Sundowners

By Tonia Brown

Traumatized and estranged siblings reunite against an ancient evil: “Southern-flavored horror . . . so well-written that I found myself re-reading sentences.” —Stephen A. North, author of Dead Tide

Fifteen years ago, siblings Coil and Cassiopeia suffered an incident in the woods behind their family home. An incident that neither of them are willing to remember. Something that nearly killed Cass and left Coil accused as her abuser. An act that robbed young Coil of his artistic potential, yet boosted his little sister into an almost overnight sensation in the art world.

Now, the self-exiled Coil has come home to deal with his world-famous sister as she suffers from sundowning; severe and violent personality shifts after the sun sets. Coil’s reluctant loyalty to his family is rewarded with an unexpected return to his artistic roots, as he wakes each day to find he has painted a brilliant but disturbing masterpiece in his sleep.

As the siblings struggle to heal old family scars, something is reaching out to the small town of Ellenville, driving the townsfolk mad and leaving chaos, mayhem, and death in its wake. And the key to stopping the madness lies in Cass’s sundowning and Coil’s blooming talent . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683113

Book preview

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A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-61868-310-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61868-117-311-3

Sundowners copyright © 2014

by Tonia Brown

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Jack Kaiser

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

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 and publisher.

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Table of Contents

1. Whispers in the Darkness

2. Home Again

3. Brighten

4. Cassiopeia

5. Friends and Family

6. Birdsong

7. First Fruits

8. Dinner for One

9. Pitter Patter

10. Second Harvest

11. Come and Go

12. Called Upon

13. Fair Share

14. Third Helpings

15. The Beginning

16. Freedom

17. Starting Over

About the Author

1

Whispers in the Darkness

It called her. Called her from her bed. Called her halfway around the world. Called her home and deep into the darkness. It called her, and she came.

In a sweet voice, it summoned her, begging her presence, requesting her audience. She followed the voice over thousands of miles—plane terminals and taxi cabs and rental cars—back, back, all the way back. She traced the voice to where it all began. Everything.

The voice was so familiar. It was the kind of voice that triggered a flood of distant memories, foggy thoughts pushing their way to the surface of her mind, yet each slipped away the moment she tried to grab hold. The sound of it burned like a beacon in her mind—either a campfire leading her from the safety of the darkest woods, or a lighthouse flashing a warning to the ship of her soul. The problem was, she couldn’t be sure which it was.

Yet the voice was familiar. So familiar.

By the time she remembered where she had heard it before, it was far too late.

She was already gone.

2

Home Again

The heat of the day slammed him with all the weight and dampness of a sweaty wrestler, driving his breath from his body before he could muster the strength to draw another lungful. The dread of the heat was almost as bad—spending those long hours on the plane, knowing that once he stepped out of the terminal, he would start a torrent of perspiration that wouldn’t end until the return flight. Coil had forgotten a lot of things about living in the South, but the oppressive heat of mid-July lay in his mind as clear as his own name.

Yet it wasn’t even the heat that got you, was it? No. It was, as they say, the humidity. That sweltering, muggy, boiling dampness that frizzed your hair, stole your breath and turned your clothes into a second, sticky skin. Folks up North had no idea how dangerous a strong bout of humidity really was. They always teased Coil when the cold set his teeth to chattering, but he was secretly glad for a strong arctic wind or a month-long blizzard when he recalled his childhood summers. Those long days spent stretched out under Mr. White’s apple tree, trying very hard not to die of heat exhaustion at the ripe old age of twelve because his father didn’t believe in air-conditioning. Southern summers were murder, plain and simple. Coil had a list as long as his arm of reasons for not wanting to come back home, and the summer heat not only headed the list, it also made several appearances down the line.

But Cass needed him, so here he was.

The last place he wanted to be.

Coil eased the land yacht of a car down the quiet street and cursed himself for forgetting to reserve a rental before he left New York. By the time he arrived at the Charlotte kiosk, the ‘good cars’ were taken, and all he was left with was the ’85 Century with a busted radio dial, broken air, and a lingering funk with its own story. (And that story was probably something like, Once upon a time, someone rented this car, killed a hooker, stowed her body in the trunk and left it for a week in the August heat before the cops found it. If they found it at all….) But slim pickings were better than no pickings, so he took what he could get rather than call home and beg for a ride. Coil made the ninety-five-mile trip from Charlotte International Airport to the small mountain town of Ellenville with all the windows down, his damp shirt unbuttoned, and an old Rolling Stones tape stuck in an endless loop.

