Raising Hell: A Viciously Gripping Revenge Thriller

By A. Twisted

***This book is intended for audiences of 18+ only. Read at your own risk.

 

? Unleash the Power of Vengeance! ?

Prepare for an adrenaline-pumping journey into the heart of justice and revenge. Introducing "RAISING HELL," a spine-chilling thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat from the first page to the last.

 

? Synopsis: ? She left her past behind, but destiny has other plans. When a woman returns to her hometown, a chilling revelation unravels: her sister's death was no accident. Armed with a burning desire for justice, she dives deep into a world of secrets, lies, and hidden motives. As she inches closer to the truth, danger lurks in every corner, and the lines between vengeance and redemption blur.

 

? What Awaits You: ? ? Gripping Suspense: A nail-biting narrative that twists and turns with every chapter, leaving you guessing until the final revelation. ❤️ Fierce Protagonist: A woman driven by a thirst for vengeance, facing her own demons as she fights for her sister's memory. ?️♀️ Unveiling Secrets: Uncover a web of deceit, betrayal, and hidden agendas that will challenge your perception of every character. ? Heart-Pounding Action: Explosive confrontations, heart-stopping escapes, and electrifying showdowns that will leave you breathless. ? Evocative Setting: Immerse yourself in the haunting atmosphere of a small town hiding dark secrets beneath its seemingly tranquil façade.

 

?️?️ See What Readers Are Saying: ?️?️

⭐⭐⭐⭐The writing and description are amazing made me enjoy reading it and live in the story - Nada Philippe

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ I really love how you can see the character slowly losing it, loved the violence, I thought it was just detailed enough to be disturbing without being gore-porn - Alison Collins

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Twisted
• Release date: Apr 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224423477

Book preview

Raising Hell

A.Twisted

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locations is entirely coincidental. 

Raising Hell 

Copyright ©️ 2023 by Ashley Hoekstra in Canada

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner, except as permitted by Canadian copyright law.

This is to all the men and women too scared to leave. Be it from manipulation, financial struggle, or threats to you and your loved ones that you don't want to test.

You are not alone and there are resources to help you.

Don't allow yourself to become another statistic.

You can do this xoxo

Thank you, Ivy Graves. This book wouldn’t have

happened without you. 

I have no words to express my gratitude x

Introduction

This is a story of a sister's return home. Her vendetta, and the lengths she is willing to go to Learn the truth.

Find yourself immersed in Beth's world as she seeks revenge on the man who took everything from her. Relate to her fury, and live vicariously through her, while avoiding the consequences of her actions. Get lost in this fast-paced, stand-alone thriller chalked full of feminine rage and gruesome torture.

TRIGGER WARNING:

Violence. Curse language. Guns. House fire, Drunk driving, Car crash, Implications of Necrophilia, Rape, Spousal Abuse, Assault, Kidnapping, buried alive, Torture, and Death.

Contents

Prologue

Painful Reunions

Toot-a-loo

Home Sweet Home

Blast From The Past

A Fucking Platter

Ashes to Ashes

Dust to Dust

Small Towns

New Lives

Shattered Futures

Autopilot

Stakeout

Topsy Turvy

Beandish

Dr. Dead

Break and Enter

Believable Enough

Risky Business

New Toys

Truth in Lies

New Plan

Buried Treasure

A Different Perspective

Life Saver

Men in Blue

Bumpy Ride

Where Am I?

Beth Is Back

Cocky Nature

One Handed

Remember When

It’s Not Rocket Science

The Jig is Up

Epolgue

Prologue

I’ve lost track of how often I get asked if I regret what I did, and though I can't answer the question directly without incriminating myself, the grin on my face tells them more than enough. Too many people want me to say it out loud, though; including the man who arrived today.

He is the first in many years to seek me out. Most are over the stories of the Hill Valley Killings; and who can blame them? It has been almost twenty years since it all happened.

