Feed The Monster

By Ron Ward Jr

Feed The Monster by author Ron Ward Jr is a gripping psychological thriller that delves deep into the human psyche. Bestselling author Dean Brandon has always struggled with his inner demons, but after completing his latest book, he realizes that his own fictional characters have taken on a life of their own. What follows is a terrifying battle between reality and fiction, as Dean fights to keep his darkest thoughts at bay and save himself from the very monsters he created. Fast-paced, suspenseful, and haunting. Feed The Monster is a thought-provoking exploration of the human soul and the power of fiction to shape our convictions and actions.

 

Feed The Monster

A supernatural, psychological thriller by Ron Ward Jr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Ward Jr
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985953237

Book preview

Prologue

T

hat little old lady was the devil incarnate.

Dean Brandon sat behind the table in a packed store for his book signing session, his dark hair parted to the left, AC/DC shirt, blue jeans, and worn white sneakers. The original table wasn’t tall enough for his five-foot-ten, 190-pound frame, so the bookstore owners placed thick encyclopedias underneath each leg, raising it to the best-selling author’s comfort zone. A pile of books sat on one side of the rectangular table and a line of people had steadily flowed through. He was pleased to see such a range in age, from teenagers to older folks. A few even appeared the age of or beyond retirement. All smiling faces, excited to pay for a signature from the one many proclaimed as their new favorite writer.

Next in line, a grinning middle-aged woman with long red hair and glasses leaned forward with her copy of his second of two bestsellers, opened it to the title page, pointed and said, Right here. To Ella with much love, please.

It was after he followed her wishes, thanked her, and waited for the middle-aged man behind her to approach the table when Dean noticed the old woman three line positions back. Not that he just saw her, but he felt her, too. She was about five feet tall, with thin gray hair that seemed made of straw. In appearance, she was just a little old grandma, wearing a summer dress from the eighties with orange flowers on it, standing there in brown worn-out sandals. A sweet old woman who had come to show Dean some support and make off with his signature. It was possible she wasn’t even here for herself, but maybe for a grandchild who she thought might get a thrill from having Dean’s signature in his or her possession.

She was looking hard at him. Her face was one of focus and anger. She stared at him like he’d done something awful to either her or someone she loved. It wasn’t just her steady glare of hatred that caught his attention. There was a feeling, a sense of something sinister emitting from her, like a hum from a personal desk fan. For a few moments, Dean couldn’t look away. It was like being spooked by a ghost passing through a wall into an adjacent room. He trembled, and his palms felt sticky with sweat. This wasn’t a sweet old grandmother waiting in line to see him. She was someone or something else. Something bad incarnate from a forgotten nightmare. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t, and for several long moments, the rest of the store seemed to disappear. All his fans were gone. The books and the shelves behind him vanished. The windows that covered the front of the store, which had welcomed in sunlight from a perfect summer day outside, suddenly went dark as if storm clouds moved in above Louisville, Kentucky. It was just Dean and the old lady, whose glare wasn’t just one of hatred, but of a deep evil.

Mr. Brandon. The man’s voice brought Dean back. Everything reappeared as it was before. The lady still stood in her spot, watching him, but he could finally pull his eyes away from her.

As if snapped out of a trance, Dean looked up at the would-be fan and smiled. Sorry. Went off into a daydream.

The man handed an open paperback to him and said, I know the feeling, man. Happens to us writers all the time.

Dean took the book and scribbled his name in it while asking with fake interest, Oh, you write too?

Yes, but not published just yet. Maybe your signature will bring me a little luck.

After signing his name, Dean continued to write while saying, Good luck on your creative adventure. And wrote the same words under his signature. He then handed the book back to the man and said, Good luck, man. I look forward to seeing you again with some good news.

Thank you! Will said as he smiled at Dean’s handwriting, closed the book, and hurried away.

She was two people back now and staring at Dean as if she hoped to look deep enough to see his soul. He avoided eye contact, and with effort, focused on the next signing. A teenage girl, no older than seventeen, handed him a paperback book and said, To Layla with love, please.

He took the book, fulfilled her request, and added his John Hancock. He smiled and said, Thank you, Layla, as he handed the book back to her. She giggled and walked away.

The old lady was one person back. Now Dean could see she was holding a hardback book in her hands, but it didn’t look like his book. By the dark cover, it wasn’t either novel he’d published. The hairs on the back of his neck felt as if they were standing up, warning him of danger nearby. Not just the danger of something bad, but of something unworldly and awful. Something beyond wicked and even purely evil.

