reading

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book contains works of fiction. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is humbly dedicated to the black and brown youth out there who are feeling awkward, lonely and not the least bit cool because you’re into things no one thinks you’re supposed to like.

I met Marc L. Abbot and Steven Van Patten the first time at separate Horror Writer’s Association events. My first impressions of each made me want to hang out with them. Marc’s intelligence and wit was edgy and brilliant, while Steven’s watchful, yet relaxed humor also made me laugh. They both were people who notice everything around them. Nothing was getting by these two.

So when they told me they were doing a book of horror tales together I was beyond intrigued. What would come out of this collaboration? You’re getting ready to find out. The only expectation I had was knowing this was a collection of stories by both. There are no rules for collaborations, so I started reading with an open mind.

The first story takes us to a bar, The Way Station, with Marc and Steven, where they had been invited by a friend’s concern that one of the workers was into some demonic stuff. The bar is mostly empty and their conversation was familiar enough that I could hear their voices. The cutting humor and friendly kidding back and forth made me smile; here’s the Marc and Steven I knew.

The book’s distinct structure is reminiscent of Arabian Nights, flavored with urbanized horror and their personalities. Stories weaving within stories drew me right into their book. As I read I had to go back and look at which author wrote a particular story because their individual styles blended together so well it felt much like one author, keeping me engaged in the journey.

I loved the references to movies like Friday the 13th and their entertaining use of historic horror and popular tropes (ex. Steven Seagal, HBO, Abercrombie and Fitch, DMX, Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle cereal, Lester Holt, etc.).

The last story, written by both as were all the Bar stories, was exciting, dangerous and sprinkled with humor.

When I finished reading this book the song Highway to Hell started blasting in my head, maybe Marc and Steven will put up a play list of their own at some point. Steven does have DJ on his list of abilities and I have no doubt that Marc’s knowledge of music also runs deep, so I would expect the play list to be fascinating and distinctive as they are.

I hope you will enjoy this ride as much as I did. Smile and find chills as their individual tales unfold and the larger tale at The Way Station bar. Perhaps one day I’ll meet them there and we can share a drink! Make mine a gin & tonic!

The throaty growl of the Yamaha V-Star’s 1100cc engine lingered several seconds after the ignition was cut. Steven Van Patten dismounted the motorcycle and glanced at the sign swaying in the autumn breeze above the door of The Way Station. Though the bar had only opened five years earlier, the weathered maroon board gave the impression it had been around for decades. To the right, a single glass door leading to the event space -- used by everyone from local musicians to burlesque dancers – looked as if someone was trying to break out. Steven moved closer.

Web-like circular cracks marred the lower half of the glass. They had not breached the outside, so he figured someone inside had kicked it. He placed a finger at the center of the break, then traced the largest crack as it snaked up to the center of the door before making a path to the door handle. Below the handle, the keyhole had melted shut, again, from the inside. A wad of metal protruded from the hole. Only something hot as hell could have caused that; there was definitely sinister work within.

“Whenever I hear the sound of that bike,” came a voice from over his shoulder, “I know all kinds of hell are about to break loose.”

Steven turned slowly. “Says the man who claims to have walked with the devil himself.” He smiled at the newcomer.

“I have.” Marc Abbott adjusted the bookbag on his back. “Trust me, it was no big thrill.”

The men embraced briefly, then stepped back to size one another up.

“You really came here on that old thing?” Marc joked. “The Ghost Rider has upgraded more times than you.”

“Hey, that bad girl has gotten me out of a lot of jams. She’s old but reliable. If we need to get out of here in a pinch, I’d count on her more that ‘87 Chevy Celebrity you’re driving. What you got on that thing? Two hundred and thirty thousand miles?”

“Okay, keep cracking wise on the old battleship. That car is made out of steel and can take a beating. Saved my ass more times than I can count.”

“You think she’ll save us from this?” Steven pointed at the door. “All jokes aside, what does that look like to you?”

Marc studied the crack and lock. “Shit, this isn’t good. It’s definitely demonic.” He leaned in and sniffed. “I smell sulfur.”

“What exactly did Andy say when he reached out to you?”

“I have it right here.” Marc pulled out his phone and read the text out loud. “I need you and your friend, SVP, to come by tomorrow. I have reason to believe my new bartender might be involved with some dark stuff. I think it’s affecting the establishment. You two are the only ones I know who can discreetly find out what’s going on. I’ll be there by five, so if you can come in at the top of happy hour that would be great. She’ll be working then. Her name is Laura.”

“Okay, that’s a long, vague-ass message. ‘She’s into something dark’ could mean anything. Coffee. Idris Elba.”

“That’s what worries me. Andy is usually a ‘to the point’ kind of guy. The fact that he’s not saying what dark shit she may be into leads me to believe he either overheard something or witnessed it and is too freaked out to say.”

