Edward Lee - The Chosen

Restaurant manager Vera Abbot has come to The Inn to embark on the job of her dreams. But from the day she arrives, her dream turns into a harrowing nightmare. She hears strange footsteps, sees faceless figures in the dead of night…and is tormented by erotic dreams in which a hideous stranger makes love to her.

The past never dies. It only sleeps, waiting to unleash a new cycle of bloodshed and terror. For The Inn is a breeding ground for unspeakable atrocities. And now the time has come for Vera to be initiated into its secret world of depravity and horror—whether she wants to or not!

THE CHOSEN

By Edward Lee

Smashwords Edition

Necro Publications

— 2012 —

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THE CHOSEN

© 1993, 2012 by Edward Lee

This digital edition © 2012 Necro Publications

Cover, Book Design & Typesetting:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Graphic Design

http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com

a Necro Publication

5139 Maxon Terrace • Sanford, FL 32771

http://www.necropublications.com

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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For Jasmine Sailing

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The author, though in debt to many, would like to particularly thank the following cool people: Adele Leone; John Scognamiglio; Doug Clegg; Jack Ketchum; and Chara Mattingly (for all the great names!).

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PROLOGUE

Zyra withdrew the ice pick from the man’s throat. Her big eyes widened, sparkling. She loved to watch them bleed out.

“Ooo, lover,” she whispered. “That’s sweet.”

The naked body thrashed between her legs. Zyra leaned over and pinned him down, to watch his death throes more closely. Each raving beat of his heart emitted a thin jet of blood from the puncture, most of which shot up onto her breasts. She’d timed it just right—she liked irony: the points of three matrixes all touching at the same precise moment. It seemed to give the deed more meaning. It seemed to give it truth.

“Come on, baby,” she’d said earlier when they’d come in. A dump, she thought, glancing around. Lamplight blazed to reveal smudges on the walls; the room smelled of grease and old fried food. From a dark velvet portrait, Elvis sneered.

The redneck burped, fascinated as he pawed her impeccable physique. Zyra kicked out of her jeans, peeled off her top, and then hauled his pants off. She felt excited and hot. She straddled him right there on the tacky do-it-yourself carpet tiles.

“That’s right, baby. You just lay back and let Zyra make you feel real good.”

He beer-burped again, struggling under her to get out of his flannel shirt. Crooked teeth showed through his grin as he looked up. “You shore got yourself one hell of a killer bod, hon.”

Killer bod, she reflected. She could’ve laughed.

“Oh, yeah…yeah,” the guy began blabbering; Zyra promptly reached around and inserted him into herself. Not very big, she lamented. In her line of work, of course, she was used to much bigger, but he’d do. This was business, after all.

Her spread buttocks slid down, deepening the meager penetration. She thought of riding motorcycles as she leaned forward and ran her hands over his hairy, fat-layered chest.

“Good gawd, hon.” His eyes bulged in ludicrous ecstasy. A ball of lint filled his navel. “You shore’s shit feel good. Ain’t had me a scrap like this in a coon’s age.”

A coon’s age? She massaged his fatty pectorals as though they were breasts, while her own breasts swayed before his stupid, cross-eyed, redneck face. Poor little lover, she thought. He wouldn’t last long; they never did with Zyra. “That’s it, baby, that’s it,” she cooed.

His big rough fingers fiddled with her nipples. They plucked and pinched. His hips began to tremor; his face looked like a twisted balloon. Not yet, she commanded herself. He began to groan. Then—

Now.

Zyra’s climax released in a burst of vivid, hot spasms, when she felt the redneck’s own climax unleash. Ooooooo, she thought.

That’s when she jammed the ice pick into his throat.

He attempted to scream but succeeded only in gargling. Zyra smiled and held him down—she was a strong woman. He bucked beneath her like a just-gelded mule.

From the tiny puncture, the streams of blood emitted with a considerable velocity—it reminded her of a squirt gun. Squirt, squirt, squirt, on and on. This bizarre synchronicity fascinated her: his ejaculation exiting in time with his blood…

“Ready for my surprise?” she whispered. This was not a reference to the ice pick—as if that weren’t surprise enough!—but just another aspect of her demented lust. Weren’t writers always writing about sex and death? Zyra viewed this as a…literary pursuit…to further her orgasms as uniquely as possible—during the final convulsions of his life.

It seemed thrillingly perverse!

When she was done, she whispered, “Hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

She leaned up. Blood dripped off her nipples. On a silly impulse she placed both hands in the center of the redneck’s chest and pushed down once very hard. A thread-thin stream of blood launched out of his throat and shot across the room. Wow! Zyra thought. The blood drew a high line along the wall and hit Elvis in the eye.

“I’d love to stay and chat, baby, but I’m afraid it’s bye-bye time for you.” She jammed the ice pick deep into the base of his skull and jiggled it around. The redneck stiffened once, gurgled a final objection, then died.

Muffled thumps beat from the bedroom. Zyra smiled when she heard the stifled shrieks. Lemi was in there taking care of the redneck’s little girlfriend. They’d come onto them at the bar, some frowzy hole called the Crossroads. Peanut shells carpeted the sticky floor; a country and western band ineptly twanged chords from the stage. “We all’s swingers,” the redneck had offered after the second pitcher of Carling. “How ‘bout yawl? Think ya might like ta come back ta our place fer a little partyin’?” “Sounds good to me,” Zyra had said. “Sure,” Lemi had said.

“And it was plumb one rat nass party,” Zyra now mocked. She was always talking to herself, or to dead people. “Thank ya much, yawl.” She sauntered nude into the bedroom. Lemi’s muscles tensed as he wrapped duct tape around the girl’s mouth. He’d already tied her hands behind her back. “Christ, Zy. You sure made a mess of yourself. Get cleaned up, will you? We’ve got to pop this blow stand.”

Zyra shook her head. “It’s blow this pop stand, Lemi. Get your quips right.”

He glanced up from the girl’s shagged head. “What’s a quip?”

So stupid, Zyra concluded. All men were. Her pretty bare feet left scarlet footprints to the bathroom. She showered quickly, turning her face and breasts into the cool spray. “Blub, blub, blub—bye,” she gestured, and watched the redneck’s blood swirl down the crusty drain.

She put her clothes back on as Lemi inspected the girl, who he’d lain out on the bed. He appraised her meticulously, like a housewife fussing over which melon was the ripest at the Safeway. “Hmm,” he considered. He rubbed some of her mousy lank blond hair between his fingers. “What a rat’s nest. We’re gonna have to do something with this.” Then he patted her buttocks. “And I’ve seen better asses, that’s for damn sure.”