Trail Marked: A MidLife Paranormal Romance Thriller

By Heather Hambel Curley and Rebecca Hamilton

An ancient evil has already killed Scottie once, and is now stalking her along the Appalachian Trail, bent on destroying her soul for good.

Scottie Walker’s fingertips burn when she gets upset, and when her stressful job and emotionally abusive boyfriend push her to the brink, her touch almost burns down her townhouse. So she starts over—and the first thing she’s doing is a six month thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail…one that will dredge up a dark past life far worse than the current one she’s running from.

Something evil is stalking her…and the only person who can help save her is mysterious man on the trail who claims to know her from ‘before.’ The ‘before’ where they died together on this trail in 1959. And whatever this unknown, compelling force is, it’s not going to stop until it kills them again.

If her fire-wielding powers aren’t enough to stop it, the only hope of survival is coming from beyond the grave. So, armed only with her burgeoning magical abilities and the help of a rag-tag group of hikers, Scottie tries to outrun the Vexing. But the closer she gets to the truth of what happened in 1959, the closer she gets to the dead.

She knows them. She remembers them. And if she fails, she’ll become one of them. This time, for good.

Fans of Stephen King, Nora Roberts, and Shannon Mayer will love this chilling, paranormal women’s fiction thriller with a hint of romance.

Scroll up and one-click to start reading Trail Marked today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evershade Publishing
• Release date: Nov 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949112313

Heather Hambel Curley

New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance for Harlequin, Baste Lübbe, and Evershade. A book addict, registered bone marrow donor, and indian food enthusiast, she often takes to fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. Represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA, Rebecca has been published internationally, in three languages: English, German, and Hungarian. You can follow her on twitter @InkMuse

Book preview

Chapter 1

When I get upset, my fingertips burn. Today I was so mad, I thought my touch would set the office on fire.

The conference room was too cold and too quiet: the high efficiency glass walls and thick carpet muffled out the white noise machines of the operations floor and, apparently, any sense of temperature control. No privacy, no warmth, no view of the outside world; it was more like an interrogation room.

I had a feeling that’s exactly what this was.

The auditor was too perky and cheerful, like she was intravenously supplied with something stronger than coffee, but less extreme than, say, cocaine. Even the sparkly, pink barrette clipping her side-swept bangs back put me on edge.

She spread open a thick, nondescript manila folder in front of her. Is Scottie short for something?

I stared at her. That was my employee file in front of her; I could see my name neatly typed on the top. Clemency Scott Walker. My parents clearly had little compassion for me when they filled out my birth certificate. It’s an old family name.

It reminds me of those little dogs, you know, the black ones with the perky tails?

Um…Scottie dogs?

Exactly! She giggled and, still smiling, looked down at the file. You’ve worked here for over ten years, yes?

Eleven years, actually. And four months, two weeks, and fifteen days.

So, like, I know you’re really good at your job. And, trust me, I was a customer service representative for two years and totally understand how hard it can be.

I blinked. I didn’t actually remember her name, and she’d only said it a few moments before. Olly something. Holly? Molly? Polly? Shit.

She was still rambling, gushing just a little too much about how sensitive the company is to the reps’ stress levels and how tough a job it can be. Yeah. I’d heard it all before. Usually it was in the same breath as ‘which is why you need to focus on empathetic solutions and not being so quick to anger.’

We’ll start by listening to the call, and then I can give you some tips on what you can do to improve this situation. She turned her attention to her laptop, clearly queueing up the recorded conversation. I want you to know that I see it from your side, too, since I was a rep. But I had to objectively review this as an auditor, too. You can definitely improve on situations like this by focusing on empathy and our empathetic solutions.

My fingers flared with some kind of internal flame. I laced them together, neatly folding my hands in my lap, and exhaled sharply through my nose. I was almost surprised smoke didn’t billow from my nostrils. You really don’t need to do that. I think I know which call this is.

Yeah, but we can discuss.

I didn’t want to discuss. I wanted to be out of this room and back at my desk, swamped with work I had no capacity to handle and under the constant scrutiny of directors who had no concept of what it took to do this job.

And then there was my voice, loud and foreign to my own ears. God, I sounded like a squawking turkey on the phone. Thank you for calling Credit Currency Solutions. This call may be recorded for quality and training purposes. My name is Scottie. How can I help you?

