Revived

By Barbara Avon

Escaping through the woods, he remembered the way he had disturbed tree branches and how the snow had fallen in clumps on his head as if God was smiting him for his sin.

Steven Gold was a man who turned heads. Men in suits wanted to be him. Women wanted to know him. Little old ladies wished to adopt him to fill the void of missing grandsons. His surname suited him. He lived an idyllic life with his wife of eleven years, Cassie, an artist whose passion for life was so deep, she blocked out the childhood memories that were the cause of her anxiety. On a rainy night, a celebratory dinner proved fateful when Steven was struck by a car. He died for a full 60 seconds. When they revived him, his sins followed him back. Set in 1994, "Revived" is a haunting psychological horror that reminds us that being sorry for our sins, does not free us from damnation, and that not even the ones we love the most can save us. He should have stayed dead. Some disturbing scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Avon
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393815808

Book preview

Strong language warning. Sexual content.

Please note that some scenes depict dark, and sensitive themes that some readers may find disturbing.

A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s

Horror is a varied genre. It can incorporate elements of gore, trauma, and psychology. It’s the latter that intrigues me the most. Revived delves deep into our main characters’ psyches. The result is a truth that is as terrifying as it is sorrowful. I would like the reader to know that this is my darkest story to date. It’s a fictional story that without all the elements, it would be lacking. Please take that into consideration before you decide to read Revived.

This is my 26th title. It’s hard for me to imagine being where I am today without the love, and support from my fellow authors, my beloved family, and most importantly, my readers. Without my readers, I am merely scripting words. My readers give breath to my stories.

In this short amount of space, I would like to acknowledge Kathleen Stone, a talented author who I am proud to call a friend; J.W. Firestine, author of Shaker, and all my friends in the Twitter Writing Community. I’m also thrilled to say that at the end of the book, I make a very special mention.

To my husband: There’s a scene in Revived, a moment of intimacy and tenderness that was inspired by you. Do you remember our song? Do you remember when we first started dating, and you sent me the song by email? I know you remember, but I don’t know if I ever told you that it was then that I knew you were the one. I allude to that song in this book. You offered to give just a little of your life to me, when in fact, you gave me the world.

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They were catching birds. That’s what they called it when they made love. Limbs flailing, backs arching; they mimicked birds caught in a hobbyist’s nest or tangled in tree roots on an undiscovered crag. For a second, he looked down to see his love as she used to be – shy, innocent Cassie, bound to her role as the good daughter, the obedient one. Using a bottle of tequila, and time borrowed with a set of lies, Cassie had become Cass, and Steven had become her forever.

With lips tasting of tangerine, she kissed him fervently. Secrets were encased behind the oak paneling of their century-old house. Hushed whispers reverberated throughout the home when they were both at work, at the gym, or meeting with friends whose busy lives as parents offered a temporary reprieve. Built in 1894, the structure had once housed servants who catered to the wealthy McCallion family, the head of which was a banker. Several crooked financiers were in dispute over McCallion’s ledgers, and one night, while McCallion and his lovely wife feasted on mutton, one of those men shot them both at close range.

Did you call the realtor?

That’s very romantic.

I’m serious, Steve. This place gives me a bad vibe.

Cassie rolled out from underneath him and sat up, staring down at her husband who had proposed twelve years ago to the day. Time had been kind to him. Despite his thirty-five years, his dark hair was still thick. His body, hard. The laugh lines around his eyes were a testament to a life well-lived. Steven Gold was a man who turned heads. Men in suits wanted to be him. Women wanted to know him. Little old ladies wished to adopt him to fill the void of missing grandsons. His surname suited him.

Turning his body, Steve nibbled on his wife’s thigh before resting his head on it. Looking up at her he stated, Foreplay used to be a lot more fun.

She punched him in the shoulder, intent on hurting him. I’m not joking around.

There were skeletons in Cassie’s closet. There were things unsaid, and secrets untold. Not even her husband knew what she did every day. The pills that were meant to ease her anxiety were hidden in a vitamin bottle, disguised, and seemingly ordinary. Cassie’s personal ghosts had followed her most of her married life. The specters residing in the house crowded her thoughts.

Winding her dark brown hair into a make-shift bun, she studied the painting on the wall. She hated it. The colours were dull, the scenery was drab, the composition was all wrong. The artist bore her name.

Why do you insist on hanging that thing up every time I take it down?

Because you painted it.

Yeah. In college. It’s hideous.

I like it. It’s...unique. But the painting isn’t what has you on edge. What’s wrong, Cass?

With a quick kiss, and a hard shove, Steven’s head was on the mattress. Cassie swung her legs over the bed and reached for his shirt that rested on the floor, crumpled along with the rest of their lifeless clothes. Putting it on unbuttoned, she walked over to the dresser and brought a cigarette to life, watching as Steven shifted his body so that his head was at the foot of the bed, the curvature of his buttocks rivalling Michelangelo’s David. He stared at her unabashedly as she leaned against the chest of drawers, mimicking a French model with her legs crossed, and her breasts bare.  

I never wanted this place, you know.

I know. The will...

Dad’s parting gift. You said we could sell it, but it’s been almost two years now.

The little girl had ringlets in her hair, and donned shiny, black patent shoes that she was only allowed to wear on Sundays. She never knew her mother. Papa said that she was dead. Just like papa was dead; the man who was supposed to protect her. The man who let bad things happen to her. The man who had choked on his own vomit with the Sports section open in his lap, and an empty bottle of Southern Comfort filled with piss resting by his side.

Cassie shook her long, wavy hair loose to hide behind it. She walked over to Steve and handed him her smoke. A day in the calendar, four months into the future, was circled red: their quitting date. It was also when they decided to seriously start trying to conceive. Smoking and babies don’t mix.

Tell you what, Steve said, standing. He was unconcerned with trivial things like dressing himself and relished the blush that rose to his wife’s cheeks as if it was the first time that she had seen him fully exposed. I promise to call the realtor tomorrow. In the meantime, maybe we should take Jim up on his offer.

The threesome he’s been begging for?

Steven laughed in that twisted sort of way that bordered on anger, but Steven never became angry. No, he said, pinning her against the dresser. He pressed his naked chest against hers, flesh on flesh. He asked me if we could house sit for him. He has to close a major deal overseas. In person.

Water his plants, and all that?

Maybe feed the cat. A carcass is a sad thing to come home to. His condo’s downtown. You can scope out the neighbourhood cafés. Get your art in new venues.

Kissing her neck, he trapped her words in her throat.

Okay, Cass?

Yeah...sure.

Come back to bed.

Extinguishing his smoke in a crystal ashtray, he joined her beneath the sheets. Sometime in the middle of the night, the red blanket on the floor and the moonlight filtering through the window, he awoke alone.

The stairs creaked as he descended. Phantom moans filled his ears. Had he heeded the warning, he would have retreated to the safety of their bedroom. Instead, hidden behind a wall, he stared dumbly as his wife stood guard at the back door, chef’s knife in hand.

I had a bad dream.

There was blood on her white nightgown. Mindlessly, the