Strange & Twisted World

By P.D. Shackelford

Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen. Eric counted under his breath, and then it happened. What Eric feared everyday finally happened. The elevator stalled between floors and the lights went out.

“Oh god…oh god! Please tell me this isn’t happening!” He quickly placed his hands against the back of the elevator wall and the moans and groans of the others faded into the background. He slid down the wall and crawled into fetus position against the corner of the elevator. The elevator music rung in his head. It only made the situation worse. “Shut it off! Shut that goddamn music off!” he screamed.

Carol Pollack could not clearly see Eric in the dark, but his screams were very clear and disturbing. “What’s the matter with Eric?”

Teddy quickly pushed the others to the side and knelt next to Eric in the dark elevator. “He’s having an episode. Stand back away from him.”

“An episode?” Bill questioned. “What kind of episode? That’s all we need. We’re stuck in this elevator and this guy is going to go all berserk on us.”

“Shut up, Billie! You don’t have a clue as to what he is experiencing right now. Get on that phone and them to shut the damn music off and get this elevator running quickly.”

“Okay, okay,” Billie answered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546260769

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© 2018 P.D. Shackelford. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/18/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6077-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6076-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911168

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Mary

Heads Or Tails

Little Voice

Infinity

Twisted Fate

Joker Of Death

Agatha

About The Author

AUTHOR’S NOTE

S ometimes we need to look deep inside ourselves to understand who we are. I am quite sure there are those that will read what I write and criticize me…. Whatever. If I can touch one soul when I write, then the criticism is irrelevant.

Terrible things happen and strange things occur every second of life. Ignorance will be the fate of those who do not question how these things affect the balance of life. I believe this justifies why I feel the need to write about them. Yes, this is a fictional novel based on my own imagination. But who is to say what is fictional and what is not? In fact, I bet sometime, somewhere, what you read in this novel has, or will, become a reality in someone’s life. You see my dear readers, imagination is a true reflection of all life, whether we choose to believe it or not.

I had a friend once tell me that we will be judged by the way we live our lives, and we will most likely be placed in the same company in the afterlife. I am not sure I understood what he was trying to say, but it made me wonder who I really was, especially as a writer. It was a scary thought because if I were to be placed in the same company as my wild imagination, that would definitely be hell.

Actually, I don’t believe I’m going to ‘hell’ any more than anyone else who finds a fascination in the depths of humanity’s imagination. Are we supposed to seriously believe that our thoughts, lusts, and desires carry the same punishment as the guilty that act on them? If you secretly desire to steal what you see, pluck out your eye, and if you lust for your neighbor’s wife, pluck out your other eye. Get real! If that’s the case, we are all going to hell. I believe we must observe and acknowledge all our faults so that we can better understand who we really are. No, I do not condone the evil that lurks in the depth of our souls, but that does not mean we should suppress its existence either. No, we do not have to act out the evil, but we must acknowledge it and learn to understand why evil is capable of upsetting the delicate balance of humanity in this realm—and the realm beyond—or it will be the death of our existence.

Read and observe as much as you can, criticize what you must, but don’t bury your head in the sand because it is Terrible and Strange.

P.D. Shackelford

A special thanks goes out to my Editor for all her hard work.

Thank you,

Jenny Stull

MARY

M ichael Miller took his eyes off the road and quickly gazed at the address on the drafted map he had received. His frustration was building to a peak, and he looked up just in time to realize he had veered off the road. He quickly turned the steering wheel to the right and the gravel spit and spattered the chassis of his new 2004 Dodge Ram truck.

For crying out loud! he chided loudly. That just put a bunch of nicks on my new truck for sure.

Michael drove a few hundred feet more on Highway 17 before he decided to slowly pull over on the side of the road and study the map again. He put the truck in park and picked up the map off the passenger seat, looking at it with confusion. He started to feel like an imbecile. Michael, like most men, hated to have to ask for directions, but he knew if he didn’t, he would never find the cemetery in this godforsaken corn county. There’s more than corn in Indiana. Yeah, right. If there was, he would sure like to know what else there was. All he had been driving by was miles and miles of cornfields.

What puzzled him the most was that he had called the town of Culver, Indiana’s Chamber of Commerce and asked them for the phone number of the attorney who had sent him the directions, but they said they had no number for a Charles Weaver, Attorney at Law. What a crock. He had to be there somewhere. Michael sure as hell got a letter from him with a Culver, Indiana, address.

This really blows, he thought. What type of attorney sends you a letter about the passing of your father and tells you how to get to the cemetery using land markers instead of street numbers? Let alone one that doesn’t give you a phone number to contact him. He chuckled sarcastically and mumbled, Hill-jacks from the corn country, that’s who.

Michael pulled back onto the road and looked desperately for the next available gas station that he could pull into to ask for directions. To his amazement, he saw one up the road near a yellow crossing light. He pulled into the gas station and shook his head with amusement. It looked like the structure of a White Castle restaurant. He jokingly wondered if they would serve him some free sliders for a gasoline fill-up.