The response, I want this fixed right now, you pathetic excuse for a human. I didn’t get paid this week, and it’s damn well your fault. What kind of incompetent morons do they have working for this company?

And it went downhill from there. My stuttering and stammering, my prompt let me connect you with a supervisor and his immediate rebuttal that he wanted both a verbal and written explanation of the ways I had failed—and acknowledgement that, because I had failed, he was not properly paid the way he felt he should have been. It escalated from there: threats of going to the news, of filing a complaint against me, and ultimately the threat of finding me and teaching me a lesson.

The call recording ended once I’d ultimately transferred the customer to my supervisor. Olly, whatever her name was, pursed her lips together in some kind of understanding, yet judgmental, expression. So, how did that call make you feel, Scottie?

Angry. Frustrated. Depressed. Scared for my own personal safety. I unclasped and again clasped my hands on my lap. I have a lot of feelings about this particular call.

Empathy should be at the top of your list.

I shifted in my chair. Well, no. I don’t have empathy for him in this situation. He didn’t fill out the forms we needed, and he refused to provide authorization for us to contact his banking institution to have the forms completed. We notified him of what we needed by letter and telephone call—and a supervisor intervention two days prior. He knew what we needed, but he declined helping us get it. So we didn’t issue a check.

She smiled with what looked like sympathy. Remember our tools, though. He’s not mad at you; he’s mad at the situation. You need to be able to put yourself in his shoes.

If I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t resort to screaming and name calling. There was no making this man happy. He’s unemployed, and we’re sending him checks to cover expenses while he gets a new job. Except he’s not looking for a new job. He’s looking for a handout and using his checks to buy credits at the casino. We have the investigation unit doing surveillance on him now. I can’t issue a check until we’ve gotten docs from his bank and the investigation is complete.

I reviewed the file. You shouldn’t let that cloud your judgement. We’re here to help people.

My fingers felt so hot that I half expected my skin to start smoldering. I took a deep breath, willing myself to sound calm. I tried to help him, but as I’m sure you heard, he interrupted me every time I tried to answer his questions. I can’t answer his questions if he’s talking over me the entire time.

Yes, your tone was appropriate. The smile still hadn’t left her face and it was slowly driving me insane. However, you offered to transfer him to your supervisor too fast. Remember our tools: sometimes the best way to diffuse a situation like this is to let them vent.

I’m pretty sure he was well beyond venting. This was screaming.

Our customers depend on us to issue out their checks in a prompt and timely manner.

My heart flip-flopped in my chest, like all my suppressed anger and frustration was using the organ as a trampoline. I hear what you’re saying. I do. But I kind of feel like you’re suggesting that I didn’t do my job. He called to scream and try to bully his way into having a check cut. There was no making him happy and no ‘guiding him’ to a resolution.

There was that damn smile again. "You’re right, sometimes we can’t make everyone happy. But we can offer solutions.

He threatened to shove forms down my throat and...and you’re saying I wasn’t empathetic to his needs?

She made a notation on a bright, neon yellow sticky note in my file. I’m going to recommend you take part in our upcoming eight week empathy refresher course. I mean, I totally see where you’re coming from, but Scottie, you offered to transfer him to a supervisor. We really shouldn’t do that; we need to hold off on transfers until the customer requests it.

I balled up my fists, clenching them at my sides as if this would help me control my anger and the fire flickering underneath. He told me he hoped I got fucked by a Brillo pad. At what point does the company step in and say, hey, that kind of abusive language won’t be tolerated?

She nodded. He was clearly upset. Did you offer to review the forms with him again?

No, but—

Did you offer to explain why we needed the forms back?

Yes, but he kept interr—

I just think that additional coaching and training will go a long way in your career here. She closed my folder and directed her smile at me. Thank you for coming and meeting with me, Scottie. I’ll get these recommendations to your manager today.

So, that was that. I got up without saying anything and tried to return her smile. It felt more like a scowl, and it probably was. I’d spent four years in college and two years in graduate school for this? To be verbally abused on the telephone and told I should be more empathetic? What kind of sense did that make?

I navigated the maze of identical beige cubes and shred bins, shuffling back to my cubicle. I wanted to bang my head against the keyboard. This job seemed to fry my nerves more and more every day. Almost half of the people employed here were on antidepressants, but I wasn’t among those ranks. Not yet anyway.

Scottie. The guy in the cube next to mine, Jimi, peeked over the beige wall and cocked his head toward my phone. I have Mable Yang on the line. I tried to tell her what forms we still needed, but she doesn’t want to hear it. She wants to talk to you directly…and only you.