He scanned the line of fans in search of signs that any of them also noticed the sinister-appearing senior citizen. None of their demeanors or countenances showed any indication they noticed her, or the hatred she emitted like an oscillating fan pushing air through its high-speed blades.

He was tired. The promotional part of selling his book had been exhausting for the past few weeks. The traveling had worn him down, and he was glad to be just one county over from his home for this final signing session. Once this ended two hours from now, he was only a half-hour drive from his new house in Shelbyville, Kentucky. His hideaway of solitude on ten acres and surrounded by woods was not only the perfect place to start his next book, which he already had outlined and was excited to get to, but it was away from people. He wasn’t a people hater, but too much of anything or anyone caused him minor anxiety. He was also excited about finally kicking back in his new home. Construction had just finished, and he’d barely had time to move in before this current book tour began. He wanted to kick back, relax, and write.

But he wasn’t tired enough to hallucinate. Was he? He blinked his eyes several times, hoping the woman’s foul presence would transform back to the precious elderly lady she seemed in appearance. It didn’t work, and she continued to stare him down. Even though he returned her glare, although his was of curiosity and even slight fear, she didn’t look away even for a moment. She was fixated. She was angry. She was filled with hatred. Evil.

Next was a woman in her twenties, a brunette, with her huge breasts almost falling out of her red tank top as she leaned forward with an open paperback extended to Dean. He focused on her attractive smiling face and asked, Anything special or just a signature?

Just a signature. She talked fast, like a hipster from the late eighties. Although standing right before him, her voice was muffled, as if she was speaking from inside a glass bubble.

Any other time, Dean would have struggled to keep his focus on this woman’s eyes rather than her breasts. But he was distracted by something bad that seemed to fill the entire bookstore like a frigid chill moving through the region in early November. He scribbled his name and handed her the book with a thanks and a smile. He realized he didn’t want her to walk away. Not because she was gorgeous and had huge breasts, but because the scrutinizing evil old lady was next. Dean felt his heart racing as if it were trying to escape from his chest. His hands shook. He felt his smooth-shaven face glistening with sweat.

The old lady moved forward quickly and slammed the hardback down face-up on the table. The book’s cover was plain black. There was no cover art or even a title. Just a thick black book. The table rocked as if she’d brought the book down on it with the strength of a bodybuilder instead of the softness of a sweet and fragile old lady. Dean held his breath, and it felt like his heart stopped as she leaned in only a few inches from his face. Her eyes were black. Not dilated but actually colored black. The aura that she gave off, the evil, seemed to swallow the air between them, enveloping Dean into some kind of invisible vise-like grip. His body went numb. He wanted to back up. He wanted to get up out of the chair and retreat, but he couldn’t. Frozen with fear and awe, he could only stare back at her.

When she spoke, she whispered with restrained hatred. And her breath had an odor that he recognized from when he’d found a dead raccoon in his garbage can years ago. The aroma of death. She said, You think you can escape what you are by writing a book?

Confusion and fear held Dean in silence. Again, he wanted to flee, but something held him in place. Something that she controlled like she had two other arms, invisible, reaching out and holding him in place like a mother does a tantrum-throwing child.

The evil old bitch waited a moment, tilting her head from one side to the other as she seemed to peek into his mind. She said, You will not deny me what’s mine. Satiate that need. You can’t erase what you are.

Who are you? Dean finally asked in a whisper.

I am the one who waits for your soul. You can’t change what’s already in motion, Dean. You can’t replace the blood that flows through your veins. She leaned in even closer, almost as if to kiss him. He wanted to pull back. He wanted to jump up out of the chair and back away from her, but invisible ropes overpowered his will. Do you really want to play games with the devil? You write that book and I’ll make you beg for death.

Dean trembled uncontrollably. He couldn’t reply. He couldn’t even think. Fear froze him like winter cold does the ground, making it solid as concrete.

You can’t stop it, she whispered even softer. Then she grinned, rotting teeth, her face wrinkling not with time but with evil. The book won’t help. Writing it won’t change what you really are.

Still in his face, she slowly lifted her hardback book. Then she cocked her head one more time, said, You’re mine, and slammed the book on the table again. Dean fell backward in his chair and toppled to the floor. A sudden murmur from the crowd lined up before him. Lying on his side on the floor, he looked up toward the old lady, who had suddenly changed. The evil had gone. Her countenance had changed from sinister to confused. She was holding a paperback out and frozen in her stance, as if worried she’d caused him to fall. The book in her hands was his most recent.

