Chalk White Fear

By Linda Bryant Richardson

CHALK WHITE FEAR tells the story of a child who was kidnapped and raised by a serial killer. It tells of the strengths this highly intelligent child pulled from within to form the survival mechanisms that kept her alive throughout her childhood.

Some background on the book:

Many years ago, a band of easily led misfits made their way to an uninhabited area in the Southern United States. Their leader possessed a cold cruel heart and mystical powers. She planted a small tree and chanted until the tree and twenty foot around it became cursed with powers that only she understood. After the queens death, the band of misfits gradually either died or moved away. Only one couple stayed, built a home and attempted to lead a normal life. The years passed.

In a modern day setting, a young couple settles on that same land. They are not bothered by the strange things that happen in and around the home. Later one of these characters kidnaps a toddler and brings the child back home as a companion to her daughter.

The years passed and the tree became magnificent and spellbinding. The child was not easily influenced by the cursed tree, nor was she aware of the curses frustrated constant attempts to capture and kill her. It was all she could manage not to anger the woman she called mother.
The question is: Will the child survive?

Signed copies of Chalk White Fear is available from the author. [e-mail]. Please check my blog, [e-mail].

Watch for sequel to Chalk White Fear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483684734

Linda Bryant Richardson

Author Linda Bryant Richardson opens her writing career with Chalk White Fear, a suspenseful drama in which a young girl, Sally, is kidnapped by a serial killer. Sally was a happy, chubby toddler before her loving grandmother was murdered and she was stolen away to be a companion to the killer's daughter. Raised by such a spiteful and erratic woman who would fly into a rage for no reason and treated as a pet by her pseudo-sister who took pleasure in seeing her punished, the young girl struggled to merely survive her childhood. She feared mornings. Inevitably her 'mother' would find some fault to hurt her throughout the day. She feared the nights. Living in a cruel world, each mystery in the darkness was another terror. Her only safe haven was escape, from the house, from the world, from herself. A smooth read, Chalk White Fear captures the audiences' focus and keeps each person captivated until the end. "The book is clean, no bad words or sex, but keep(s) you on the edge of your chair, wondering what (is) going to happen next. I could hardly lay it down," Virginia Belk said on Facebook after reading Richardson's novel. "What I liked most about the book (is that it) was so easy to read." Richardson began this story ten years ago with one paragraph on a floppy disk. She is finally achieving her dream of publishing Chalk White Fear through self-publishing with Xlibris. A signed copy of Chalk White Fear can be ordered directly from the author. Signed copies of Chalk White Fear is available from the author. [e-mail]. Please check my blog, [e-mail]. Watch for sequel to Chalk White Fear.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Linda Bryant Richardson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 09/05/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

140848

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dedication

CHALK WHITE FEAR is dedicated to my children, Tony & Zuly, Cliff & Tan, and Lena, and to my grandchildren and great grandchildren because they believe in me. Their inspiration gives me the courage to continue writing. A special thank you goes to my friends Millie Rhoades and Gretchen Obrien for their encouragement and enthusiasm. Thank you to everyone who helped with editing and I truly hope you all aren’t having grammar nightmares.

Last, but not least, this publication is dedicated to my baby girl, Francee, because I know she is smiling down at me

Chapter 1

The tree, with its bushy branches held almost all a little girl would ever need to fear. It stood strong and solid. The tree’s imposing limbs swayed as the wind whipped them in every direction. The tree dominated its space. Its mighty arms slowly spread to expose the grotesque creatures little Sally had learned to fear.

Sally lay in her bed with her eyes shut tight. She wanted to voice her fears, but where could she find comfort when the end was so near? By now, the snakes were covering the walls, floor, and ceiling as they did every night. She ignored her parents muffled laughter from the other room. What really mattered to Sally was making it until morning.

The little girl feared everything about the tree. Misshapen forms swung with the branches when she faced the window. On clear nights, Sally could see the people who wandered in the woods, far past menacing tree. Somehow, she did not fear the people who wandered aimlessly on the other side of the tree. She watched the flashes of light reflecting off the peoples’ heads, and still she was not afraid. Sally knew the people would not come past the tree.

