Science Fiction, mystery, fantasy
Date Published: February 6, 2018
Publisher: Chattercreek
The mystery that unfolds on a dark, eerie back road in upstate New York sends Nick Dowling on a frantic quest to understand his past. What he discovers about himself slowly drives him toward madness. Where does the truth unfold, in mystery or in the dream? Is truth the illusion he can't embrace? Just who is Nick Dowling?
Read an excerpt
Read an Excerpt
It was a beautiful night in early
August; the sky was an ebony sheet that stretched across the horizon in somber
silence. The moon was so full it appeared fat―as if it had swallowed every star
in heaven and glowed purely from the pleasure of consumption. Nick Dowling
gazed up at the sky through the windshield of his new Jeep Cherokee. His wife,
Jenna, had just sent him out for a quart of milk. He was pleased to go, happy
to be driving out under the stars on the back roads of New Kingston. Except on
this particular night, there were no stars―just the moon, contently serene as
it trailed his car like a wayward balloon.
Nick tapped his hands on the steering
wheel and started singing along with the radio. "Goodbye Miss American
Pie" he sang out. The
old nostalgic lyrics filled the evening stillness, mingling with the crickets'
song, and the hooting of the owls.
Nick was pleased: clear reception was
not always a reliable luxury in the Catskill Mountains of Upstate New York. The
road ahead was empty. His beams were high and his speed, slow. The last thing
he needed was a startled deer to show up in his headlights. The time off was
exhilarating: there were so many things he could get to, like fixing the lawn
mower and painting the shed. This was the first of several long weekends he and
Jenna were able to steal since they bought their second home in the mountains.
He often had to work weekends to get his job done, a job he found boring and
unsatisfying, not like doing something creative, but an executive's salary was
nothing to scoff at. At least his saved-up vacation days provided a perfect
opportunity to hit the highway, leaving Manhattan's sweltering concrete behind.
The music changed abruptly, the
scratchy sound it made reminded him of an old phonograph needle skipping over a
record. Billy Joel's "She's Got A Way About Her" came through the
speakers with only a slight static sound, like cackle. This was the first song
Nick heard after waking up in a beat-up
hotel room so many years ago, dead broke. All he owned back then was a pair of
jeans and a rusty Gillette.
"I don't know what it is," he
sang out, just as his headlights illuminated a barely visible road on his
left―almost entirely hidden by trees.
"Looks familiar," he said
aloud, smiling, as if someone sat beside him who might have agreed.
"I know that road," he
whispered. He hunched over the steering wheel and slowed down for a better look. The road was mysteriously beautiful,
framed as it was by pine trees that swayed ever so gently in the summer evening
air. The impulse hit him like a spray of cold water, and he braked.
"Oh, what the hell," he said
as he backed the jeep up. This impulsive action was very unusual for Nick who
usually thought things through a thousand times before he did them. But on this
particular evening, he barely gave it a thought before he took a sharp left
onto the road. Perhaps there was something about the moon that night, close
enough to touch, a flirtation he could not refuse.
"Have I lost my mind?" He
laughed, looking around, seeing not much of anything that warranted
fascination.
The road was narrow and dark, but he
had just enough light from the moonlit sky to read the barely visible road
sign: Fox Hollow.
Nick switched off the radio; he'd lost
the clear station right after he made the turn, and the static was irritating.
Slowly, he drove up the bumpy road. The night seemed wrapped in mesh, opaque
and colorless. He accelerated his speed just a bit, attempting to see beyond
his headlights, but there was nothing before him but the adumbration of trees:
it seemed like hundreds of them were standing tall against the sky, bending and
tipping their branches into the quiet swirl of the evening wind like visions
between this world and the next.
The moon hovered at the end of his
sightline like a big mysterious white ball, descending into the Earth, as if
being swallowed. But the edges of the night were dull. Everything around him
looked like a poorly developed print. Nick rubbed his eyes and watched as
night's illusionary mist played havoc with his imagination and shadow monsters
came out of the darkness, as tall as giants.
Something flashed through Nick's mind
with a fervent intensity. Was there magic on this road? Suddenly, he had a
childhood memory. It came out of nowhere: a boy fearing dragons in the night
and dreaming of mythical sword fights in mystic forests with a moon as elusive
as this one. Was he that boy? His memories of childhood didn't exist; his early
life was a void. Yet there it was: a vision of sword fighting with a friend so
small and light― Sir Lancelot in dungarees with his mother's pot for a shield.
Nick felt a sudden chill. Leaning in to
switch off the air conditioning, a flash of light appeared on his hand, swiftly
expanding, trapping his body in its glow, a blaze of cold and paralyzing
illumination. His body froze. He held his breath. In moments, the light was
everywhere, consuming the darkness as if from a hundred headlights.
"What the hell is going on?"
Nick came out of his stupor and looked around frantically. It was getting
increasingly colder, as cold as the dead of winter in Upstate New York can get.
He started to shiver. But the night air had been warm. What the hell was
happening? He could feel his heart pounding; it felt as if he were sitting
inside a freezer.
His bones began to rattle as he looked
through one eye. The light was still there, ubiquitous, the brightness:
blinding. Fear settled on his chest as if he were in the line of unexpected
gunfire. He closed his eyes again.
