Into the Storm: Tales From the Lighthouse, #1

By D.L. Strand

Evil Doesn't Die

Santa Carla, California, Autumn, 1982.

18-year-old Sam Freman fears everything; heights, bullies, girls - you name it. Afraid to stand up to his best friend Max when she asks for a ride in his boat, he agrees. They head out on the bay in his tiny craft, ignoring telltale signs warning of dangerous weather.  

Stupid mistake.

What starts out as a light drizzle quickly explodes into a deadly squall. With the ocean churning, massive waves slamming into them from every side, and a dead motor, Sam must attempt a treacherous landing on Lighthouse Rock or be swept out to sea. 

What he doesn't know is that something lurks in the old abandoned lighthouse.

Something that doesn't want to be disturbed.

Something dark.

Something beyond death.

Will they survive the treacherous landing, only to have their friendship and lives destroyed by the nameless horror that awaits?

Into the Storm is the first book in DL Strand's terrifying new, supernatural horror series, Tales of the Lighthouse. If you like fast-passed, brutally scary stories with a strong, irreverent, female character, you'll love Into the Storm.

 

Pick up DL Strand's spine-chilling, breakout story today.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.L. Strand
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735485515

D.L. Strand

DL Strand has been - among other things - an entrepreneur, a coffee roaster, and a filmmaker. He splits his time between Hollywood and the San Francisco Bay Area, where he and his wife Monika raised two amazing daughters. He's worked all around the United States on various film and TV productions, but is happiest when he is at home, sitting in his jammie pants, in front of his computer, dreaming up horrible things.

Book preview

1

THE STORM

It was Autumn, 1982. Clouds dominated the October sky, draping it in varying shades of gray as the sun, giving up on this day, resigned itself to the sea. Gulls, balancing on the treacherous winds, screamed from above, warning of the coming storm.

I wish I’d listened.

I stood on the docks alone, looking out over the bay. The wind bit at my face. I’d shoved my hands into my windbreaker to keep them warm, but every few minutes I braved the cold to check the time.

Max was late.

The breeze carried Journey’s Wheel in the Sky over the hill from Santa Carla’s famous Boardwalk by the Beach, along with screams from its iconic, wooden roller coaster.

I took a deep breath through my nose. Ocean air carried a thrill—a sense of life. Today though, there was something darker, a heaviness. Something played at the back of my mind I couldn’t identify.

The music died out, replaced by a church bell. A single distant chime. It sounded again. Then again. A distorted guitar crept in, playing a simple lick in time with the bell. To this, was added a drum. Another guitar and bass joined, clashing with the sounds of the boardwalk. A driving beat drowned it out altogether, and AC/DC’s Hell’s Bells blasted from a boat in the harbor.

Hey Freman, a voice called over the music, waiting for your boyfriend, faggot?

Snapped out of my reverie, a chill trickled down my spine. I searched through the forest of sailing masts for the voice’s owner. It didn’t take me long to find him, off to my left, coiling rope on the deck of his dad’s sailboat. The cruel smile on his face resembled a cat who’d just spotted an injured bird.

Mitch Kavenaugh. His goal in life was to make sure geeks like me knew their place and kept it. He fulfilled his duties with aggressive glee. With him around, we never forgot what a shitty place this world could be. Despite the gloom, the boat shined like it held an inner light.

Where he was tall, muscular, and blond, I was not quite average height and had been skinny all my life. His perfect hair defied the wind somehow, and his new-looking, regatta-style clothes brought my attention to my own light jacket, frayed at the collar and cuffs, and my jeans, almost worn through at the knees. I suppose it would’ve been different if those had been ironic choices but they were all I could afford.

My face warmed with anger and shame. Early in high school, Mitch appointed himself my Supreme Tormentor-in-Chief. He’d never touched me, but all the same, he’d made it known how much my existence offended him.

Why don’t you go fuck yourself, you shitty excuse for a momma’s boy! A girl’s voice shouted from the direction of the shore.