Are you OK, young man? she asked, her voice as sweet, old, and innocent as the purest grandmother on the planet.

Sunlight poured in from the summer day outside, the entire store illuminated by it. The line of fans and patrons. Everyone staring at him in confusion. Some whispering. Some staring silently. The old lady sat her book down on the table and came around to him. She kneeled down beside Dean and said, Young man, are you hurt?

She reached out to touch his shoulder, and he yelped and squirmed a few feet away from her.

The crowd’s chatter grew. Dean looked up at them, confusion and awe on his face. They were reacting to his falling incident and not to the woman. They still hadn’t seen what she was only moments ago. Only he had seen it.

Young man? the old lady asked again as she scrutinized Dean.

He couldn’t talk. He lay there on the floor, on his right side, looking from her to the line of fans. Looking around the bookstore as if in search of some hidden clue to what just happened. His hands so drenched with sweat that they slowly slid on the hardwood floor while he held his position.

Young man? the old lady repeated.

He glanced at her. There was no evidence in her face, in her existence, of what she’d been and said only moments ago. She was just a concerned sweet old lady now, the devil that she had been long gone. Even she herself didn’t seem to know what had just happened.

The book he was planning to write. The wicked old woman with the rotting teeth and the aura of evil had referred to it. And, it seemed, she had known what nobody else but him could know: why he was writing it.

Satiate that need. You can’t possibly erase what you are.

No, he whispered. I’m writing it.

Grandma cocked her head in confusion and said, I’m sorry, young man. What?

He looked at her. Stared into her eyes.

They were black again.

She grinned at him. The rotting teeth.

Death’s aroma was once again present and strong.

A chill, as if a freezing winter breeze had made its way through the store.

Evil.

Chapter One

Three years later.

D

ean walked into the kitchen with his smartphone to his ear. Opening the stainless-steel double-door refrigerator, in his comfortable home attire of gray sweats and a plain blue pocket T-shirt, he said, "Well, I hope you are having a wonderful vacation. You certainly deserve it after doing any of my books."

His editor, James Walls, was on the other line. He replied, It’s at home on my desk. I still don’t understand why you mail the entire manuscript instead of just sending it electronically.

Dean pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge, shut the door, and turned and placed them on the counter. He replied, I like the old-fashioned way of doing things sometimes. That’s obviously not the only copy. I have it saved on my computer. No chance of it getting lost.

Yeah, but the hassle of printing and mailing.

It’s no hassle. There’s a feeling I get seeing my rough draft printed out. The thickness of it. All those words and ideas right there in one enormous stack of papers. Besides, when I was a teen I always dreamed of sending in my book. There’s an excitement in packing it and mailing it off.

Well, we’re about to head home in a few days. Marla has so looked forward to this vacation. All the shopping she’s done. James deep sighed and continued. Me, I’m just enjoying the margaritas and the ocean. I love the water.

I need to take one of those vacations. I love my property in the woods, but an open beach and babes everywhere sounds great.

Well, just so we’re on the same page. I have your manuscript on my desk and unopened. The plan is to dive into it when we get back. Vacation is vacation, Dean.

Oh yeah, Dean agreed. No hurry at all. Hell, the last book is still experiencing great sales. My first one is still steady enough. Take your time and have fun. There’s no deadline on this.

Dean pulled a frying pan from a lower cabinet beneath the countertop, turned and placed it on a smooth stovetop. He then turned a knob to turn the burner on and went back to the fridge.

Alright, well, I’m going to get off here. Plane leaves in an hour. Guess I’ll talk to you in a few days or so.

Yep. Enjoy, James.

