Witch House - Chapter One Preview

Roadside reflectors line the tar liked upturned cigarettes. A thick stretch of forest runs along either side of the highway, lonely driveways splitting the trees like dirty maws. As the sun descends behind the Rocky Mountains, Roger's phone call replays in my head. Scott's dead. Hung himself with a belt. Scott's dead. Hung himself with a belt.

                                                                                Scott's dead.

                                                                                                     Scott's dead.

                                                                                                                          Scott's dead.

His devastated father, his voice was broken, a hollow shell of what I remember and an unpleasant reminder of what these ancient firs conceal. A place so abominable even God forgot it existed.

A sign says thirteen kilometers to Lantern Lake. My body shudders. I flip the radio dial, manipulating the static until shrieking Black Metal takes form on the airwaves.

"Hello out there," a familiar voice says over the fading track. "A wonderful night to all those listening, I'm your host Ben and this Ghost Show Radio, on HOWL one-oh-three. If you're on the the roads, be cautious, some rain headed our way. Hopefully it'll help put out the forest fires burning in the west. It's ten-fifty-three and time for some more music, here's Temple of the Morning Star by Today is the Day, on HOWL one-oh-three."

Thunder claps and a wolf wails, acoustic guitar fading in behind the cheesy track.

A railway overpass, long unused, runs over the highway ahead. The four of us left our mark on the bridge parapet all those years ago. Tawny kept watch while Scott and Ben held my ankles. Thirty feet above the highway, I carved our message in bright pink spray paint for all to see - This Is HelL. We were so fuckin' proud. But as I pass beneath the bridge, a wave of bittersweet falls over me. Our handiwork is gone, vandalized by a kindred pentagram, trails of red paint crying from the tips of the star.

I shift in my seat and pop a cigarette between my lips. Flicking my lighter, I stare at the twitching flame. Beyond the bead of fire on the side of the road, a woman appears like a conjured phantom. The fabric of her skirt dances around her ankles. Her brightly colored shawl flails in the wind, the blues and yellows and greens licking towards the road in psychedelic swirls. Jet black hair hugs her face contrasting the sutured lines of barbed wire behind her, separating ditch from untamed wilderness. Her dark eyes cut the night, holding onto mine. But in an instant she's gone, vanished or passed, I'm not sure. As the town draws close my foot becomes leaden. The RPMs climb, along with the desire to blast right on through - a comet ripping the night sky to somewhere much more pleasant. A sign buzzes on the horizon, reading Skinner's Taphouse, the letters sandwiched between a sudsy mug of beer and an open straight razor. The neon tubes pull my car towards the dirt parking lot. I need a drink.

Killing the engine, I step out to meet the night. Sleazy Dubstep booms from a souped-up Honda a few stalls over. Two party boys in ball caps and track pants lean against the vehicle, the trunk open and subwoofers rattling. Electricity surges in the clouds as a hefty storm swirls above. Built from logs, sawen and stacked, the Taphouse stretches the length of the parking lot. Yellow light seeps from lamp posts that perimeter the parking lot, their soft glow nearly overpowered by the buzzing purple and pink of the neon sign above. At the end of the building, thick wooden posts jut from the earth, the fractured pikes remnants of the pioneers who settled the land. I don't remember this place being here, though to be honest, I don't remember much. I remember the trees. I've never liked the woods. In fact, I hate them. Dark, dirty, animals with disease, and bears, fucking bears, no thank you.