I turned to see Max, my best friend, and the girl voted most likely to kick your ass for looking at her sideways, striding down the dock. She came dressed for combat in heavy boots, black cargo pants, and a military surplus jacket. The piercings in her face, heavy eye make-up, and jet-black dyed hair, shaved on one side, hardened her otherwise-delicate features.

A black plastic garbage bag swung freely from her hand as she walked.

Relief flooded through me, but the anger still burned.

Ah, there’s your boyfriend now. Hey, lezbo! Mitch-the-asshole called back.

Eat shit and live, you Nazi-kissing, horse’s ass! She punctuated each syllable with her index finger as if she were pounding it into his chest. Smiling, as if she’d just been given a new toy, she handed me the bag. Hold this, she said, then marched toward Mitch’s boat.

As she approached, he dropped the rope he’d been coiling and stood up tall—all six feet of him.

She paused and casually rested her boot on the boat’s gunwale.

He fumed. Get your—

He never finished the sentence. Even though she was a good five feet away from him, she spread her arms and lunged.

He jumped back. Or tried to. His feet, fouled by the rope, betrayed him. He fell, smacking his head on the boom as he went down.

Fucking loser. Max laughed, and without looking back, swaggered over and gave me a brotherly hug. That was awesome, she said as she pulled away.

I returned her bag. You had him shitting bricks. We climbed into my boat.

Calling it a boat was kind. Oh, it floated and contained seats and a motor. But it was ancient. The aluminum hull bore scratches and dents, telling of a long and abusive life on the water. A couple of worn life vests lay piled in the front along with an oar which seemed to always be underfoot.

We untied the lines, fore and aft, and Max—still smiling—shoved us off as I pulled the starter. She found her place on the center bench as the motor wheezed to life and put-putted us out of the safety of the harbor and onto the bay.

As we rode past, I glanced over to see Kavenaugh still lying on the deck with his feet tangled in the lines, rubbing his sore skull. He shot me a look that vowed revenge as the music died out.

I avoided his gaze, while Max laughed and flipped him off. Then she looked back at me.

He’s so lame. Why do you let him get under your skin?

I shrugged. Honestly, I was stoked to put some water between us.

It’s not like we’re in high school anymore.

A simple, ragged guitar played three notes in quick succession. The rhythm repeated. We rode out to Highway to Hell until it was buried beneath the staccato tune of the motor droning in our ears.

We’d cleared the harbor before I asked, So, what’s in the bag?

She didn’t respond.

She’d called me just this afternoon and asked if we could go out for a ride on the bay. As far as I knew, she was indifferent to all things associated with the ocean. Hell, I wasn’t sure she could swim, so her request surprised me. And I wanted to know what the hell was in the bag.

She sat with her back to me. As we motored past the buoys, I increased the throttle, driving the bow up into the air. Saltwater sprayed over the two of us, but then the nose settled down as we reached speed and we bounced over the waves toward deeper water.

Santa Carla Bay wasn’t known for smooth sailing. More often than not, tourists heading out for a joy ride or a fishing trip turned green within just a few minutes.

The wind picked up as we went. The waves did likewise. I adjusted our direction and headed straight into the gusts. It didn’t make the ride any smoother, but it decreased the chance of capsizing. Max hadn’t given me a destination, so I guessed it didn’t matter which way we went.

Despite the change in direction, the hull continued to fight the waves. The bow smacked the surface with teeth-jarring impact. It felt like we were hitting concrete. Water washed over the bow, dousing our faces, and sending chills throughout my body. I backed off the speed and idled the motor. This wasn’t fun.

Max twisted in her seat, her raised eyebrows asking what I was up to.

Water’s pretty choppy, I said. We should probably turn around.

Obscured by rolling clouds, the sun rested on the horizon. I didn’t want to be caught out here in the dark, especially if a storm was on the way.

Max turned to face me, picked up the garbage bag, then gently set it down again. Without warning, tears began to run down her face.

I may not be as macho as some, but when people cry, it makes me just as uncomfortable as the next guy. I’d seen Max sad, angry, happy, pissed, and ready to