He hit the end button on the call and pulled a tub of butter from the refrigerator. Within a few minutes, he’d fried two eggs and was sitting at an oak kitchen table, cutting them up. A slice of bread on the plate and a glass of whole milk at its side. Life was good. He looked around the kitchen as he dug into breakfast at eleven o’clock. The kitchen was enormous for a single person, but he liked the space. Having come to this from a one-bedroom apartment with a narrow walkway for a kitchen, this felt more freeing. He’d actually never imagined it’d come to this. When he started that first book, an idea that swirled in his head for years, he expected rejection after rejection until finally folding and continuing on as a warehouse manager. It went a completely different direction from his expectations though. He was fortunate and humble. When his second book also made several best-seller lists, he bought this house in Shelbyville, Kentucky. It wasn’t a mansion, but it wasn’t a small home, either. Two stories, four bedrooms with a large den and a spacious kitchen. It wasn’t just the house layout that caught his eye. It was the land. On twenty acres of woods, the seclusion and idea of peace and tranquility attracted him initially. The one-hundred-yard blacktop driveway, which actually curved and wound through a tiny kingdom of trees. The smaller front yard and sufficient backyard was plenty room enough to sit outside at dusk with a bourbon and Coke, listening to the night creatures as they woke and then began their dark-time chatter.

Even during the day, amid hot and humid summers, the surrounding woods provided plenty of shade, and he’d lain out in it napping at noon, more comfortable than he’d ever been in his life. Only when the sun was directly overhead did the protection of all those trees pause. That usually only lasted an hour or so, though.

It was also the perfect creative environment. He’d already made several trails through his small woodland paradise. Often he found himself strolling them, notepad in hand, ideas flowing through his mind as freely as a river flowing. As clearly as a midwinter night. The voices of the wood’s inhabitants. Birds chirping and singing. Squirrels fussing and calling out. Insects rubbing their legs and frogs announcing the need for a mate. The soft whisper of breeze brushing through leaves and its gentle touch on Dean’s face. The smell of brush in the spring and the silence of cold in the winter. All of it was perfect for his creative mind. It eased him. Soothed him. It was meditation of the most successful kind. Whether battling writer’s block or just walking to relax, almost without fail, the words appeared in his mind, with the voice of his whisper, like a silent factory producing thought after thought.

He enjoyed all his earnings for himself. There were a few girlfriends along the way in his adult life, but nothing that ever turned into love of the romantic and lasting kind. Of course, he held the memories of his times with those women as dear and important in the becoming of who he was now, but there was no longing for them once they were out of his life. Perhaps as friendships and nothing more. Often people don’t enjoy the now, and worry more about the later. None of his breakups were vicious or bitter. Two people who had a good time together, moving on, in mutual agreement, to other stages and chapters in life. He still texted and talked to them on the phone occasionally.

Other than those brief but fulfilling relationships, there had been a slew of one-nighters. Now that he was a known writer, and although he was a good-looking man even in his own eyes, there was always a suspicion that maybe they liked him for what he was instead of who he was. Or both, but for all the wrong reasons. Success brought along with it a certain amount of paranoia, which suggested that people only wanted you for your money or public status. Dean found himself more often analyzing every word and look from a woman he was on a date with, looking for signs that suggested she was there to use him rather than actually like him. Those perceptions made it difficult to genuinely and completely develop interest in a specific woman.

Dean used the slice of bread to soak up warm and fluid egg yolk, scarfed it down, and then finished his milk in one long drink. He sat the glass on the table and sighed with satisfied taste buds and a content stomach.

He looked at the time on his smartphone and saw it was nearing noon. This small breakfast was just a holdover. At one o’clock he was to meet Tim Montgomery, his best friend from childhood and even more so now in his adult life. Most of his conversations in life were with Tim. Dean didn’t have a people-filled life. He chatted with his mother via text several times a week, and every Sunday went to see her. Since Dad passed away, Mom had lived on her own. Losing her husband to a sudden heart attack right around the publishing of Dean’s first book six years ago had changed not only her life, but her as a person, too. She had no interest in dating, even this many years later, and was happy to live alone at fifty-nine years old until the day came that she would once again be by her husband’s side, in a double plot at the cemetery, and hopefully in some kind of afterlife. Dean didn’t believe in anything beyond life, but he didn’t ruin her hopes with his ideas or convictions. When she spoke of seeing her husband again someday, Dean simply agreed with her. It wasn’t his place to kill her hope. And in Dean’s eyes, she would never really suffer disappointment of being wrong. When her turn came to leave the world of the living, that would simply be the end. She would cease to exist, and would never mourn the truth of not being with the love of her life again. Death and then nothing. She’d never have to face eternity without him, or know that she’d eventually do so. Complete peace. No. Something beyond peace. Peace is something. What happens after death could only be described as nothing. Not even darkness. After life, we are no longer anything. Death snuffed out consciousness like a fire deprived of oxygen. That’s even more of nothing than darkness. Death was simply … death.