“That’s all he said?”

“For the most part. There were some other messages, even more vague.”

Steven sneered. “Uh-uh. Read me exactly what he said. I’m not getting my ass jumped without knowing the whole story.”

“Jumped by who?”

“Not who, what. If we’re dealing with a physical manifestation of evil, they tend to sneak up on you and do vile things. Tell me exactly what Andy wrote in the follow-up texts.”

“That was the important one. The rest are just ramblings about a book, and some stuff missing from his basement.”

“He didn’t say. He just said…” Marc looked at the phone, “‘…a book with strange drawings, wrapped in wax paper.’”

“Shit, man! That could be a Necronomicon or some other grimoire. I’ve told you before, I don’t mess with resurrections. Some ignorant fool always manages to conjure up a demon that’s not altogether in the head.”

“Who said anything about resurrections or conjures? For all we know, it’s just a Ouija séance gone wrong. Let’s just check it out first. If it’s nothing, or even a mild something, we can handle it and be gone in an hour.”

“Man, I don’t--”

“Happy Hour is on me.”

Steven’s eyes brightened. “In that case, lead the way. Let’s talk to this bartender. But if things go south, it’s on your head.”

Marc scoffed as he turned and entered the bar. Steven peered at the lock again before following Marc inside.

The dimly-lit Way Station had that old bar smell, a combination of spilled alcohol and questionable hygiene. Years of whisky had soaked into the wood of the bar, a welcome home greeting for anyone with a fondness of the drink. The taps were set closest to the door, convenient for the beer drinker who knew what he wanted and could scream out his order on the way to a barstool. Liquor sat prominently displayed on three tiered shelves that ran the length of the bar. Beyond them, a set of stairs led to the basement. Oil paintings depicting Steampunk and the Victorian age adorned the walls. The bathroom, a replica of the TARDIS from “Doctor Who,” stood out from everything else. Steven smiled at the sight, but something caught his attention from the comer of his right eye.

He turned toward the event space, a wide-open area with a stage, a flat screen television overhead, and a small but adequate sound booth. Kneeling beside the sound booth, a muscular man with a crew cut was examining the damaged door, pushing against the cracked glass as though testing for a stress point. He sensed Steven’s presence and turned to face him.

“Everything okay, bro?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.

“We’re all good here, man,” Steven assured him. “Someone messed up your door?”

“Yeah.” The man turned back to the door, mumbling.

Steven turned to Marc. “New guy?” he whispered. The Way Station was more Marc’s hangout; that Marc and the bruiser didn’t know each other was a potential red flag. Marc shrugged. “Andy is running a business. Always needs help.”

“Welcome to the Way Station!” a woman greeted from behind the bar, “What can I get for you?”

“I’m having a beer.” Marc took a seat and removed his book bag. “I’ll take the Kolsh. My buddy here is having a tequila, neat. From the well, of course.”

“Cheap-ass mother,” Steven muttered. He passed Marc, taking a seat on his opposite side. “Actually, I’ll just have what he’s having to start.”

“Sounds good.” Laura took two pint glasses off a shelf and walked to the taps. “Happy hour specials are four dollar drafts and five dollar wells.”

“I know the routine. I’m a regular. My name is Marc.”

“I’m Laura. I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Same here. You must be new.”

“Two weeks. I open on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Cynthia called out today, so I’m covering her shift.” Laura finished pouring the beers and brought them over. “You want to start a tab?”

Marc handed her his credit card, then pulled out his laptop. Steven watched as he opened it, logged in, and immediately started typing.

“I’m Steven. Nice to meet you.”

“Same.” Laura shook his hand. “You guys from the neighborhood?”

“I just moved in a few weeks ago. Needed to be closer to my job.”

“Where do you work?”

Reluctant to reveal too much, Steven decided to only mention his day job. “I’m a freelance stage manager. I work crazy hours in Manhattan and need an easy commute without living in a three grand a month broom closet.”

“Really? That sounds awesome. So you work concerts and stuff?”

“Sometimes. I do a little of everything. From talk shows like ‘The View’ to Off- Broadway. Depends on the client.”

“When he’s not writing books,” Marc chimed in.

“You’re an author, too?”

“Same as this one.” Steven jabbed a thumb at Marc.

“What kind of books do you write?”

“Horror,” Steven and Marc said in unison.

Laura’s eyes lit up. “I love horror. Loved it ever since I was little. Mateo, they’re writers.”

“You guys are horror writers?” Mateo, the Italian guy, called out. “What kind?”

Marc turned to him. “All kinds. Ghosts, zombies, werewolves.”

“Any evil we can come up with we do,” Steven added.

Mateo said something to Laura in Italian. They stared at each other a moment before she responded.

Marc started typing again. Steven saw he was making notes on what was happening. He glanced over the top of the screen at Laura as she turned her attention back to them.