Michael pulled up next to a pump, and a small and scruffy looking man walked out of the station. His clothes were all smudged with oil, and his dark hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in weeks. The first thing that came to his mind was the movie Deliverance, but he blocked that scary thought out by thinking of someone more like the scruffy and menacing character on the Andy Griffith Show. It’s me, it’s me, it’s Earnest T. God how he hated the country. He’d rather be driving in the bottle-necked traffic in the Chicago Loop than out in the middle of nowhere-land where no one would miss you if one of these crazed Hill-jacks decided to let loose on you with a shotgun because you decided to swipe a burger in the wrong place.

Can I help yews? the attendant asked.

Help yews? God, he can’t even speak and I’m going to ask him for directions. Michael walked around the back of his truck and knelt down, looking for any nicks he may have gotten from the gravel that had spat up when he’d veered off the road.

Gosh, she shore is a pretty one. Bout what year she be? 2003 or 2004? She’s a nice cherry red, like granny’s backyard cherries. Yes, she is. Sho wish I could ford some’in so new like that. The attendant glanced at his plate, You from Chicago I see. Must be an attorney or politician. Are ya?

Michael faked a smile. No, neither. I’m a Pediatrician. Dr. Miller. He started to stick out his hand but retracted after seeing the attendant’s hands. I was wondering if you would be able to help me with directions. Michael opened the passenger door and pulled out the map that was laying on the passenger seat. I’m looking for Chides Cemetery. You wouldn’t happen to know where that is, would you?

The attendant rubbed his chin as he briefly pondered the name. Name sounds awfully familiar but can’t rightly place it. Lemme see that der map. There’s an awful lot of cemeteries in and ’round here. One never really knows ’til they knows. Lot of family cemeteries all over these sorts, ya know. A lot of Miller’s too, he chuckled.

Michael handed him the map.

Oh yes, yes. I see where this is now.

Good. Now maybe you can tell me because I can’t make heads or tails of those kind of directions.

Wail, I suppose you wouldn’t if you weren’t from these parts, but it’s obvious to regular folk from these parts.

He placed the map on the hood of Michael’s truck and gestured him over to it with his hand. Michael wanted to ask him not to lean his grimy hands and clothes on his truck, but he thought that might not be beneficial in obtaining what he needed from the man. Look here, he pointed. Right here. This is Culver boulder. You are here. He pointed across the road. That there is Stone House. See, it is drawn right here. If you go own up the road a bit—say ’bout three and a half miles or so—you will see Culver boulder. Here. That be this. Culver boulder is right on the left side of the road. Once you get to Culver boulder, you make a left and drive two miles down ’til you get to the old red mill. Cain’t miss it. Then, when you get to old red mill you make another left and drive ’til you see the huge 100-year white Birch tree with the owl hole in the center. Once—

Hold on, hold on. Can’t you just give me street numbers? I don’t know one mill house from another, and I couldn’t even tell you what a white birch tree was.

A white Birch tree is white, Doc. He chuckled.

Very funny.

Don’t get upset, Doc. I’m just messing with ya. The thing is, land marks around here is how we folks got used to giving directions because out-of-towners kind of get lost since some roads don’t usually have road numbers. Drunks and all run them down with their cars and these counties…well, you know, they take their time when it comes to putting them back up.

Wonderful.

Awe, ain’t dat bad. You are almost there now. Look here, he pointed. "Take 17 here south until you get to West 15B Road, that’s where you will see the huge boulder—Culver boulder as we all come to know it. Make a left there and go east ’bout mile and a half where you will see the big red mill. Cain’t miss it. When you get to that corner it will be South Redwood Road. Make another left there and go down ’bout one quarter mile and you will see the huge white, I say. White birch tree. Cain’t miss dat either. There will be a T intersection there. Make a right. I’m not sure but I think that is South Peach Road. Take that der road until you come to the old Blunket School House. Make a left there and follow that down until you cross the Yellow River Bridge. The cemetery’s entrance is right after the bridge on your left. For the most part, the whole south-side of the cemetery runs right along the Yellow River. Now watch for the old Blunket School House because if you pass it you will never find the cemetery. Gone too far—east that is."

Michael shook his head with frustration. Jesus. Isn’t there any easier directions to this place?

Well, normally, yes. But since they closed down Highway 8 just east of 17 and closed West 14B down the road, you can’t get around to the cemetery any other path without going far out of the way.

Michael scratched his head. Are there any more surprises I should be aware of along these directions?

Yeah, keep an eye out for the one-eyed deer hunter. He can’t see too well, so he’s liable to shoot your cherry here up like an old rusty garbage can. He smirked.

Hilarious.

Seriously, Doc, he pulled out one of his business cards and handed