Dean had handled his father’s death with sadness and guilt. They were close when Dean was younger but had drifted apart in his adult years. There was no falling out but a heading forth in life for Dean. The drifting apart began when Dean began writing his first novel. It wasn’t just a backing away from his family, but a fading from all people. Besides going to work, he completely secluded himself from any social interaction. He spent most of his free time typing away on a cheap desktop computer, on an L-shaped desk in the dining area corner of his one-bedroom apartment.

He missed his father as a son should. He’d loved his dad. A heart attack at age fifty-three was too soon. Dean had cried, but once the crying finished, he used logic to get through the mourning stage quicker. Logic could only state that no matter the age, Dad was the oldest of his remaining family and outside of some sudden disaster or tragic accident, Dad was destined to go first. Whether at age fifty-three or seventy, if all fell in line chronologically correct, Dean and his mother would always have eventually dealt with the grief of burying him.

There was always one element of his father’s death that Dean couldn’t help but ponder on, though. That Dad knew. Dad knew of Dean’s inner darkness and had kept it to himself. Of course, others had gotten glimpses of it, but Dad saw it as if a blinding spotlight shone on it, illuminating and highlighting it. During most of Dean’s childhood and even into his teenage years, Dad had coached him through some deeply disturbing times. When Dean didn’t understand why he was the way he was, his father soothed him without making him feel like he was some kind of freak or monster. Yet even so, Dean still always felt a fear or a dread that perhaps, someday, Dad would leak his secret. Though he’d done nothing to get himself banned from society or locked away in a mental institution for the rest of his life, such an outing would crush him psychologically forever. And even though Dad was nearly professional like in handling Dean’s inner issues, Dean always felt like that was the only thing his father thought of when he looked at his son. Like judging eyes were always watching with caution. Dean wondered if Dad struggled with the secret. If there was an internal struggle over whether to keep it a secret or at least warn one other person. He never told Mom. Mom knew something was up because of Dean’s own actions as a child. There had been several incidents. But Dean also knew that Dad had never told Mom of the event that nearly pushed Dean from the teetering edge of innocence into lifelong darkness and judgment. The incident. Dean would always think of it as that, although it was a near happening and not something he’d actually followed through with. It was by his own decision-making that he avoided the incident. It was restraint on the most profound level. Restraint and timing. Not his own timing, but that of the person who might have ultimately fallen victim to the incident.

Now that Dad was gone, there was only one other person who knew. And thus, some deep internal chaos on his part. Dean wasn’t relieved that his father was dead. If he could work some kind of miracle that would reverse or undo his father’s untimely passing, he’d do it without hesitation. But he couldn’t avoid the thought of knowing that one of the two people who could truly expose him would never walk the earth again. Such sinister thoughts allowed inner turmoil to hold on to Dean like a sailor thrown overboard during a storm, still clutching the rope ladder on the side of a sinking ship.

He wished Dad lived long enough to see his success, and to see how he’d finally banished the darkness by writing his most recent novel that awaited editing so many miles away.

Dean’s friend Tim, the other person who knew, was a Shelbyville Police detective. He’d gone through the schooling and training and moved up quickly once on the police force. They’d grown up across the street from each other in the suburbs of the county and Tim was the only childhood friend Dean still had contact with. It was Tim who had suggested Dean look into buying land in this county and even pointed out this specific plot to him, which Dean immediately fell in love with. The others from the old neighborhood had grown up, gone on with their separate lives, and lost contact. Besides the occasional messages through social media, it was almost as if they all no longer knew each other. Not almost. They didn’t know each other anymore. Childhood and adulthood were different eras of life. And in those different eras, people faded from each other, moved on to newer friends, further locations. Often it was family that replaced those once-strong relationships. Friends were replaced with husbands, wives, children, in-laws.

Without rinsing them first, Dean placed the plate, fork, and empty glass in the dishwasher and closed it. Life was so easy now. So simple. So peaceful. He had his tranquility at thirty-six years old. His future was set even if the books stopped selling today. Even his newest one, which sat on his editor’s desk miles away in Tennessee.