"I am victim to my own vivid
imagination," he said, staring once again into the opaque night.
The lights suddenly disappeared, as if
they'd been chewed and discarded by the darkness.
"Kids with flashlights, must
be...what else?" But the cold? Strange weather condition? Well,
maybe...in the mountains.
Nick sat quietly, even patiently, until
his fear passed, until it flowed out of his body, until his heart beat normally
once again. When he felt calm enough, he stared back into the shadows and
surveyed the space around him. He realized he had bitten his lip: he tasted
blood.
He lowered his window halfway to make
sure the lights were really gone. He was relieved to see everything appeared
normal in the evening's shadow. The air was warm on his skin. Once again, the
moon bounced naturally in the sky, throwing a path of light before him, like a
megalithic corridor inviting entry.
He accelerated slowly. The moonlight
faded back behind the trees, and the night became as dark as black ink. He
nervously listened to the rocks and branches crunching beneath the wheels of
his jeep wondering if he'd lost the road and was driving further into the
woods.
Nick couldn't see anything but his
headlights. But then, sudden as lightning's flash, as if he'd willed it, the
night was lit by the welcomed sudden reappearance of the moon.
"Where you been hiding?"
Needing a sense of direction, he stopped the jeep. The moon
was fuller than he had ever seen it, but there were no stars out to guide him,
just some shadowy image in the sky.
What the hell am I doing in the middle of nowhere
playing tag with the goddamn moon?
There was a threatening hush, a silence
too barren to trust. The owls had ceased to hoot, and the crickets were far too
silent.
Without warning, the stillness
shattered into a million pieces by a sound that shook his body from inside out.
"Shit!" Nick cried, feeling his heart pounding against his chest.
"What the hell was that?"
Like a drill in concrete, the sound was
deafening. It was so intensely shrill it might have been heard on the other
side of the globe. But then the intense sound vanished, disappeared as
contiguously as a passing thought, back into the night. Had he imagined it? Nick brought his
hands up to his face. They were still shaking badly. No, this was not imagination.
The suddenness of that awful sound jostled him so badly his heart beats were on
overtime, and his favorite t-shirt was soaked in sweat.
He'd been on this road before. He'd
seen the road in his nightmares. He dreamed he was here.
Right after Nick and his wife, Jenna,
closed on their weekend getaway in New Kingston, their retreat from Manhattan's
urgent and colossal perplexities, Nick's nightmares accelerated. It was absurd
to have them―monster nightmares belonged to children, not to men in their late
forties. "I feel foolish to have so many of my dreams invaded by macabre
caricatures," he told Jenna. "An odd thing for a grown man to have―nightmares,"
he'd said reluctantly.
"Not altogether unusual,"
Jenna responded as she listened to his tentative explanations. "Maybe
something is triggering some old and unresolved issues you have with your
mother...or father."
Nick scowled at that, wondering how
he'd ever get out of seeing a shrink. It was absurd to think he needed one.
Jenna insisted on blaming everything on his parents. But how could he blame
anyone he didn't remember?
He accelerated over the stones and the
broken branches of trees, hoping all the crap on the road wasn't scratching the
paint off the jeep's body, or putting any frigging dents on his car. He felt
too uneasy to slow down and check out the damage. Wanting to feel sane once
more had become a prerogative. This introduction to Fox Hollow Road antagonized
his sense of reality and left him surprisingly disentangled from his
perspective on who the hell he was or believed himself to be.
He looked up toward the sky. He felt as
if he'd just driven in a circle; the shadowy cloud was still above him and it
appeared to cover the entire sky.
He drove forward, afraid that if he
didn't he'd wind up in a ditch―lost forever in the goddamn woods. His heart was
still getting a workout and his mouth felt like an old hot towel. He wanted
nothing more at that moment than to reach civilization and grab a shot of
whiskey.
"I've had enough of this nerve-wracking
adventure," he said, his eyes riveted ahead.
About the Author
Olivia Hardy Ray is the pen name for Vera Jane Cook, who is the author of Dancing Backward in Paradise, 2007 winner of the Indie Excellence Award for notable new fiction and an Eric Hoffer Award for publishing excellence, also in 2007. Dancing Backward in Paradise received a 5 Star Review from ForeWord Clarion. The Story of Sassy Sweetwater was a finalist for the ForeWord Clarion Book of the Year Award and the recipient of a five star review from ForeWord Clarion. Where the Wildflowers Grow was her third southern fiction novel and is receiving 5 star reviews from Amazon.com. Her latest southern fiction novel just released is Pleasant Day. Her woman’s fiction novel is Lies a River Deep and the soon to be released ‘Kismet’. Under her pen name she is also the author of Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem, and Pharaoh's Star. The sequel to Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem is Annabel Horton and the Black Witch of Pau. That novel will be released this summer. Jane, as she is called by friends and family, writes in the genres she loves: southern fiction, women's fiction, mystery and fantasy paranormal fiction. She lives on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her spouse, her Basenji/Chihuahua mix, Roxie, her Dachshund, Karly, her Chihuahua, Peanut, and her two pussycats, Sassy and Sweetie Pie.
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