Two decades since the tiny town was broadcasted across the world for entertainment. Or should I say, I was. With one six o’clock news segment, the world became obsessed with my demons, and locking them away. The chains around my wrists and ankles are proof of that. 

When I was little, I always wondered if I'd ever be on TV. I just never expected it would be so gruesome, but I suppose that’s the stuff that sells. I only hope there is a more gentle documentary made by now. Something that tells Helen’s side of things and the sad, sad truth and reason behind it all. A story focused on her, the real victim, rather than me, the villain.

Too bad the people—her people—the ones who know her story and want it to be told, are all dead. Except me; because you see, it’s one thing to kill a frightened woman who loves you. It’s another thing to kill her pissed-off sister…

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Even with my chin fixed forward, I see the bright hue of orange radiating from my shoulders. It is the standard-issued coveralls they give all inmates that gave off that god-awful glow. Even when we take them off, the dye clings to our skin, giving us the appearance that we bathe in Cheeto dust.

Oh, and don’t get me started on the smell. It is overwhelmingly thick from chemical-based soaps used to sanitize rather than clean, which leaves the fabric crusty with a hint of someone else’s BO. It makes me itch and sneeze constantly.

I'm not the only one, either. The men leading me down the long corridor toward the visiting room scrunch up their noses as well. Then again, that likely has something to do with the fact that the water pressure is almost nonexistent, and I can't get a proper wash in to save my life.

The guards turn the corner, forcing me to shuffle along with them before stopping outside a massive metal door. The man to my right pushes a flat red button on the wall and tells me to look up at the camera.

The fluorescent lights sting my eyes as I turn up toward the gated lens. I go to raise my hand to shield them, only to be jerked back by my chains. With no other choice but to burn my retinas, I squint at the little red light inside the camera’s cage.

Inmate 25208, accompanied by officers Runze and Galelick, he shouts, naming himself and his partner.

A loud buzzer rings as the thick metal slab cranks open to reveal a cleaner, fresher side of the prison. On this side, the walls are crisp and white, with tiled floors that don't have scuffs or blemishes. There's no water damage staining the ceiling, and the lights are soft and easy on the eyes.

My eardrums rattle as the guard to my left man-handles me down the hallway, before aggressively shoving me into a brightly lit room. If it wasn't for my lack of interest in spending my last few weeks in the hole, I would have fought back. Stomped down on his foot by accident or argued, but isolation with the other scumbags on death row is bad enough for me.

Scattered around the room are five stainless steel tables with stubby stools embedded into the floor to keep inmates from throwing them. Under the barred window along the back wall is a set of empty shelves. They are meant to hold board games and books to enjoy with your loved ones, but like most prisons, funding is spent elsewhere.

Off in the far corner—far away from the door—sits a puny little man with a tape recorder in the center of the table. He fiddles with a stack of papers, while frantically looking for the pen tucked behind his ear.

The boy seems far too young to be a reporter, with his baby-soft cheeks and sandy blond hair, cut short and spiked. Is that how kids are wearing it these days? I purse my lips, missing the shaggy hair most men used to sport back in the day.

The young man is in khakis and a white button-up with pinstripes. No tie, no bow, no suspenders. Just a brown blazer folded over the back of his chair and a thin suitcase sitting upright on the floor by his feet.

When he sees me, he stands and nearly falls over his seat. His sloppy attempt to show respect is appreciated since I don't see it very often. So, I nod a 'thank you' as a sly smile slinks across my face.

Uh-hey, hi, he says, offering his hand though I'm not allowed to take it.

No touching! a guard yells.

Oh, I’m sorry, the young man flinches. I’m Paul, I’m here to interview you, uh, about the murder of Ralph Mitchelle.

I tilt my head as if to say ‘duh’. I mean, why else would he be here? But I do what my lawyer always tells me and keep things polite by not saying anything at all. I simply take my seat and wait for my cuffs to be fastened to the bar under the table.

Once I am secure, the guard steps back and flanks the door in order to give the illusion of privacy. I know better, though. In prison, there is no such thing as privacy. There is no doubt in my mind that they will be hanging off my every word.

