Nexus: Lords of Apocalypse, #1

By Randy Dean Noble

A modern-day gunslinger is thrust into the depths of the supernatural.

 

Could you sit in a chair for an hour and not move, in an abandoned farmhouse with such a horrid past that no one has lived in it for over a century?

 

That's just what Boston, a man who needs to know death is not the end, intends to do. Where others have failed, run off screaming, he will prevail, not overreact – nothing will drag him from that chair. But things don't always go as planned.

 

Fans of supernatural suspense and high-octane thrills are sure to love the gripping adventure found in Lords of Apocalypse: Nexus

 

 

Author's Note: This novel contains strong language and violent scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paranormal Proclivity Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781777299415

Randy Dean Noble

Randy Dean Noble is a supernatural thriller kind of guy. He grew up on a slew of movies and books, those of the fantastical variety inspiring most of his writing interests. Working a plethora of minimum wage jobs took Randy into computer science and a career in IT (because he didn't want to eat PB&J the rest of his life). But, his passion has always been writing, and his dream is to be a full-time fiction author. When he's not working his day job in IT, and not watching some new show on the ridiculous amount of streamers out there, he's writing. If you, the wonderful visitor of this page, are at all interested in supernatural thrillers, then, please, by all means, check his works out. And feel free to subscribe to Randy's email list to get updates on what he's working on, releases, and whatnot (on his website at randydeannoble.com).

Book preview

1

Boston

What are the dead? Are they a purposeless, diminishing memory? Friends and family never to be seen again? Boston hoped not. Of everything he’d read about the paranormal, there had to be something to the stories. It couldn’t all be bullshit.

Moonlight bounced off glistening fields of golden wheat and canola as his truck whisked by, the rumbling engine the only sound in the middle of nowhere on Canadian prairie gravel grid roads. If he’d wanted to, he could have flicked his vehicle’s headlights off because the moon was so bright.

He kept the speed at sixty kilometers an hour. They would wait for him—they had to—being he was their purpose this night, whether they liked him or not. They must have liked him somewhat — otherwise, why let him join? And he saw no reason why he would fail their test.

This had to be the group, the one that would prove it to him once and for all. It felt right, all his ventures on his own capturing nothing he would consider significant, definitive. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t.

Boston’s forehead creased as he got closer. His muscles tightened, from his foot on the accelerator to the cords in his neck. He took a deep breath, whooshed it out, and attempted to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. Willing his left hand to release the wheel, he cracked open the driver’s window. A sweet smell filled the truck’s cab and the warm wind caressed his face. Boston breathed it in, and the panic subsided. His muscles relaxed.

Dad, I hope you’re there, hope you can hear me. Would you have me kill them? Is that what you want? Help me. What did you see? Anything? Or was it all a lie? All in your head? Is there more out there than just—Boston waved his hand to the world outside—what I see before me?

Boston glanced down at the glowing blue lights on his dash. And, as always, that took him back to the DVD player he and his father used to cart around from hotel to hotel; its front digital display glowed blue. His eyes watered, and he blinked it away, squeezing his eyes shut over and over. I’ve been practicing, watching them daily, but don’t know if I can do it. And I’ve completed tactical training, with Simunition. I beat them all, Dad. No one can touch me.

2

The Farmhouse

D oes the freak know what happened in the basement of that house?

Amber heard Jayson’s question, but something out of the corner of her left eye distracted her. She turned away from it and looked at Jayson. Don’t call him that.

Seriously? He’s a freak. I know we’ve only met him once but come on.

Amber shifted in her seat and rested the back of her head against the minivan’s window. Her head cooled at the touch of it, the night air no doubt dropping to a temperature she didn’t bring a jacket for. She turned her head to the left, daring a look, and nothing awaited her. Chancing coldness over Jayson’s obnoxious behavior, Amber opened the sliding door and stepped outside.