I logged back onto my computer, rapidly typing in my password, and glanced at my emails. In the fifteen minutes I’d been away from my desk, I had twenty unread emails and four voicemails. Great. After pulling up Mable Yang’s file in the system, I scanned the document. I talked to her this morning. We haven’t received anything new in the last two hours.

I know, babe, but she wants to talk to you about it. She says— He dramatically rolled his eyes. —that you’ve in fact received the forms and are just refusing to review them. She said she’s going to get a lawyer and tell them you’re withholding funds.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Tell her that there’s nothing else I can add to what you told her and that I’ll call her once the forms are in.

I tried. She wants you to understand her frustration.

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. Another call where I was going to be the bad guy. But who here cared about my frustration?

No one, that’s who.

* * *

I slammed my car door shut behind me and rested my head on my steering wheel. God. I hated everything about this job: the smarmy auditors who told us how to do our jobs without actually understanding what the job entailed, the angry customers who got away with screaming at us, the idiotic hours I put in to feel stress and emptiness. I amounted to nothing more than just a living body on the other end of the phone.

That’s what set us aside from the competition, they said. Real people answer the phone! What they meant was, Real, live customer service representatives ready to take whatever people feel like dishing out!

I made a damn decent salary, but it was getting to the point that not even money was appealing anymore. It would be so easy to just start the car engine and drive away, abandoning the last four hours of my shift. Well, minimum of four hours. There was always unpaid overtime to accrue in a desperate attempt to catch up on work.

It was pretty sad that I didn’t even want to face my coworkers in the lunchroom anymore. At first, venting was fun: A strange club of comrades going through the same shit every single day. But now, it just grated on my nerves. I was happier to sit in my car—alone—and eat my crappy lunch. No bitching. No white noise machines. Just my weird-smelling car and a magazine.

I unwrapped my ham and cheese sandwich, idly flipping through Trail Adventure. Thick forests, barren deserts, lush rainforest-clotted islands. That was my proverbial happy place, hiking and adventuring and following silly collegiate dreams of conquering nature. I’d had such high hopes for it. I wanted to see the world.

Of course, being an adult and having responsibility got in the way of that. Plus, my boyfriend didn’t care much about outdoor adventures. In fact…

I took a big bite and turned the page with a snap. No. This was the few minutes—thirty, to be exact—where I was alone and could, maybe, be almost happy. I didn’t really want to think about Gabe.

And then my gaze locked on a glossy, full color spread of the Appalachian Trail. In the lower right hand corner, the photographer had captured a sinewy, sleek mountain lion. It seemed to glower at the camera, its sharp eyes staring back quizzically.

The Appalachian Trail. I’d always wanted to hike it, to start in Georgia and walk all the way to Maine. It was hard, with long cold nights and unforgiving terrain. Completing the hike was something to be proud of; an achievement. I was never quite able to set aside the time to do it.

Something about that lion, though…it drew me in. The unwavering gaze. The freedom.

The pages of the magazine burst into flames. Fire bit into my fingertips, searing my skin. I squealed and grabbed my water bottle from the passenger’s seat, dousing the flames—and my lap—with iced tea.

The fire was out, but the magazine was ruined.

Fuck. I dumped the singed and soaked magazine on the floor. Today was just crap. Angry customers, stupid audits, and this strange cursed magic that was becoming more and more difficult to keep a secret.

This was what my life had become.

Monotony. Failure. Soaked pants.

And as bad as my day was so far, what I faced at home would only be worse.

Chapter 2

I knew he was pissy before I even got out of my car.

Still sitting in the driver’s seat with the plastic sandwich bag neatly packed with the scorched magazine pages, I stared at the living room window. The rest of the townhouse was dark, but this window—lit by the shifting light indicative of a television screen—glowed with life. Well, at least a human shell masquerading as life.

I huffed at the loose strands of hair in front of my face. Gabe Aldermann was a man of routine. That is, he grumbled in the morning, he went to work, and he came home and grumbled in front of the television. He hadn’t always been like this; in fact, once he’d actually been excited to start his career and be a real adult, whatever that shit meant.

After shoving the garbage into my shoulder bag, I threw open my door and forced myself out of the car. Gabe had been unhappy for a long time. He never found work in his field; he worked tech in a company he hated just to pay his crippling student loans for a useless degree. But I’d lost pity for him a long time ago. That was our generation's real world. Lots of debt, useless degrees, and a yearning for the decades of our youth.