He pulled into town proper early Sunday morning, which meant the place was guaranteed to be deserted. Everyone with feet to walk and souls to save would be piled into one of the many churches that dominated the surrounding hills. Coil considered this a good thing, because he wanted to get to the house as quickly as possible, with as few interruptions as possible. The thought of becoming waylaid by a thousand little questions from any of the town’s local yokels left him queasy. When it came down to it, he didn’t have to stop and talk, not really. He knew that. There was nothing forcing Coil to pull over and say hello if, by chance, he saw someone he knew standing on the corner of Grace and Stewart, at the only stoplight in town.

He didn’t have to.

But there would be gossip if he didn’t.

If he breezed through the small town without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ and someone happened to see him in the driver’s seat, and he happened not to stop and bid them a good morning, then the whole town would explode with righteous indignation. He would never hear the end of it. Southern hospitality was an all too real phenomenon, but the trouble with it was that it was accompanied by Southern congeniality, which demanded the recipient’s palpable gratefulness as payment, like a bloody sacrifice to some heathen god. Coil sought neither a hearty welcome nor a cupful of cordiality. All he wanted was to make his way to the house unseen. Alone. Or at least in the company of both peace and quiet.

The Stones reminded him on his way up the drive thar you can’t always get what you want.

Coil brought the Century to a grinding halt and peered through the gritty windshield at the house with some measure of hesitation. It had been so long since he’d crossed the family threshold, thirteen years at least, and he wasn’t looking forward to spending a single night in the place.

When his mother died, Coil had stayed in a hotel.

When his father died, Coil had stayed in New York.

It wasn’t just strained relationships that left him at odds with the family home; it was something about the old house itself. Even when he resided here, so long ago, he felt as if he were, at best, just visiting. Or at worst, a total stranger. That wasn’t always the way, but it was how things ended. And it was the way he chose to remember them.

No sooner had he eased out of the car than that old notorious anxiety returned, squeezing him about the chest with all the subtlety of a welcome-home bear hug. Coil stopped halfway up the walk and stared hard at the looming two-story farmhouse. He gasped in hot spurts, worry roiling in the pit of his gut, turning his stomach acid into a fiery vat of dyspepsia. In some small way, he was glad he already had an ulcer, rather than ending up with one because of all of this.

The homestead was falling apart. The roof—patchy in places, bald in others—was badly in need of re-shingling. Broken gutters curled over the eaves like the ribs of some great beast. The second floor winked with more than one broken window, and the balcony railing was completely gone. The front porch was a mosaic of peeling paint, worn floorboards and broken furniture ejected from the house eons ago.

In other words, the whole house looked eerily similar to the day Coil last saw it.

Despite this, his anxiety eased as he drank in the familiarity of the thing. He was surprised at how, after years of blocking it all out, the memories came rushing back to fill the void left by his needless worry. All this time, he’d remembered the house with an adolescent slant: creepy, foreboding, sinister. But now, he found just a ramshackle, sad-looking building. At ease, or at least as comfortable as he was going to get, Coil mounted the cinderblock steps and then the porch. The floor creaked under his weight, just as it always had. He stopped to eye a pair of bowls set just outside the door. One held what he assumed was water, while the other hosted some kind of dry food, small and colorful and fish shaped. From the looks of things, Coil could tell Beth was keeping cats; something his father never allowed. Coil smiled at the rebellious idea as he reached for the doorbell; then, thinking better of it, he pulled open the busted screen to knock on the door instead.

There was no answer. He was beginning to think he should’ve called, should’ve let someone, anyone, know he was coming down. But that would’ve meant leaving a traceable number on the caller ID. If he wanted all of them to have his number, he would have given it to them years ago. It was bad enough that Cass had it, but at least she had the decency not to call. Coil lingered for a moment over the doorbell before he tried the door again.

A woman’s muffled shout drifted through the closed door. I said I was coming!

The door swung open, and for a brief moment, Coil wasn’t sure who the woman standing in the doorway was. This moment passed almost as quickly as it arrived, leaving her identity a clear and sudden surprise.

Aunt Beth? he asked.

As I live and breathe! the woman shouted. If it ain’t Coil Stevens, come home to roost.

Aunt Beth pounced on him, drawing Coil down into her soft arms and full bosom as if he were still a young boy. And he let her, partly because he knew struggling against one of Beth’s hugs was useless, but also because, somewhere deep down, he knew he needed it. The trip down was harrowing, but the reality of returning home after so long was even worse. He was in for a rough couple of days, filled with gossip and apologies and outright lies as well as navigating long-smoldering bridges. Coil needed all of the support he could get.

Beth pulled back, holding him at arm’s length as she took him in.

Coil hadn’t changed much in the last few years, but the last time he let his aunt catch sight of him, he was still considered young. Now, just into thirty, he liked to think of himself as being in decent shape, but that golden touch of youth was a blur in the rearview mirror. He towered over her at a little over six feet, the height a gift from his father, with a trim build thanks to regular exercise and a good metabolism, again from his father’s side. His dark hair was dusted with silver, hinting at full-scale white on its way thanks to the Hutchinsons—his mother’s side of the family—and their habit of going gray at an early age.

Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes? Beth asked. How long has it been, boy?

Eight years at least. Since Momma passed. He slipped back into his native accent with ease, something he wondered about after spending so many years among the Yankees. Coil stared at Beth, wondering if he looked as strange to her as she did to him.

Then she smiled, and all at once, she looked like the Beth he remembered. Her eyes twinkled in the low light of the shadowed doorway, her lips curved in that sly crook that was peculiar to the Stevens clan. She had always been a big woman, and nothing had changed there. But now she also sported a crown of white, a set of bifocals and a face thick with laugh lines and crow’s feet and many hard-weathered seasons.

Eight years? she asked. Burn my buns, has it been that long since Dotty passed on? What a fine-looking man you’ve become.

She smiled again, but not for long.

All at once, Aunt Beth reached out with the speed of a striking cobra, and smacked him hard and fast across his jaw. The ricochet of her slap reached his ears before he even realized she had struck him. One minute, she was all squeals and sappy smiles, the next, she bore down on him with a venomous stare. He furrowed his brow at her, rubbing his jaw and marveling at the wallop a woman her age could still pack.

That’s for waiting so long to come home, she snapped. And even now you only come ‘cause of trouble. You always were selfish. I see that ain’t changed none.

She whipped about in place, leaving a very surprised Coil standing alone on the porch. There he lingered, wondering if he was still welcome home after such a striking greeting.

If you ain’t gonna come inside, she called out to him, then at least have the common decency to close the door. You’re letting the air out.

Coil scrambled into the house, closing the door behind him.

The interior was much like the exterior: old and worn and the way he remembered it. Despite the rundown nature of the house, it was still clean and cozy. Aunt Beth always had a knack for housekeeping, which was why Duplin Stevens—Coil’s father—allowed Beth to mooch off of them for so long. A live-in maid was an expense few in this area could afford. But an unemployed family member who paid for room and board by keeping house? Why, that was just the Southern way of things. After their folks died, neither he nor Cass had the heart to turn the old biddy out, and here, years later, she still lived and still worked.

Coil followed her through the old place: into the main hall, past the living room, past the narrow staircase that led to the second floor, past the small bathroom just under the stairs, and into the huge kitchen. Had he been formal company, the living room would have been his formal stop. But, being family, it was straight to the kitchen for him.

Pull up a chair, she said, pointing to the kitchen table.

He tried to comply, but instead met with a seat full of cat. Each chair turned out to be similarly occupied.

Tip ‘em to the floor, Beth instructed. Spoilt things. I’ll make us a jug of tea. I thought I had one in the fridge, but must’ve done drunk it. You up for a regular glass? Or have I got to make up a whole extra gallon just for you?

I’m still diabetic, Coil said as he brushed a cat off one of the seats, if that’s what you’re asking.

Beth threw her hands up in defeat. I never understood all that gobbledygook. I always had a bit of sugar in the blood, but never saw no trouble out of it.

Trying to repress a chuckle, Coil didn’t argue. Diabetes was the family curse, running like wildfire through both sides of his bloodline. To be honest, Coil was surprised that Aunt Beth was still alive. She often claimed that having a little sugar in the blood made her all the sweeter.

It’s nice and cool in here, he said. Much better than Dad kept it.

Mitch fixed it up for me a few years ago, Aunt Beth said, her voice muffled by the sounds of her puttering around the kitchen. Otherwise me and the little ’uns would just die in this heat with all their fur and all my fluff.

I always thought I would die of heat exhaustion out here.

The jingle of bells sounded as a longhaired tomcat leaped onto the tabletop. The animal proceeded to inspect Coil with a cold stare. Coil opened his hand, palm up, and waggled his fingers at the animal. The cat sauntered up and afforded Coil the privilege of petting him, his collar jingling with each step.

Coil ran his hands over the purring beast. What would Dad think about you keeping cats? He hated cats. He said they attracted lightning.

What he don’t know won’t hurt him, Beth said. God rest his soul.

How many you got?

Six inside, and I think it’s best not to keep count on those outside. You still teaching those Yankee brats?

Yeah, and just for the record, they are all brats. Not just the Northern kids.

And you’re here on account of your sister.

Coil winced. So much for small talk.

Yes, ma’am, Coil answered, because he didn’t know what else to say.

It wasn’t every day your younger sister went catatonic for no discernable reason.

Took you long enough, Beth said with a snort. But I guess it’s decent of you to come at all. I didn’t really expect to see you. I know you two don’t see eye to eye on things as of late.