The book the evil old lady warned him not to write took three years to complete. After that concerning and unraveling experience, Dean had continued with his newest project not only out of need but also thanks to a new resilience. Likely a hater, or a jealous random, her threats were not only unsuccessful in deterring him, but they motivated him as well. He’d never met that woman in his life, but after that day, he loathed her. Her attempt to discourage his passion and even threaten him into surrendering his career only created more drive in him. He wished he could see her face when she might eventually stumble upon the novel she warned him not to create. The one book he had to write. That book had been three years of releasing something inside of him that had submerged when he was just eight years old. A darkness. A wickedness that he spent most of his childhood and most of his adult life holding down, keeping it just under the surface of the murky water. The book was not just a book, but an exorcism. A banishing of something that the old lady had seemed to know about.

That was something else Dean had pondered on so many times since that day in the bookstore. How did that woman know about him? About what he was, or what he might have become? He hadn’t recognized her. During his time of writing the novel she seemed so desperate to convince him not to write that he could always see her face in his mind. He’d never forget it. He would also never recognize her countenance from any time in his life. He often wondered if Dad told someone, but someone not close to the family. Intentionally got it off his chest with someone unknown to the family’s core. It was hard to keep such secrets and often those holding on to them had to tell someone. It seemed to be a part of human nature, built into our DNA, that keeping something to ourselves, especially significant news or details, was impossible. We simply had to tell someone. And then that someone would tell someone else. And so on and so forth until everyone knew. Dean wondered if the old lady had ever passed it on to someone else. She seemed so angry, so full of hatred. So full of something almost inhumanely evil, too.

Dean crossed the kitchen and slid the curtains to the side of the patio sliding doors. Just yesterday, the lawn care service had cut the grass. The sun was directly overhead. High noon. It cast a brightness in the backyard that seemed almost divine. Thirty yards from the back patio was the woods line and the entrance path to a maze of trails Dean had machete hacked into existence. The woods beckoned him. There was plenty of time for a thought-provoking walk before he left to meet Tim.

Halfway across the backyard, he stopped and looked back at the house. Just above his bedroom window on the second floor, there was a security camera with a view wide enough to see all the rear property from the woods line to the house. After the experience with the demon senior citizen, he’d installed solar power cameras all around the house. The backyard, both side yards, and the front were covered. He even installed them inside the house. One camera watched over the living room and the foyer, another in the kitchen, and the hallway leading to the two first-floor bedrooms and the downstairs bathroom. The stairway was under surveillance by another camera. The upstairs balcony hallway too. There were no cameras in the bathroom or his bedroom. Even though he lived alone, and it was a home-based security system with no outside company involved, he still had no desire to watch himself sleep or sit on the toilet. The other upstairs bedroom was his office, and there was a camera in there too. The center of the security operations was on the same desktop he used for writing, which recorded continuously twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He had set the main program to delete video on a forty-eight-hour loop. If he left home for more than four days, he could easily adjust it to accommodate longer periods. At first, he tried to convince himself he hadn’t installed the cameras out of fear of an eighty-year-old lady coming after him, but that was exactly why he’d done it. Even a fragile grandmother could climb through a window and squeeze a gun’s trigger. Up to now, the only movement he’d caught on camera was that of the local wildlife. Birds. Deer. Squirrels. Raccoons. Chipmunks. Even a couple of coyotes had crossed through his yard from time to time. The black-eyed crazy old woman from the bookstore had yet to come for him. But she also couldn’t know he’d finished the book she commanded he abandon. That was on the editor’s desk now, but eventually it would be in stores everywhere and if she was still alive, it was possible she’d stumble upon it.

He continued through the yard and stopped at the threshold between smooth lawn and thriving woods. His form of meditation was the paths he’d spent weeks carving in the brush when he first moved in. Armed with only a machete and a bandana, T-shirts and sweatpants, he’d sweated his way through weeds, horned bushes, chiggers, flies, mosquitos, wasps, ticks, and all the wildlife that came with Kentucky woods. There were several paths that branched off from the main trail, and they all eventually wound and turned and led back to it. Dean had spent a lot of time walking along his little woodland maze over the past few years. This was his spot. His go-to. Whether he needed to conquer a creative block or just relax his mind, these woods never failed him. The occasional deer crossing his path, a woodpecker up high and nearby picking its way through tree bark in search of insects; cardinals squeaking like mice; blue jays with their loud, complaining-like squawking. Cicadas with their summer voices rising and falling in tone and volume. Watching the woods transform through the seasons also brought him solace. In the summer, this small forest thrived with life and was nearly visually impenetrable. But as fall settled in and the brush turned to branches, sticks, and twigs, their covering leaves falling to the ground, it was a transparent world. It was easy to see a deer searching for food, even from nearly a hundred yards away. The squirrels scurrying up and down the trees in their busy lives. Abandoned bird’s nests, waiting for a purpose when the spring once again returned, sat empty and dormant. But as winter ended, and slowly the naked woods became clothed once again, the miracle of life, death, and rebirth was witnessed in slow motion day by day. A representation of how the universe works from galaxies to stars to even solar systems. Birth. Life. Death. Revival.