God, but the way he acted, you’d think he was the only one.

I might as well have had weights around my ankles as I slunk around the car and trudged up the five squeaky steps to our front porch. In the spring, Gabe had said, I’ll fix them! Easy day!

Squeak. He hadn’t.

Creak. Fucking.

Screeeeech. Fixed them.

The back door was unlocked. I kicked my shoes off in our entryway, cozy with a little wooden bench and coat hooks, and carried my bag into the kitchen. It was dark. I’d expected that, but it was still a pain in the ass.

I flicked on the light. Gabe’s shoes were kicked haphazardly by the sliding glass door to the back porch, and he’d left his computer bag in the middle of the floor. The sink was full of dishes and pans he’d sworn he’d wash before he left, and the garbage can was still overflowing. Still.

My fingers burned. I clenched my fist, as if it might extinguish the flame sparking under my skin. Relax. Calm. Happy thoughts. Don’t burn the townhouse down.

He was, of course, stretched out on the sofa with his eyes glued to the television. The only movement he made was the nearly imperceivable twitch of his finger as he pressed a button on the remote to switch channels.

Hey, babe, I said.

His eyes remained locked on the screen. Hi.

I had a busy day at work.

What are you making for dinner?

I blinked. What am I… Remember that I told you this morning to turn on the crock pot before you left for work? That was me who said that. Did you?

He finally looked at me, but it was a blank expression. I told you that I wasn’t comfortable doing that. I don’t know how your shit works.

It’s a crock pot. You turn it to low. Like I told you. I dropped my bag on the floor and pressed my fingertips to my temples. You couldn’t manage to do that for me?

Cooking is your thing, Scottie. We’ve talked about this. He sounded bored.

I was not in the mood. I was never in the mood for this exhausting, ever-repeating argument we seemed to have more and more often. But after today, I’d had it.

"Turning on a crock pot is not cooking. It’s turning a switch to the right. Christ, I leave before you even get out of the shower, and I’m home two hours after you. You can’t tear your eyes off the computer or television screen long enough to do something around here? It’s like you’re on life support. Like you’ll just wither away unless you’re connected to social media or games or whatever.

He bolted upright on the couch. I work fucking hard, Scottie, in case you don’t realize. I’m exhausted when I get home. And I’m not lucky like you to have a desk job. When I get here, I want to rest and have my dinner. Not wallow in shit because you can’t bother to clean up after yourself.

Are you kidding me? I snapped. "We decided to move in together because we were good partners. Partners, Gabe. That means we help each other out. Remind me again what you do around here? Because I really fail to see that you actually do anything but sit on the couch and make sure the gravitational field in the living room is up to par. I’m not your mother."

His brow furrowed down into a deep frown. If you were, we’d actually have a clean place to live.

My pulse pounded in my head so hard that I could swear my heart was beating in my ears. I work ten to twelve-hour days. And I have a shit day and come back here to you acting like I asked you to amputate your leg and sell it on the black market this morning. All I wanted you to do was turn on the goddamned crock pot, and you can’t even do that. Or the dishes you promised you’d do. Jesus, Gabe, we have a fucking dishwasher. What is your problem?

You! He jumped to his feet and stormed across the living room toward me. "You are my problem."

His words hurt, but I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I stared right back at him, cocking my eyebrow. Fuck you.

It was a button I knew I shouldn’t push; nothing made him madder than that. And it did.

He kicked my shoulder bag, punting it into the kitchen. Notebooks and my empty lunch bag and the scorched magazine pages spilled out on the floor. You are so useless, Scottie! You sit on your ass all day and then you come back here and want to sit on your ass some more. Do you not see the dust on the end tables? Can you not be bothered to wipe down the kitchen counters?

His rampage continued into the kitchen. He shoved all the mail and papers off the countertop. Oh, that’s right, you can’t actually see the countertop because you don’t bother to throw away junk mail. This house is a nightmare.

You’re the one trashing the kitchen, Gabe, not me.

Why shouldn’t I? He flung coffee grounds onto the floor. You can’t bother to clean up. You waste electricity—

Oh my God, I turn the light on when the room is dark. That’s not wasting electricity, that’s using electricity. That’s what it’s there for.