Uh, Paul gulps, So…

The poor guy’s chest heaves, his hands are shaking, and a bead of sweat forms on his brow. I’m not that scary, am I? I want to tease, but instead, I put on my sweetest smile.

Hello Paul, that’s a lovely name. It was always a favorite of mine. I watch him squirm at my admiration. Clearly, he isn't a fan of being told his name is fancied by a known killer.

Right, he says, ignoring my compliment. The talk back in Hill Valley is that you did the town a service.

You’ve been to Hill Valley? I ask, surprised that anyone took the time to actually go there.

Uh, yes, I umm. My boss is thorough. He, uh, sent me there for research, Paul stutters, picking up his papers and tapping them into a neat pile. So, from what I know you’re not one for pleasantries. He shrugs. Are you okay to hop right into it?

I mirror Paul’s shrug. What would you like to know?

Well, let’s start with what got you here.

I lean back on my stool, using my cuffs to anchor me in place.

This is my moment. I can do as my lawyer says and stick to the original story. Plead my innocence as I’ve done since being arrested. Or, I can finally tell the truth and take the stockpile of lorazepam I have hidden in my bedpost. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather fall asleep alone in my bed than endure a publicized execution—which I am scheduled for, regardless.

I suck my teeth and watch the scrawny little reporter. It is obvious he isn’t seasoned in his line of work–likely an intern–bottom of the barrel for a boring old tale like mine. Wouldn’t it be spectacular to give him the story of a lifetime? I couldn’t help but smirk as I think about blowing up his career, then leaving this world before anyone else comes a-knocking.

Well, the same way most people get here, I suppose. I banter, still deciding if I should finally tell the truth. Or I can continue with the poetic option of taking what I did to the grave…

Right, yes. Paul shifts in his seat and quickly glances at the burly men watching over us. I guess, I mean, specifics. Yea. Sorry. This is my first time, he admits, confirming what I already suspected. I knew I would mess this up… he adds under his breath.

The defeat in Paul’s voice reminds me of Ricky's when we learned that I would be framed for Helen’s murder. The sound of failure…

I clench my jaw so tight tension builds up behind my ears. I don’t know this man, yet I can't help but feel bad for him. Whether it be the fact that I am tired of keeping this secret, or genuine pity, it doesn't matter. It’s time to blow this lid, Sid.

My chains pull tight as I lean over the table, causing Paul to instinctively pull back. The corner of my mouth turns up as I use my nose to click the record button on his little device—the same one he has yet to touch—and I speak right into the microphone.

I killed him.

Painful Reunions

17 years earlier…

The engine of my candy apple red Buick Skylark roared through the small-town streets of Hill Valley, signaling to the locals that I was back.

The few lucky enough to see through my open window visibly gasped. No one expected me to come back. Hell, even I was surprised to be back home, but the envelope on my passenger seat was nothing to be ignored.

I couldn’t tell if it was the message written or the large ‘79 in the corner of the letter that irked me the most. 1979. It had been ten years since I left this place in my rearview mirror. Ten whole years and the only thing I regretted was not bringing her with me.

I gritted my teeth and sneered. In all that time, not a thing had changed. Not the stores, the people, or the broken crosswalk in the heart of town. Even the high school seemed frozen in time with the same kids, only in different clothes.

I rounded the corner onto the back street that ran along downtown and entered through the back parking lot of McGobreis, Hill Valley’s funeral home. It was packed, like I’d assumed it would be. Helen was always the popular one, making friends wherever she went while all the boys pined over her. I just tagged along for the ride—when she let me, that is.

My engine puttered to a stop as I took a moment to watch as old classmates, neighbors, and even an ex-boyfriend come and go from the building. I, however, felt no need to rush into the place. Not if he was going to be there. Not with what I knew.

I looked down at the envelope encasing the hardest news I’d ever read. Accident, I scoffed. Accident my ass. It was no secret the way Ralph treated Helen. He mistreated her long before he put a ring on her finger and talked her into saying, ‘I do’ fresh out of high school.