A warm breeze coaxed the leaves into a whisper and massaged Dean’s face as he strolled along the trail. He passed a right turn and continued forward on the primary artery. It was such a pleasant day. Perhaps he’d cancel his lunch date with Tim and have some vodka. There was no writing to do for now. After finishing his current book, he’d decided to give his mind a few months of rest. Income from the other two novels was steady, and he had, for the first time in his life, plenty of money to his name. He could sit in his backyard, drink screwdrivers and smoke cigarettes, and just bask in the relaxation that his property brought him.

That finished book had brought him a sense of victory. It was always in his head as he wrote the previous two. The entire story from start to finish. Two hundred thousand words and he’d not needed a single note or outline. When he hit the keys and typed the first words, it had flowed like blood through healthy arteries. As he wrote it, not only was there a feeling of satisfaction, but one of healing as well. It was as if that novel was the medicine he’d needed to treat a long-lasting illness. The miracle drug for his mind and soul. A light finally extinguishing the powerful darkness, which had been only held at bay for years. Dad would have been more than proud. He would have been exuberant. After the incident, Dad seemed to have given up on any kind of healing or cure for his only son. Instead, he’d accepted it, and in his own way kept watch over Dean with more intensity than a father should have to monitor his son. Dean almost felt it was better that Dad hadn’t been around for the second incident. If he had, then the secret might have been too much to keep boxed up. The second one, which was also thwarted by luck and bad, or good, timing, might have been enough to send Dean’s father to the grave anyhow. After that second time, Dean decided that something stronger than his darkness might be watching over him. Though an atheist and definitely a skeptic of anything paranormal or supernatural, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if there was some kind of conscious force or entity, like a guardian angel or such, interfering with little tugs and pushes, keeping him safe from himself. Though whatever it was couldn’t just step in and completely take over, it could apply the smallest of influence without breaking certain universal rules. And the only reason for that would be that Dean was meant for better things. The threshold he’d come to but not crossed those two times wasn’t meant for him to pass over. He was supposed to move on, defeat that darkness, and become something or someone important. Motivated, he strived to fight it off, sealed it away, and wrote books. His destiny was to be an author and not that other thing that he’d caged. Trapped wasn’t good enough, though, because there was always the chance of escape. Though hidden away, it was still there and alive. It had to be expelled from within himself forever, and that’s what the book was for.

There was a sudden commotion nearby in the woods to his right. Brush rustled, wings flapped in panic, birds took flight, chirping in alarm. A loud sound, like an animal shrieking in anguish. Two fawns leaped out of the woods onto the path, full speed ahead and obviously frightened. They jumped onto the path in one leap and into the woods on the other side. He heard twigs snapping and bushes whooshing as they moved off in a frantic hurry to escape. Dean stopped and stood perfectly still. Just as quickly and suddenly as the disturbance arose, it fell completely silent.

Dean’s breathing escalated. His heart felt like a hammer against the inside of his chest. He stood, listening for hints at what the commotion was, but there was nothing. Even the liveliness of the woods was now silenced, as if all life within several hundred yards watched on curiously or hid away in fear.

Dean listened while facing the direction he’d heard the animal cry. He heard a faint rustle about ten feet into the brush. He slowly stepped to the edge of the path and peered in while forcing his breathing to a normal pace. In his mind, the old lady reminding him not to write the book. His brow glistened with sweat and his palms felt slick.

More faint movement. Still just ten feet or so away. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving toward or away from Dean. He pushed some brush to the side and stepped off the trail. Now he was causing a slight rustle in the brush. Weeds crunched under his feet. A twig snapped, and he flinched, regained his composure, and continued forward. Pushing thorned vegetation to the side, he cautiously but steadily made his way.

Hello? he called out in a normal voice. He stopped and waited for a response. He realized how silly it might be to yell out and expect a reply. If there was a human intruder on his property sneaking up on him, whoever it was likely wouldn’t call back. However, if an animal caused the ruckus, the sound of Dean’s voice might scare it off. He knew nothing about wildlife and wasn’t sure if there was any form of life in these woods besides wasps, mosquitos, or ticks that he had to worry might actually attack him head-on. Snakes? But a snake wasn’t that noisy. And the shriek he’d heard was one of injury, not aggression.