Sally could see the snakes slither around her when she turned from the window. She closed her eyes tightly thinking the action might keep her safe and prayed for sleep to come. Sally blinked and opened her eyes slowly. She turned back toward the window just as the wind whipped through the tree with a deadly cold chill. For an instant, she could see a man glaring in her window. Sally turned her head to glance quickly toward her open bedroom door. At four years old, she knew she should not wish for comfort from the other side of the door. Only ridicule and pain waited on the other side. Judgment came with cruel and cold words. Sally understood most of it. Yet some, such as bitch, you little bitch, were unclear in her mind. She understood she was one, and it was very bad, but she did not understand what a bitch was.

Should she make a run for the open door? Could she make it past mama to her daddy, sitting with a book in hand in a comfortable old chair? Then, if Sally made it, there would be no open arms of love. Even a pat to the head was risky. It did not take much to send her mother into a screaming temper tantrum. You love her more than you do me, the woman would shriek, as she sent things flying through the air. The little girl knew there would be no comfort or encouraging words for her. It was established; as long as she was a member of this family, she deserved nothing. After all, Sally was just the little bitch. Her mother showered her in a constant barrage of hate and contempt. Her treatment would have brought a full-grown adult to despair. Sally eased one foot out of the covers. One of the snakes snapped its head and lunged towards her. She jumped up and ran screaming from the room.

Sally survived this night and many other nights like it. Her sleep was a sleep of necessity. She remained aware of the happenings around her, but it was not real rest. It kept her semi-conscious until morning when retribution must come. She looked out the window. A feeling of dread began to seep through every bone in her body. She could not go back into her sleep state this morning. Daddy had left for work and now she would pay.

Sally had grown up in a very strange kind of survival mode. She thought love might be out there, but she just did not know how to get there. The pattern of her life had begun to form. Fear and mistrust waited at every corner. Sally ached with the suspicion of having known security and trust. She began to look deeply into the eyes of anyone with whom she could make eye contact. Her stare, deep and piercing, hoped to see their hidden soul.

She searched, knowing any person could change into a cursing, slobbering hysteric at any moment. There would be no warning. Sally yearned for the comfort brought by companionship. She craved the love and trust she knew must be there, but deep down Sally knew it would never be for her. She would have what her young life was preparing for her. After all, just what should a little bitch expect? The little bitch became quite the little survivor. She would survive at any cost. Yet she could never understand the working of other people’s minds.

Chapter 2

Sally awoke the morning of her 5th birthday. Something was very different this morning. She had slept well enough to dream, which was unusual. As she lay in the bed, she tried hard to remember the dream. Sally could feel herself held by a tall, heavy old woman. She sensed safety in the woman’s arms and in the quietness, she dared to relax a little and let herself feel the sensation of warmth. Sally let herself relax; surrounded by feelings and smells. She knew she had to remember before the rest of the household woke. Sally was afraid to be happy, even in her dreams. She began to hear the waking noises around the house. Sally grabbed a pencil and paper. She did not know what possessed her to write the words 122 Margret Lane repeatedly, as if by writing it would brand itself in her memory. She wrote 122 Margret Lane over-and-over again. Up to this point in time, Sally did not even know she could write. She had not spent a day in school, nor had any family member ever opened a book to share with Sally. Sally shut her eyes and said 122 Margret Lane to herself again; somehow knowing it was an important link in her life.

She could hear more household noises and knew the rest of the family was awake. The peaceful feeling disappeared as she heard footsteps coming toward her room. She quickly pushed the paper in the space under the open dresser drawer and shut the drawer. She jumped back in the bed and feigned sleep. Luckily, this morning she only heard the words, Get up, from the hallway outside her door. Sally was weak and shaking with fear but she thought it went unnoticed.

As if this was not spellbinding enough, Sally realized she was reading as she picked up a page of the newspaper from the floor. She could not remember ever not being able to read. She began to put something together. Her sister was just learning to read in school and Sally had always known how to read. Could someone have taught her to read? Sally was a smart little girl. She would not have made it this far if it had not been for her wits. The little girl could not wait to get back to her room to examine the address she had hidden. She went straight outside on her birthday morning without even trying to get food. Sally hoped to get a start on the day to make time pass faster. She enjoyed playing in the sand and often made sand castles. She could not help making trips back into the house for one reason or another.