Senna and Ralph were inside the house, getting things ready for the initiation. Harold walked the perimeter, like he always did, checking for any boards pulled off the broken windows or any indication of a break-in. Amber didn’t know why it mattered so much to Harold. Who cares if someone broke into a dilapidated house nobody had lived in for years, in the middle of nowhere? Maybe Harold figured if others found out about its history, they would come out of curiosity. They had been waiting for Boston for thirty minutes, so Harold must have been around the house a few times already. She hadn’t figured Harold out yet. He seemed jovial one minute, sad the next.

Amber caught Harold’s eye and he walked over, a smile spreading across his gentle face. She couldn’t help but smile back.

You’re shivering, Harold said.

She didn’t even realize it. Yeah, well, it was the lesser of two evils.

Jayson?

She nodded.

Yeah, I know, but he means well. He’s just… I think he likes you.

She suspected as much, but it wasn’t even a consideration. No twenty-one-year-old held any interest for her, not when she was twenty-seven. Besides, he was shorter than her—even if it was only by an inch or so—and she preferred someone taller. Ralph would have been a better choice, if she had to choose, but she had no interest in dating. And, regardless, Ralph was also younger than her at twenty-four.

Amber glanced at the house. Did you find anything?

Hmmm? Oh, no. Tip-top, as always. Not a rusty nail or warped board out of place.

Amber heard the minivan door slide open. So, big kahuna, Jayson said. What’s the scoop?

No scoop, just waiting for Boston to show. Said he would be a little late. Harold winked at Amber, smiling again.

He was teasing her about Jayson, knowing she had no interest.

Jayson tapped a dirt clump in front of him with his shoe. Still no-go on the EMF?

Ahhh, the man with the plan has come out. That is correct, my ambitious friend.

Amber had heard this before, knowing where it would end. Jayson always tried, but only with Harold and never Harold’s wife, Senna. She would never stand for it, but it seemed to amuse Harold.

She thought of Harold more as a friend than their leader or father figure while Senna came across like a mother, even though both were sixty-five. Harold was a big man at over six feet tall, with a bit of a gut. He appeared physically intimidating, but he didn’t act it. Though, he seemed more chill than Senna did, much more easygoing.

Yeah, Jayson said, I know they’re unreliable, but it would be great for TV. All the ghost-hunting shows use them.

Harold laughed and then looked at Amber. Do you see any television cameras around?

That I do not, she said, playing along.

Yeah, yeah, I know, Jayson said. I’m working on getting a really nice one. You’ll see.

Even so, it won’t matter. Amber, please explain to him why we do not use electromagnetic field detectors.

Well, big kahuna, she said in a poor imitation of Jayson’s voice, it’s almost impossible to distinguish the false positives from the remote chance of a genuine reading.

Ha. Ha. Jayson smiled. Again, I know. But, in case either one of you chuckleheads haven’t noticed yet, in our—my—umpteenth time at this shithole, there are no power lines anywhere near here.

Amber never noticed before. Power lines were one of those things that blended in with her surroundings, part of everyday life, not something she ever paid attention to. She used the bright light of the moon to see what she could see, but between the treeline surrounding the back and sides of the house, practically suffocating it—a wonder Harold could even get around it—she couldn’t be sure. She had no doubt Jayson scoped it out during daylight.

Harold smacked himself in the head with the palm of his right hand. My god, you’re right.

Jayson started to beam.

Harold smacked his head again, this time with his other hand. Oh, but I forgot about that other thing.

What other thing? Jayson’s smile disappeared.

Oh, you know, us. And, well, I’m pretty sure the sunlight reflecting off the moon might have something to say.

Yeah, but… Jayson trailed off on what would have been a pointless rebuttal. Car lights neared from the distance. What kind of car does he drive?

Amber couldn’t remember. Or did she ever see it? It didn’t matter. Either it was him or it wasn’t. Chances were good that nobody else was driving gravel grid roads eleven at night unless the farmer whose land they were on thought he would come check things out. She had never met the landowner, none of them had. Senna had talked with the owner on the phone, and he refused to meet her at the property. Had Senna not overheard two women in a coffee shop talking, none of them would have ever known about it. How Senna tracked down the owner, Amber did not know.