He slammed his foot into the garbage can. It teetered, and for a moment, I thought it would stay upright…but then it fell over, sending a wave of garbage onto the floor and under the table. This must be what the floor is for. You don’t take the garbage out, so I guess it just belongs here. Right here. You can pick through and make sure you got out all the recyclables. Or compost or why ever the fuck there’s a banana peel in here.

It’s a garbage can! My voice was at a near shriek. You put garbage in the garbage can, asshole.

It was like watching a volcano erupt. He was muttering how incompetent I was and how disgusting his life had become the moment I decided being lazy was okay. And then, just as his child-like tantrum seemed to peak, his hand darted into the mountain of dirty dishes. He’d grabbed a mug. My mug.

It was my favorite. An oversized cup emblazoned with the coastline of the Outer Banks, and me with my cousin Jade. She’d died in a car accident when we were in high school.

He smashed the mug on the ground.

I stared at him. My entire body felt like it was on fire, his self-satisfied grin enough to make me hope I was going to burst into flames and take the entire building down with me. I couldn’t breathe. If smoke billowed out of every orifice of my body, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

But I wasn’t some kind of magical phoenix. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even form adequate sentences in my brain and transfer them to my mouth. My body trembled. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, but they didn’t fall.

I spun around and walked out of the kitchen as fast as I could, my stomps muffled by the thick carpeting in the living room and the hall and then finally our bedroom. I slammed the door behind me and locked it.

In the silence and privacy of the bedroom, the tears spilled over my cheeks. He’d changed. We’d both changed, but we’d also grown up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be happy. Happiness isn’t actually promised, but for fuck’s sake, I work hard. I stress harder.

It wasn’t just the mug; it was the entire premise. He knew it would hurt me. He knew it would make me angrier than any word he could sling at me.

Scottie.

I whirled around, braced one hand against the wall and clenched the other around the doorknob. Fuck off.

I’m hungry, so I’m headed down to McMurray’s. I don’t want you to join me.

I didn’t even dignify him with an answer. Like I’d want to join him after everything he’d just said and done. I’d rather go back to work.

There was silence from the other side of the door. I’d hoped he’d wandered off. But then, he said, Please make sure the glass is cleaned up before I get home.

Rage flowed through my veins. You’re the one who broke it.

You made me do it.

I willed myself to stay still. I clenched my teeth until my jaw throbbed. I shut my eyes and tried to concentrate on the furious pounding in my ears. Don’t give into it. Just one breath. Now a second. Maybe try and calculate some algebra…

After several moments of needed silence, I heard the front door slam shut and then the roar of his car as he peeled out of the parking lot. Off to spend more money we didn’t have on greasy bar food—and no doubt beer to go with it.

I let my arms fall limp at my sides and then covered my face with my hands. My palms smelled acrid; I looked up at the wall where I’d braced my hand.

My handprint was scorched into the white paint, burned as if branded with a red hot iron.

I slid down the doorway and to the ground, drawing my knees up to my chest. This was the worst things had ever been. There was one point in time where we’d broken up after he started acting like an asshole, but he’d come crawling back and promised he would change. Of course, like an idiot, I’d believed him. And, like the tool he was, he went right back to his old ways. But it wasn’t immediate. It was gradual. So slow over time that I’d only recently started noticing it was worse than it had ever been before.

And here we were. Me locked in the bedroom and him skipping off to the bar for some alone time. Life was not supposed to be like this. I was tired of living like I had to walk on eggshells around him. Of worrying that spending money on myself or doing something for myself was selfish. I didn’t deserve this.

It was like I was teetering on a precipice, and he was going to push me over the edge.

I glanced up at my palm print burned into the wall. I hadn’t wanted to make decisions—realizations—like this, but I’d been shoved into a crossroads. I had to do something, anything, even if it was a horrible, shitty decision. Even if I was wrong.

I had to go. I had to drop everything and get out before the flame—or Gabe—overtook me completely.

Chapter 3

When I woke up the next morning, Gabe was already gone. Which, frankly, was fine with me. I didn’t have to remind him forty-seven times that it was time to get up for work, pack his lunch, and send him out the door with a cup of coffee. God, he was so helpless.

I stirred the cereal, watching the milk-logged circles bob and float to the center. A quiet house. A nice cup of coffee. Despite the shitty fight and the scorched palm print in the wall that I couldn’t figure out how to clean off, I felt surprisingly well-rested and relaxed.

That feeling abruptly ended the moment I parked my car at the office building. I switched