Sally walked into her room and stood in front of her bed as if thinking about something. Her behavior was certainly suspicious. As a rule, she stayed as far from the house and the people in it she could. As she stood there, she sensed the gentle breeze of the door shutting. She turned and gasped as the saw the paper in her mother’s hand. The rage was apparent as slobber ran from her mother’s mouth. Sally barely saw the fist coming and she sank into unconsciousness.

Sally felt dried blood on her ear and neck when she woke. Her head ached as she slipped out of the house and headed toward the woods. Sally was trying to remember something, but she could not bring a clear thought to mind. She could remember bits and pieces of stories she had overheard from the townspeople on their rare trips into town. Sally thought those comments about how much Beverly reminded them of her ancestors, the Lenokeece’s, interesting, but she did not really understand the talk.

While Sally walked, she looked back over her shoulder, wondering how such a warm looking old house could hold so much malice and loathing. She did not know anything about the house’s history. The house had a front door leading directly into the living room and another front door leading into another living room, formal and strictly for show. One for making believe this was a real, normal family and one for a living area. The sidewalk held bits of gravel and chunks of concrete. The white sprawling house seemed to be a cross between a small ranch house and an old farmhouse. In the beginning, it must have been a small three-bedroom house, and then someone built an add-on which looked like another house. The newer part of the house, the add-on dropped back, built right on the side of the first of the house. The front porch was enclosed, and then someone added a second porch. It dropped back and created an inset porch. When you entered the larger add-on front room, you could stand its spaciousness. The door to the right took you to the other front room. The door to the left took you to Sally’s room. There was a big hallway; almost a room in itself and right behind Sally’s room was sister’s room. A large hall separated all the rooms and at the end of the hall was her parent’s bedroom. The children were strictly forbidden to enter any of the house’s other rooms.

Sally glanced up to see the neighbor watching from her kitchen window as she entered the woods. She knew Mother hated the nosy neighbor and kept her distance from her house. The neighbor knew something was strange about the little girl and luckily, for Sally she said nothing. People back then rarely got involved, but the neighbor always watched, relieved when Sally reappeared just as darkness came.

Months passed and Sally loved playing in the woods. She believed her woods were safe. Nothing in the woods would hurt her any worse than she had already been hurt. She knew the space of woods where she played, venturing further with each passing day. Then one day the man came. He was invading her special place. He looked at Sally and spoke so softly and sweet as he asked her What are you doing here you sweet little thing? Old Stan reached slowly for her arm so as not to startle her. A normal child would have melted at his sweetness. Sally watched his face and she smelled the body stench she knew so well. With his sweet smile, he took a step toward her. He was reaching and smiling as his hand came toward Sally. She saw one drop of slobber form in the corner of his mouth and she bolted. The chase was on and Sally was running. She did not even know she was running for her life. It was run-first, think later. She was in her woods, and she had room to run. She did not have to run far before she jumped the fallen log. She continued running and jumped over the area straight by the thorn bush. Sally had jumped this place before just to feel the rush of adrenalin she loved so well. The rush gave her a strong sense of control, and it was her secret feeling. Behind her, she heard breaking branches and a yelp, and a tiny smile formed on her little lips. She had led him to the place where she had covered the deep hole she had found. She had tossed rocks into the hole and never heard a sound. She determined it to be very deep, maybe a well.

Chapter 3

Old man Stan slowly opened his eyes and blinked. At first, he was not sure where he was, and then he started to remember. Old man Stan slowly moved his right arm. It was painful, but he knew it was not broken. He moved his left arm and was thankful it seemed to be all right. He was becoming fully conscious. He remembered chasing the little girl and falling down into this well. He twisted and turned slowly, trying to deduce whether he had any broken bones. The pain was agonizing, but miraculously there seemed to be no broken bones. Stan was thankful to be alive after such a hard fall. He rolled over on his knees and began to feel the hard wall of earth around him. The wall of the well was dry, smooth and hard. He kept feeling the wall of the well, working his way a little higher with each turn. He was searching for any kind of finger hold to use to climb out of the well. Survival instinct had taken over, and panic waited.