Two minutes later, Amber realized she had not seen Boston’s truck before. It was nothing special. A white half-ton truck, maybe six or seven years old. The only distinct feature seemed to be its unnaturally loud, rumbling engine, an overkill of power for a plain truck. She supposed it fit the man driving it, a man as mysterious to her as any she had met. On their one meeting with him thus far, he did not seem comfortable around them. He was a person not wanting to draw attention to himself. Yet, when he stepped out and his black running shoes hit the dirt, the beat-up frock jacket and gangster-looking gray hat could do nothing but draw attention.

Harold walked up to Boston. Senna and Ralph should be out any moment.

Boston glanced at Jayson, who stared back, expressionless. No hurry. I’d like to scope it, if you don’t mind?

Harold swept his arm out in response, which Amber took as a knock-yourself-out gesture.

Boston’s eyes roved to her for a moment, then continued on. He took in his surroundings, no doubt a little trepidatious at the sight of such a ramshackle house. That’s how she felt every time she was near it. Just knowing what happened there would creep anyone out, and going in by herself that first time would always be one of the hardest things she had ever done.

As usual, Jayson gawked at him. When Boston walked by, Jayson said, Indiana.

Boston smiled at him. I’ll take that as a compliment. Great movie.

Jayson paused, the crease on his forehead deepening. Well, my strange-looking friend, that depends on which one you’re talking about.

"Raiders of the Lost Ark will always be the best."

Jayson did not hesitate this time. Agreed.

Indiana Jones wears a brown fedora, by the way. I’m wearing a glen-gray Akubra Cattleman. Just thought you should know. Boston carried on, and Jayson didn’t engage further. As Boston strolled around the right side of the house, he pulled something out of his pocket, but Amber couldn’t tell what it was. Something small, something that fit in the palm of his hand. And then she lost sight of him.

Ralph and Senna walked out of the house. If Ralph had any meat on his bones, he would have blocked out Senna, or anybody else in the group if they had been walking behind him. Ralph looked at her, the same way Jayson always did. She smiled, not knowing how he would take it and not caring. It used to exhaust her thinking about all the implications of her gestures, tone of voice, or anything she said. Just a simple greeting sometimes led to guys, young and old, asking her out. It got to the point where she started acting bitchy to them, and she didn’t like who she had become. Exhausted from the constant negative behavior, she just went with her instincts now.

Ralph smiled back. Senna also smiled, which came across as grandmotherly, probably because her short, curly gray hair made her look older than she was.

As Boston came around the other side of the house, the mystery item was no longer in hand. Surprisingly, his hat somehow made the treacherous journey through the brush.

Harold waited for him.

Amber and the others piled into the van through the open side doors. Even though a cool breeze blew past them, Amber felt warmer inside. She knew what was coming: the speech before the initiation that she hoped was not true. It made her want to run far away from the house every time she heard it.

Harold stood facing Boston, just outside the van. Amber watched, as did Senna, but Ralph and Jayson were lost in their own worlds.

After clearing his throat, Harold began to speak. You have one hour. When you walk in, you’ll be in the living room, and there will be two doors. The left goes to a bedroom and the right to the kitchen. Go right and sit in the kitchen. Once you sit down, you are not to get up again for the full hour or you’ll fail the test.

Maybe it was the serious tone Harold spoke in that creeped her out, or maybe it was the anticipation she felt for the first-timers. The last recruit, Mike, did not make it five minutes. He ran out the front door, got in his car, and they never heard from him again. Even after Senna left several messages, no calls were returned. A mystery. Could it have been the build-up, the fear Harold intentionally instilled in the recruit before they went in? Maybe. Or maybe something happened. Something none of them had experienced previously.

Harold continued with his speech. We have motion detectors set up in the kitchen, four of them, and if you move out of the chair, an alarm will go off.

Boston tilted his head and pursed his lips. What if something else sets it off?

It hasn’t happened yet. But we also have a night vision camera that will snap pictures if you, or anything else, moves. You have two feet surrounding you on that chair before the motion detectors pick up your movement. You’ll be covered in all directions. Harold chuckled.