“Are you published? Can I buy your books? Can you tell me some stories right now?” The words came out in a sudden, single breath.

“We’re both published,” Marc replied. “Steve has his own website where you order his books. As for telling a scary story?” Marc glanced at his friend. “I think I have a good one for you.”

“Hold up,” Steven said. “Let her tell us what she likes. You don’t want to just start rambling.”

“You have a point. What’s your poison, Laura?”

Laura leaned on the bar, eyes darting from Marc to Steven. Her lips curled in a sinister grin. “Thrill me.”

Marc glanced at Steven. “Shall I?”

“Be my guest.” Steven conceded.

Basil Carter had once read that it took an hour for alcohol to pass through the body. So, having waited two hours after consuming his fourth beer, he convinced himself he could drive. He said goodnight to his friends, staggered behind his car to urinate, then got behind the wheel, mapping out his route home in his head. A twenty-five mile drive, from the bowling alley in Richmond to Caroline County in Dawn, Virginia. He could do that in thirty to forty-five minutes easily.

To avoid the traffic on I-95, he took Route 301, an old two-lane highway that cut through the rural part of the county. Basil knew that highway like the back of his hand and wasn’t worried about cruising it. The road was unlit; darkness soon engulfed him. While driving straight, the headlights provided ample vision, but on the turns he put on the high beams. Hitting a deer could destroy his car.

The effects of the alcohol started creeping up on him. He lowered the window for fresh air and inserted one of his Metallica CDs in the dashboard player. Cool night air brushed his face, reviving him. He mashed his foot down on the gas pedal, raising his speed to sixty-five, hoping to reach the straight blacktop faster so he could truly speed home.

As the road straightened, Basil heard two loud popping sounds. The car jerked, started skidding. Basil panicked. He slammed on the brakes.

“Turn into the skid! Turn into the skid!” he told himself.

The back end started to swerve. He turned the wheel.

The car came to a complete stop on the shoulder of the road, kicking up dirt and gravel. Basil let the cloud dissipate before turning the engine off.

“Great,” he muttered.

He took a flashlight from the glove compartment, then climbed out and walked to the front of the car. He passed the beam across the front tires. They were intact. Basil moved to the back of the car to shine the light on those tires.

“Arghhh! I don’t believe this!” Basil screamed into the night. “What the hell did I run over?”

Basil shone the light behind him. A wet trail along the blacktop led under his car. He knelt by the bumper, dipped two fingers into the wet trail, raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed.

The liquid had a coppery smell. Basil rubbed his fingers together and sniffed again. It smelled like dirt and old pennies.

“What the hell is this?”

Basil peeked under the car. He extended his arm with the flashlight and saw a thick root with tiny thorns wrapped around the axle. A second longer root had pierced the tire. The thorns embedded in the rubber were much larger. The root dripped red.

Basil started to reach for it when he heard cooing from the side of the road. He turned the light toward a bushel of grass at the base of a fence. The grass rustled. Then the cooing stopped.

“Okay, I need to hurry this up.”

He turned his attention back to the root. He took hold of one and carefully unraveled it. As he did, the cooing started again. Basil ignored it. The other root, stuck in the rubber tire, refused to come loose.

Basil pulled harder. More cooing this time from under the car. He stopped pulling and focused the light on the middle of the undercarriage. The cooing from the grass grew louder.

Basil’s hands began shaking. He put the flashlight down and grasped the root with both hands, then pulled hard.

The cooing under the car became shriller. The root began to snap. The cooing from the grass resounded again. Basil strained. The root snapped loose. The cooing under the car died out, as did the cooing from the grass shortly after.

He crawled out from under the car with the root in his hand and shone the light on it. It wasn’t just a root; it was largest yam he had ever seen. Much longer and wider than ones at the supermarket, covered with eyes and small spuds, like some mutation. Basil brought it to his nose and sniffed. Odors of copper and dirt filled his nostrils.

“Whoa.” Basil jerked his head back. “My God, you smell.”

He prepared to throw it over the fence when one of the attached thorns caught his arm. Wincing, he dropped the yam, and grabbed his arm. He felt his blood run down to his elbow.

“Damn, that was sharp!”

Basil carefully carried the yam back to the car and set it on the passenger seat. The small thorns had grown. He gingerly inspected it. Slowly, the thorns shrank back. Basil felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was both frightened and fascinated.

“You’re coming with me. I have to show you to Dad.”

Basil retrieved the piece of vine stuck in the tire, then perched on the car trunk to think. Focused on the yam, he’d forgotten that he had two flat tires, no spare, and was stranded in the middle of the country in the dead of night.

Off in the grass, the cooing restarted. Something rustled, then quickly took off into the field beyond. It stopped some distance away and started to coo again, fainter.