Seething hatred began to fill the old man about the same time as the panic and full awareness of his situation. All along, he had intended to kill the girl child. Stan was guilty of thinking she would be just as easy as the other little children he raped, tortured and killed. Old man Stan was totally in shock. The little black haired bitch had outsmarted him with no effort on her part. He felt the overwhelming reality of his death as he screamed, Little bitch, dirty little bitch, I will kill you. I will get out of this hellhole, and I will kill you. He felt a surge of power as he yelled. He imagined her listening to his words and trembling in the fear he so enjoyed watching.

Stan was lucky the well was hard and dry. There were no rats or snakes like one would associate with an abandoned well. He was exhausted from his fall and temper tantrum. He slumped to the floor of the well, passed out, and woke up again. In the dark, he was unable to tell night from day. He remembered searching for handholds and sobbed openly as he continued his search. He knew no one would know where he was. Stan had been watching the little black haired girl for a long time. Today he intended to have his way with her, and was very careful to make sure no one knew his whereabouts. In the past, he had been so proud of finding ways to hide, but now this talent came back to haunt him. There was not a chance in hell anyone would look for him. Stan knew it would be weeks before anyone missed him.

He had not spent all his hate for the little girl. It had turned into a deep hatred that consumed every painful breath he took. He did not need to think of his hatred for her constantly. Neither his hatred of the little girl nor his impending doom could still the stirrings of excitement he felt for her. She had skillfully led Stan to his deathtrap. He slept and woke up so many time and lost count of the days. His arms and legs did not hurt as much as they had at first, but his stomach hurt with a constant burning craving intensity. When he tried to stand up, it would hurt and he would fold over, feeling a liquid gush up from his abdomen each time. When Stan woke up, he wondered how many days it had been. Finally, he gave up on escaping, and lay there in hopeless despair. In the stench of his own urine, feces and bloody vomit, he knew his time had come. Old Stan turned over on his stomach to wallow in self-pity. He knew he was dying as he wiped the dry tears from his eyes. He reached out to grasp earth, thinking it was the last time. As he reached out, he felt an indentation in the side of the lowest part of the well he had missed in his earlier search.

Old man Stan came to life as he moved over and felt the area. In the darkness of his prison wall, he found the hole barely big enough to be a crawl space. He wondered if it might be a tunnel. He tested by pushing his arm into the hole, and then his leg. He knew once he started his journey through the hole in this dark prison well’s wall, turning around would be impossible. He put his arms and head into the hole and began pulling himself further into the hole. He was right in assuming this was a tunnel. There was no way of telling just where the tunnel would lead, if anywhere. Old man Stan knew he was dead anyway. He thought he might as well finish dying trying to escape since he seemed to have nothing to lose. He continued crawling although he was hurting and thirsty. He pulled himself forward with his hands and arms, and at times, he was able to reach a regular crawl position. It was a structurally strong tunnel reinforced with some sort of wiry feeling material. Stan did not wonder or care what the tunnel had been. He saw it as his only chance of escape. He crawled and crawled. Finally, he came to some kind of roots and thinking it was food; he chewed at the root and felt the nourishment fill his body. He imagined the liquid from the root calming his raging thirst.

Old man Stan crawled and slithered through the tunnel for what seemed like an eternity. He slept and he crawled. His only quest now was to keep moving. Stan thought he might be seeing a little bit of light but was not sure. He had imagined seeing light so many times by now and he did not know the real thing. As he crawled, he found a few more roots and chewed on them for substance. The old man thought of chewing off one of his own fingers. Maybe it would keep him alive for a little while longer. He tasted the spit of his own blood and in his hallucinate state, he believed he did eat one of his own fingers. The tunnels crawl space was getting larger, but by now Stan kept crawling in the same slithering crawl position. He saw light and crawled toward it. Stan entered a flat area with a makeshift ladder. He rolled over to rest a few minutes, knowing his escape was minutes away. He lay on his side and now he was not hurting as much. Stan knew he had to rest before attempting to climb the ladder. He lay there and closed his eyes and the last gush of blood flushed from his mouth. Old man Stan died, only steps away from freedom.

Sally continued to run because liked running. She would stop occasionally and pick a flower or twirl around in the wind. She never thought about the man again. Her area was peaceful and serene once again. Sally grew weary from the running and lay down in the grass to rest. She began to feel sleepy and she could