Boston smiled and looked over at Amber and the others. And, if I fail, is there a retest?

No. We actually have a long list of others wanting in this group. If you don’t pass, you’re out. We need people who can handle fear when there is no support, when you’re all alone.

Jayson looked up at Ralph, and Amber knew he couldn’t contain himself. Ralphy here must have shit himself and passed out from the stench to stay in that chair for an hour.

Ralph looked up but didn’t say anything.

We normally use two-way radios, but you won’t be given one. And your cell phone won’t work here. There are supplies on the table in the kitchen and basic instructions. Once you open the front door, you have thirty seconds to get in that chair before I turn the motion detectors on. There’s a circle drawn on the table and floor, so you know what not to cross.

Amber’s heart raced. Before initiation night, they were all told about a murder that occurred many years ago in the cellar, but no details were given until the night of. The details were the kicker. Because once you knew them, you couldn’t un-know them, ever. At least, not in her case. And that is what made it hard, being all alone in a horror house with the knowledge of what took place just a few feet below where she had sat. The only thing that kept her in the chair was that something worse tormented her. If she couldn’t face a story she was told, she would never be able to face the reason she joined.

Harold looked at the others, a serious expression on his face, and then back at Boston. You know there were murders that took place here, in the cellar, but not the details. You need to handle a place’s history, and…

Harold trailed off, and for a second, Amber didn’t know why. Then she realized what he had. The creaking sound of crickets and the buzz of insects had ceased. Amber had once googled about crickets when she couldn’t find one in her bedroom because it would always go silent when she tried to get close. Once she learned that they are very sensitive to vibrations, she waited it out. But that didn’t bother her. What creeped her out was the fact that cold air affects them. It seemed warm enough, but what if something else, a ghost, was watching them, cooling the air around the crickets? Her body shuddered.

And, Harold continued, I need you to know because the cellar is off limits. A cocky recruit thought he would impress us. At the time, we just warned our recruits, leaving the cellar door unlocked. In the thirty seconds before I enabled the motion detectors, he went downstairs with a flashlight and a camera, thinking he could spend the whole hour down there.

Harold nodded at Senna, who reached her arm out through the front passenger window, handing a picture to her husband. He handed it to Boston.

That is the only picture that turned out. He lasted twelve minutes before running up the stairs and setting the alarm off.

Boston didn’t react like most everyone else did. His eyes didn’t widen, and his mouth didn’t gape open. Amber wondered if it was because Boston was a little older than her—in his early thirties, she believed. Maybe a little more life experience negated such reactions. She hoped it was true but doubted that was the case. The first time she saw that picture, she dropped it and spent the next month sleeping with the lights on. And not just her bedroom light but every light in her apartment.

Even though it had been nearly a year, the image remained burned in her brain: a rock foundation wall with most of the sandy mortar long gone, now part of the uneven dirt floor, with some of the rocks shifted from their original placement. At least, that’s what it looked like to Amber, the picture her only reference to the cellar. The ceiling appeared low, but it was hard to tell for sure. And then, just on the edge of light and dark, on the right side of the picture, there were two things that would never leave her mind: a large, cloven hoof, and above that, a massive, clawed hand. She had run the scale of it over and over again in her head, after more than one viewing. If she was right, the thing must have been over seven feet tall. She would have run away too if some demonic beast appeared before her, hunched over because it was too tall to stand upright. She surmised it had been walking toward the stairs… or maybe at the recruit.

Boston rubbed his stubbly face. Did anybody go down and investigate?

Yes, Senna said, three of us, with enough light to make it seem like day. Nothing. More pictures revealed nothing.

Ralph sighed. The hair on our arms stood on end in that basement. We felt a pressure, yet the air felt thin, and we got a digital thermometer reading of twenty degrees Celsius difference between the top of the stairs and the bottom of the stairs. Had it not been thirty degrees outside, it would have been below freezing.

We, Harold said, boarded up the door to the cellar the next day.

I don’t understand, Boston said. Isn’t this what you do? Investigate paranormal activity, try to prove the existence of ghosts?