Basil stood reluctantly and began walking along the shoulder of the road. He’d taken only a few steps when his foot struck something hard protruding from the grass. He bent to pick it up.

A roadside sign attached to a broken wooden post shone in the moonlight. Ine scratched letters, it revealed: TOWN OF HANLIN ONE MILE.

His family roots in this part of Virginia went back to post-Civil War, but no one had ever mentioned of a town called Hanlin. Could it be long defunct? That would explain why the sign was down. If the town still existed, however, he might be able to reach it on the flats. He hoped they had a gas station.

Basil got back in his car, started the engine, and slowly pulled off the side of the road. The car limped badly. He gently accelerated. The car bounced and thumped against the asphalt, but moved forward.

“C’mon, baby, one mile is all I need,” Basil urged.

Something slammed the back bumper, forcing the car to lurch forward. Basil glanced in the rearview mirror, but saw nothing. He slowed, fearing a tire would fall off. The bumper was struck again, with greater force.

The tires sputtered against the blacktop. He struggled to keep the car steady and straight, but the back end jerked and jumped. Tires started coming off their rims.

Basil fought the steering wheel. He kept an eye peeled for another sign for Hanlin, without success. It was faint hope. Then he saw a small sign that read GAS, with an arrow pointing right. He leaned to one side and spotted a side road ahead.

Throwing caution to the wind, Basil jerked the wheel, turned onto the side road, and sped up. The road inclined upward until he could make out glowing lights on the horizon. At the top of the incline, he spotted the gas station to his right.

Basil sighed with relief. He blew his horn as he drove in.

Like most rural gas stations, this one had five gas pumps, a large steel canopy to protect them from the weather, and a brick building off to the side housing a two-door garage and an office. Bright lights above the canopy illuminated the pumping area; stacked motor oilcans formed a makeshift pyramid. Basil stopped in front of them and rolled the window down.

The attendant inside sat low behind the counter watching television, his head moving back and forth. Basil couldn’t make out the show. He walked to the door and knocked.

The attendant ignored him.

“Hey! Can I get some service out here?”

The attendant still didn’t get up. Basil turned to walk away when something moved out of the corner of his eye. He glanced across from the station.

A wooden fruit stand sat partly in shadow but he could make out the produce in the bins. Behind them, a glassy-eyed man stared back at him.

“Who’s out there?” a voice called from the office.

Basil turned. The attendant stood in the doorway. He was a middle-aged man in dirty overalls with the name Carl printed over the right breast.

“I was calling you,” Basil said peevishly.

“I heard ya. I don’t move ‘til my show is over. Wut can’a do fer ya?”

“I had an accident down the road. Something flattened two of my tires. I need new ones.”

Carl approached the car to inspect the damage. Basil followed. “Woo-wee. Wut tha hell didya run over?”

“All I found was this big ass yam with a thorny root or roots wrapped around my axle.”

Carl eyeballed him. “Yer sayin’ a yam did this?”

Basil reached into the car and retrieved the yam. Carl immediately took several steps back.

“Whoa,” he said.

“I know. You ever see anything like it?”

Carl didn’t answer. He stared at the yam; then his eyes slowly shifted toward the man at the fruit stand.

The latter moved slightly and kicked the stand, causing it to shift, catching Basil’s attention.

“You ran over that thang?” Carl asked.

“Yeah.” Basil turned back to him. “I didn’t see it in the road. Maybe it fell off a truck.” He offered it to the attendant. “You want to hold it?”

The attendant shook his head. “Naw, that’s okay. Lemme git’cha up and runnin’, okay? Three tires, right? I thank I have wut’cha need in tha garage.” Carl glared nervously at the fruit stand one last time before hurrying to the garage.

“Don’t you need to know what size tire?”

“I know wut size ya need. I know tha make and model of tha car. Back in a minute. Wait there.”

“Will do,” Basil said.

Carl returned pulling a jack behind him. He looked Basil up and down.

“Can’a git by?”

Basil put the yam back in the car and glared at the fruit stand.

A portable generator near the stand suddenly roared into life. A string of white lights illuminated a small wooden shack that had with more rows of baskets on either side, filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables. The elderly man whose glassy eyes faded as the lights hit them, stared at Basil only a moment longer before turning to tend to the produce. Basil walked over. Not until Basil stood before him did the man lift his head and passing his hands over the baskets.

Most of them held squash, corn, tomatoes and peanuts. There were a couple of melons. Basil didn’t see anything worth buying. He wandered to the end of the row and peered inside the last basket. It was filled with yams, large but nowhere near the size of the one he found on the highway. Basil picked one up to inspect it.

“You grow all these?” Basil asked.

“This is pretty impressive. Good size.”

“Tha best in all’a Hanlin. You can’t git ’em anywhere else. I take real care in raisin’ my yams, son. Trust me. Ya won’t find anyone out there wit such’a fine product.”