced white burlap shade. The bulb flickered, then burst, as flames quickly blackened the surrounding carpet and ate up the shade.

Thomas leaped from Patrick’s arm, the force sending the boy spinning, then circled the room with his gaze on the rising inferno. He swooped down to the flames and flapped his long wings in full motion. The majestic feathered forelimbs created a whirlwind so fierce that the fire died down to half its size.

Thomas kept pumping his wings while Patrick crossed the room and unplugged the broken lamp from the outlet. The owl lowered his altitude as the fire died out, inching closer and closer to the lamp until the carpet merely smoldered and smoked.

Patrick tried to clear the thick smoke in the air with a wave of his hand. It forced them to back out of the room, and the two quickly retreated to the fresh air of the kitchen.

Just think, Thomas said, as he landed on the kitchen table. If we hadn’t decided to leave your bedroom to come check out the situation, that fire would probably be raging through the entire living room right now, maybe even making its way up the stairs … to us.

We’re doing the right thing, Thomas. Patrick, cautious of the broken glass, kicked off his slippers and grabbed his snow boots and winter coat from behind the rear kitchen door, then put them on. We should follow this blood. As he turned to leave, Patrick focused on a small torn piece of thick polyester, nearly covered by the snow.