Jeff Gunhus - Night Chill

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Night Chill: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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From the author of
comes a supernatural thriller for adult audiences. Jack Tremont moves his family to the quiet mountains of Western Maryland hoping to leave behind a troubled past and restart his life. Instead, he finds himself caught up in a nightmare when his daughter Sarah is targeted by Nate Huckley, a mysterious and horrifying stranger driven by a dark power that will stop at nothing to possess Sarah. When Sarah goes missing, suspicion falls on Jack and he must uncover the secrets of the small mountain town of Prescott City and face the evil secret hidden there. As he digs further, he learns the conspiracy reaches more deeply than he could have imagined. Finally, he will have to face the question, What is a father willing to do to save his child? The answer? Anything. Anything at all.

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There was a body propped against the crumbling concrete slab next to the bar’s front door. Albert James was the man’s name. Jack had seen him around before, usually passed out at a booth in Piper’s, or sometimes in the park downtown, shouting at the trees, or sitting on a bench, rocking in place and mumbling to himself. Guys like that were everywhere in L.A. but Albert James had the stage to himself in Prescott City.

He had on his usual costume, dirty camouflage overalls, a black t-shirt, and work boots caked with mud. He had thin hair through which his scalp, all spots and flakes of dry skin, was clearly visible. Albert’s hair had grown to his shoulders and it hung heavy with oil and dirt. He managed to somehow shave often enough that he never grew a full beard but patches of grey whiskers stuck out at odd angles. The whiskers did little to hide burst blood vessels that spread out across his cheeks like spider webs. Albert James never made any attempt to clean himself up. He was the town drunk and it was a position he held with an improbable pride.

“Hey Albert,” Jack said. In L.A. you didn’t talk to folks like Albert James, you just walked and ignored them the way you ignored an unsightly crack in the sidewalk. Around here, people recognized that as screwed up as he was, he was still a man. “How’re you doing today?”

“Dying,” Albert said, his voice a distracted murmur.

“Yeah, I guess we all are.” Jack went to open the door to Piper’s.

“Some soonah that others.”

Jack paused. Something in Albert’s voice had changed, as if he were suddenly more alert. He looked down at the man but Albert’s head still hung limp against his chest. “Yeah, you take care now. Stay out of the rain.”

“Like lil’ Saaarrraahhh.” Albert breathed out the words as if his lungs were deflating.

Jack stepped back and looked down at the man. “What’d you say?”

Albert turned away, like he was going to be hit. He buried his head in his chest, moaning.

Jack crouched down, shaking his head. Must have been his imagination, but he could have sworn—

Albert’s body convulsed violently, his legs spasmed out in front of him, head banging back against the brick wall. He twisted in place as if jerked forward on invisible ropes tied to his joints, his contorted face pushed even with Jack’s own. “Yor lil’ gurl, Saaarrraahhh. She’s in troubl’. She’ll be dyin’ sooner than you think, I reckon.”

Jack’s stomach tightened and the ground seemed to sway beneath his feet. He blinked hard. He reached out and toward him but Albert turned away and covered the sides of his head with his arms.

“How do you know my daughter’s name? Why did you say that, Albert?” The man flinched like a dog used to being kicked just for being around. Jack knew he was scaring him but he didn’t care. He raised his voice, “You tell me. Why would you say something like that?”

Jack reached out and seized Albert by the shoulder meaning to pull him to his feet. But as soon as Jack made contact, Albert snarled and lunged at him. He grabbed Jack’s hand and yanked hard and brought him to the ground. Arm cranked behind his back, his face flat to the concrete parking lot, Albert forced him down.

Hot, boozy breath huffed in Jack’s ear.

“You listen good now, Jack. There’s bad weather comin’ see? I mean real bad. You get your family outta here. They’re gonna get lil’ Sarah, I know it. I jus’ know it. They’ll kill her, see? And you caint stop ‘em, Jack. You caint stop the devil himself.”

Jack froze with the words. His logic disappeared and animal instinct took over. A chill passed through his body and every hair stood on end. There was something in the voice. Deep and resonant. Jack didn’t hear the words, he felt them.

You hear me, Jack? You caint stop the devil himself. So don’t you try.” Then soft, no more than a whisper, a child’s voice, “Run while you can. Take her away from here before it can happen. RUN!”

Jack pushed violently off the ground and Albert fell off him. He crawled away, unable to breath. He knew that voice, but it was impossible. She was dead. If there was any truth he knew, it was that the girl was dead. Jack had killed her himself.

“What the hell is going on?” Jack whispered.

Albert, curled in a ball on the ground, looked up and Jack saw a flash of someone else behind the man’s eyes. Then, just as fast, it was gone.

Albert rocked back and forth, singing off-key,

Swing low.

Sweet chariots.

Comin’ f’ward tah carry me home.

Jack stood up and back away from the man, his hands shaking.

The door opened behind him and Jack jumped. Two men exited the bar, giving him a sidelong look as they noticed Albert cowering on the ground.

“Everything OK here?” asked the older of the two of the men.

Jack steadied himself. “Yeah, everything’s fine. This guy here might need a ride home, though.”

“Ol’ Albert?” the younger one jumped in. “Hell, I think he is home. This is the only place I’ve ever seen him.”

Albert clutched his legs to his chest. Rocking. Rocking.

“What’s wrong? Did you do something to him?” the first man asked, taking notice of the dirt on Jack’s clothes. They both looked at him suspiciously.

Jack brushed off his clothes. “He was all sprawled out and tripped on him. I feel awful.”

The two men seemed to accept the story. They bent down, grabbed Albert under the arms and stood him up.

“Albert, did you trip this guy?”

“Let’s just leave him alone,” Jack said.

The older man said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him. Why don’t you go on in.”

Jack gave them a nod and, with one last look at Albert, ducked through the door and into the bar heading toward a much needed drink.

Piper’s was a dive. The ceiling was worn decorative metal tinted a coppery orange by decades of tobacco smoke. A battle scarred oak bar covered by a half-inch of lacquer extended along one wall, fitted with brass railings and draft beer pulls. Bottles of booze lined the counter behind the bartender but nothing fancy. The patrons at Piper’s weren’t picky about brands and if they were Jim Butcher, the big German who owned the place, had no problem jabbing the stump of his amputated right arm at the door and telling them to get the hell out.

Round tables and booths of dark wood surrounded the two pool tables near the wall opposite the bar. One pool table tilted to the left and the other to the right. The only fight in the bar in years happened when an out-of-towner insisted on trying to level the tables only to find out that the local crowd liked their pool just the way it was. Piper’s wasn’t for sad drunks trying to lose themselves, it was good people meeting friends and having a good time. People threw their peanut shells on the ground, cheap beer flowed until the owner decided it was time to close, and everyone knew pretty much everyone else. It was pure small town and that was just fine by the people who went there.

Jack spotted Max Dahl sitting at the end of the bar and headed over toward him. Jack knew most of the regulars in the place. When he’d first moved there people had raised a wary eye when he mentioned he was from California, as if that was all they had to know about him to know he was nothing more than a flake and a liberal weirdo. Jack hadn’t realized the disdain most people had for Californians before he’d moved. But it wasn’t long until he was one of the guys, thanks in a large part to his early friendship with Max who seemed to know everyone, and his assurances that while he was from California, he was born and raised in Iowa. His Midwestern credentials helped offset most of the skepticism about his character. Jack wasn’t quite a local yet, but he felt welcome and figured it would take a few more years until people stopped introducing him as the guy from California. He shook a few hands as he crossed the bar and finally made it over to Max.

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