Are you calling us a pack of pussies? Jayson asked.

Boston didn’t answer.

Harold put his hand up to stay any further comments. Senna and I are responsible for every one of you. I spoke to that boy after he fled from here, and he couldn’t talk about it. He spent six months in daily psychiatric care, trying to come to terms with it. Or maybe he was just trying to forget. Last I heard, he had moved to Australia.

Boston leaned against the minivan, staring at the house.

Harold cleared his throat. This house was built in 1897, by a farmer, Steven, and his family. The following story comes from Steven’s brother, Jacob, who swears every word Steven told him from his jail cell was true. The events occurred after the family’s first night in the house.

As Harold told the story, Amber caught herself holding her breath more than once. It never ceased to make her skin crawl.

3

The Test

As Boston opened the front door, it creaked, reminding him of every haunted house movie he had ever seen. Before he closed the door, he glanced back at the others, and only Amber, Harold, and Senna watched him. As he closed himself in for the duration, the door groaned and creaked until it clicked shut.

Thoughts of Harold’s story ran through his mind, none of which he took seriously. On the left, there was a dark doorway to the bedroom where the husband, Steven, hanged himself after he broke out of jail. Toward the kitchen, a flicker of candle flame threw shadows of objects on a table. They danced along the wall in the kitchen and the hardwood floor in the barren, dust-balled living room.

With little time before the sensors were activated, he walked into the kitchen and sat down, taking notice of a circle, drawn with red tape, around the chair. There was a semicircle of it on the floor and the circle was completed on the table.

The chair creaked under his weight. When he had entered the house, a faint, musty smell invaded his nostrils, and now it permeated them. Water, a house’s worst enemy other than fire, had made its way through the roof and everywhere else in a house that had not been maintained in over a hundred years. According to what Harold told him, no one ever stayed longer than a night. In fact, Harold and Senna should probably not have been using it at all, but they believed something had happened, and it served their purpose for paranormal investigation.

Boston pulled out a compass from his pocket, stared at it for a moment, and placed it onto the oak table in front of him. He slid his right hand along the surface of the table, feeling the grooves and gouges that plagued it. A note on the table read:

Please follow the steps below:

1) Hit Record on the digital sound recorder. 2) Make note of the current temperature on the digital thermometer and the time you recorded it. If the temperature changes, please make note of it and the time. 3) Take notes of any sounds/events you notice and the time they occur. 4) You can snap photos with the digital camera as you wish. 5) Flashlight if you need it.

After he pressed the orange record button on the tiny sound recorder, he wrote down the current temperature of eighteen degrees Celsius. All the items were in a neat line along the edge of the table, inside the tape circle.

Boston grabbed the flashlight and took in his surroundings. As he panned, the cone of light revealed collapsed shelves and several cupboards hanging from their hinges. A boarded, now glassless, window was above an old sink basin, and in the corner of the room, there was an iron wood stove fit for a large family. A metal vent, no longer attached to anything, jutted into the rafters of the roof. He spotted three motion detectors but was careful not to shine the light right on them, not knowing if it would trigger them or not. A camera, likely the night vision camera Harold spoke of, rested on the counter. The door to the cellar was covered with boards and a ridiculous number of nails.

Boston felt exposed with his back to the expanse of the kitchen. The door to hell was on his right and there was a wall in front of him. Try as he might, he could not help but let some of Harold’s story get to him. Had the compass in front of Boston been pointing north instead of at him for the last two months, Harold’s story would not have affected him at all. He joined Harold and Senna’s group sign-up list before finding the possessed compass, searching for something that would give him hope. But then, while throwing out old memories, he found the compass and whatever he did, or whatever he tried, the compass needle was always pointing toward him no matter the cardinal direction he faced.

If supernatural creatures did exist, and the belief that they emitted electromagnetic radiation proved true, maybe something would set off his compass. Harold and Senna had previously informed Boston of their reservations with using EMF detectors, but his situation was different. His compass acted just like an EMF detector. It wasn’t as accurate as an actual one, but it could serve