More faint movement just a few feet away now. Just beyond a wall of heavy growth in front of him. Tall weeds and what might be an adolescent tree. Dean reached his hands out, stepped forward, and pushed them to the side.

A young doe lay on the wood’s floor. It had fallen on its side, crushing growth beneath it and creating the appearance of a clearing. He saw its head first, and it looked up at him as Dean peeked through. It was injured. As Dean stepped forward, he realized the animal was more than just injured. It was mortally wounded. Its underside was completely sliced open, as if someone had attacked it with a huge army knife. Its insides, intestines, were falling out, and it lay in a growing pool of its own blood.

Dean looked away in disgust, then realized this kind of injury could only be made by another human. The slice along the deer’s underside was fine and neat. It wasn’t rugged or sloppy, like a predator had bitten into it. He looked around, held his breath, and listened carefully for the sound of a person walking through the woods, pushing growth aside as whoever it might be fled the scene. Still silence. The woods and all its life watched on quietly. There was no nearby retreating person.

The deer’s back legs kicked. It was struggling to push itself away from the pain. Its eyes wide in fear, it continued to look at Dean as if to beg for help. Dean knew there was no helping this animal and in a few minutes, its life would end.

Jesus, Dean whispered as he watched the deer in awe. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The animal’s suffering held Dean’s gaze prisoner. He didn’t want to watch this creature die. He didn’t want to witness its final breath and life fade from its eyes. But he couldn’t turn away.

The doe struggled to breathe. At first, the fight was frantic, but it slowed by the moment. Slowed. Slowed. Gasping. All four legs convulsed. Its sliced-open chest rose and fell in fewer and fewer timed increments. Dean wanted to put it out of its misery, but his gun was in the house, placed safely in his bedroom nightstand drawer where it’d been since he first bought it and loaded it. He wasn’t a fan of guns, but after his experience with the old lady, he decided he needed protection. Not just from her, but from anyone. In this world, a person could wake up with a desperate drug addict in their home, looking to take anything he or she needed to further supply their high. Though Dean hoped he’d never have to use the gun, if it came down to him or a lunatic intruder, he chose himself to live. For a quick moment, he wished he carried it with him on his walks. Just in case. In today’s society, you were safe nowhere. Not in traffic. Not in school. Not in the grocery store. Anywhere and anytime some asshole off his rocker might look to take lives either just for the thrill, or to be added to a long list of famous mass shooters. If you weren’t safe in public, you were less safe in your own home or on your own property in your own woods. Then he banished the thought. To think that you couldn’t just take a stroll on your own land without the safety of a firearm disgusted him. What was living if you couldn’t let up your guard for one waking moment?

The doe raised her head off the ground and released its final breath. Her head landed softly in the bush it had fallen on, legs went still, and her eyes went blank with death. Dean stared sadly at the corpse for a moment while once again motion-detecting his surroundings. Still no sound of a fleeing perpetrator. He needed to call Tim. Somebody had either been on his property with malicious intent and fled, or they were still nearby, hiding and waiting for Dean to leave the scene. He shuddered with the thought that whoever it was might even be nearby, watching Dean’s every move, like a tiger in the jungle watching its prey. He glanced around nervously and stopped at a few more heavily grown-over spots that might provide decent cover for a person. At each spot, he stared for a few moments, watching for movement or even the outline of another human.

I know you’re out there, he announced loudly. I have a gun. A lie. Possibly a naive one. He could be in an unobstructed view of the intruder. His voice was shaky as well. He was afraid, and it was obvious in his speech.

A sudden disturbance from overhead. Leaves moving in the trees. Dean looked up just in time to see a vulture landing beside another one on a high-up branch. They were both looking down at the dead doe. Then another one flew in and landed on a lower branch. Two more circled about a hundred feet in the sky. They had already sensed the smell of death and free food and were flocking to the deer meat buffet.

You guys are fast, Dean whispered. He turned away and made his way back to the main trail. He needed to get inside, to his phone, and call Tim. Lunch was obviously canceled for today.

Once on a clear path again, Dean walked quickly. Within two minutes, he reached the threshold between woods and yard and immediately noticed the patio door was