Now, a few months after a postcard saying she’s leaving him, I get another letter saying she’s dead. Absolutely not. He killed her, I know he did, but because of who his Daddy was, he’s going to get away with it. Just like he always did.

I folded down the visor and flicked up the mirror cover. The light brown eyes looking back at me were tired with deep, dark circles. My lips needed Vaseline, and my nose could use some powder, or it would if I gave a damn. My sharp features and clear skin gave me no reason for makeup, not with my black hair granting me just as dark lashes and brows.

I flipped my curly mess of hair out of the way, though it bounced right back out of place, and opened my glove box. There, tucked away and loaded was my snub nose revolver. Don’t, I told myself while chewing my cheek raw. Helen would never forgive me if I orphaned her children…

An older couple walked past, headed to their car after giving their condolences. Their presence pulled me from my dark fantasy and gave logic the window it needed to sway me. Not today… I frowned at the gleaming weapon before shutting the compartment door and saving the town from a bloody reunion.

My keys jingled as I pulled them from the ignition and tucked them in the pocket of my worn leather jacket. I then popped the lock and used my shoulder to shove open the janky door before stepping out.

The warm summer sun kissed my back as the day came to a close, and chatter from the other mourners carried across the parking lot. Hushed tales of Helen’s short life and the impacts she made along the way. Mentions of her children, and how awful everyone feels that they didn’t see the signs. 

I scoffed loudly, fully prepared for the looks I received. They’d seen the signs. The abuse. It’d been laid out for the town to see early in their relationship. Everyone just chose to turn a blind eye. Like now. It was easier to think she killed herself than to admit they let him escalate.

It took a moment of pep talk to get my feet moving. Lots of, "let’s go’s and, How ‘bout now?" for my combat boots to stay planted. But after a moment of staring, I whispered, You can do this, and I actually believed it.

Eventually, I managed to pick up my feet and walk my way toward the front doors. I rounded the side of the old Victorian home-turned-establishment, coming into eyeshot of the park across the way. 

Sitting on the swings—heartbroken and confused—were Helen’s two kids, Susan and Paulie, alongside their grandmother, Margret. When she caught sight of me, her eyes widened, and not with cheer or excitement. She reached out and called for me as I skipped up the porch steps into the building.

Beth, please. He’s not worth it, I heard Helen’s mom yell.

Sure he is, I muttered, as the door closed behind me.

The clusters of grieving visitors didn’t matter. Nor did the flowers, chairs lining the walls, or the buffet table with coffee and appetizers. It was the coffin at the end of the room that I saw first. Then her nose, then her face and body.

As I suspected it would, my heart sank and suddenly the room around me wasn’t so big. My fingers tingled and my knees wobbled. You can do this, I told myself, though I wasn’t sure it was true anymore.

I took a couple more steps into the room. The closer I got the more she seemed to be sleeping rather than dead. I wasn’t sure if it was me losing my mind or something all loved one’s felt when coming face to face with the body, but part of me wanted to poke her and tell her to stop faking.

That’s when Ralph caught my eye. He was standing at the head of the coffin with a smug look on his face and not a tear in his eye. You fucking bastard. I clenched my fists, digging my claw-like nails into my palms.

He'd aged horribly. His dark brown hair was receding like his fathers did, and he'd grown quite the gut which only accentuated his short stature. His cheeks were sagging like a bulldog's, and his nose was swollen from alcohol.

My ears buzzed as I stood there for a moment, frozen in the middle of the room as others mourned and gave their hugs or words of sympathy. Part of me was screaming to not cause a scene—to leave. Do as Helen would want, but then I saw it. He’s checking her out!

Helen’s cousin Denise was there in a tight-fitting dress like she always was, and rightfully so. If I had her body, I would flaunt it too, but it was the look he gave her and the way he tilted his head when she walked away that sent me over the edge. Helen’s not even in the