Sorry it took me so long. I tried to get here sooner, but I had some things to wrap up first. Which wasn’t entirely true. Beth had written him about Cass’s condition almost a full month ago, and with school out for the summer session, he could have left at any time. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to. Truth was, it took until now to work up his courage.

You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. It’s such a shame about poor Cass. She was always such a good girl.

Coil kept his opinions on that matter to himself. He wasn’t glad Cass was sick, but after so many years and so many tears, there was little love lost between them. He didn’t exactly hate her, but he didn’t like her much either. What time are visiting hours? I want to run out to County and check on her.

A sharp metallic clang rose from the sink as Beth dropped the kettle she was filling with water. The sudden sound sent every cat scrambling away from the kitchen in streaks of flying fur. There was a pause, then the big woman turned about and stared hard at him.

Beth? he asked. What’s wrong?

You mean you don’t know? she asked.

Coil shook his head.

Your sister ain’t at County no more, Beth said.

She’s already home? This was unexpected. He’d come out here to help Beth handle Cass’s supposed affairs while his sister was comatose. At the time he read Beth’s letter, he suspected it was all just an act. It was just like that bitch to drag him all the way out here for nothing. He wondered if he could grab a return flight before the day was out. No need to stay where he wasn’t needed. Or wanted.

Beth’s silence stretched into an unnatural as well as uncomfortable pause. She clutched her wet hand to her chest, holding her fist between her breasts, as if something deep inside pained her. Water streaked down her arm, dripping onto the tile in a steady, slow stream from the curve of her bent elbow. As the water dripped to an unheeded pool, Beth chewed her lower lip.

And with both of these tells, Coil knew Cass wasn’t home.

Beth? Where is she?

Hon, she’s at Brighten.

What? Coil got to his feet, trying to ask a thousand questions at once. What is she doing there? How long has she been there? Why wasn’t I told?

I think you should sit back down, Coil. It’s not a long story, but it’s not a pleasant one either. Beth returned to drawing a kettle of water as Coil plunked into a kitchen chair.

Brighten Memorial.

His sister was a patient at the local nut farm.

Again.

With the water on the stove, Beth finally settled in across from Coil. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I hate being the messenger of such news. Especially considering the circumstances. Beth dipped her head a little as she looked over her glasses at him, her eyes brimming with sympathy.

Coil could have lived the rest of his life without that pity filled stare. Why didn’t you just tell me in your letter? You said she was unconscious, not committed.

And when I wrote you, she wasn’t. That came later.

How much later?

Doc Crawford said he would write you all about it last week. I thought that’s why you finally came out. She crossed her arms and cocked her head at him. And about time too.

Give me a break. Coil snorted. I said I came as fast as I could.

Maybe I could have called you and told you every little thing if you kept in better touch. Beth pursed her lips. I would have called, but I don’t have your number. No one does.

Cass has my cell number. I gave it to her a few years ago. It hasn’t changed.

Yeah, but your sister ain’t here. And the rest of us don’t know you from Adam’s housecat anymore. I had to rummage through her things to get your mailing address as it was.

Beth, Coil said, softening the anger in his voice as much as he could. Just forget about all of that and tell me what happened. Why is Cass out…there?

His aunt dropped her gaze, picking at a lace-covered placemat as she cleared her throat. I wish the doc was here. He can explain it so much better.

Try. Please. I need to know.

I wrote you that she was suffering from dizzy spells a few days before she went out completely.

Yeah.

Well, about a week ago, she woke up and started acting funny.

Funny?

You know … She lowered her gaze and voice. Not right in the head.

Coil squeezed his eyes tight.

I’m sorry, Beth said. I don’t know any other way to put it. She went to County for a few tests, and next thing I know, she went to sleep and wouldn’t wake up. They called in some specialist from Raleigh, but no one knew what to do with her. I went and saw her every day for weeks, and there was no change. Then one morning, Doc Crawford calls to tell me she woke up and that they’re committing her.

And you just let them?

Don’t you think I tried to stop ‘em? I tried. I went right out there to bring her home, but Coil… She paused as she searched for just the right words. You should have seen her. She wasn’t acting right.

What happened?

"They had her tied down by the wrists and ankles, and rightly so. She was thrashing and snapping at the air like some kind of caged animal. Screaming at the top of her lungs like they was killing her. And the things she said to those nurses…well, I’ll just say she never

Reviews for Sundowners

[darcia_10 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Tonia Brown combines a real medical mystery called Sundowner’s Syndrome with memorable characters and a twist of horror to make this creepy good read! The characters are well developed and likable. Even the minor characters that only make short appearances leave a lasting impression. The plot moves quickly, without feeling rushed. The horror aspect is disturbing, spine-chilling and, at times, vivid. But the graphic scenes are expertly woven into a fascinating story, rather than relied on to carry us along. I’d definitely recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a little horror with a lot of substance.