Hook House and Other Horrors by Sherry Decker

Author:Sherry Decker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short story, collection, horror, paranormal, supernatural, ghost, Sherry Decker, Damnation Books, key, chain, necklace, mirrors, grandfather clock, garden fountain, stairwell, cliff, twisted windblown trees
Publisher: Damnation Books
Published: 2012-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

* * * *

“I expected the first draft on my desk this morning.” It was Michelle-From-Hell Mangrove, my editor.

I stared at the receiver in my hand, but couldn’t remember answering the phone, much less remember the obnoxious ring that had wakened me. I blinked at the clock: 6:00 a.m. I wasn’t due at the office until nine.

“It’s a three-hour drive to the prison, Michelle. I didn’t get home until after nine.”

“You said you’d have it written and on my desk, today.”

“I’ll have it to you before ten.”

Michelle sighed…one of her you’re-trying-to-give-me-ulcers sighs. “All right,” she said. “Try not to cut it too close though, okay Mitch?” I gave her credit for that. I hated the name Mitchella, and I have never forgiven my mother for creating such an asinine version of my father’s name.

“Yeah.” I slammed the receiver back into the cradle and made myself a mental note to phone Michelle at 4:00 a.m. on Sunday…the only day, according to her, that she ever slept in past five.

While coffee brewed, I staggered to the shower then slipped into my official writing sweats. Opening my briefcase, I found my little recorder and flipped open the clear, plastic window. No tape? I dug through the bottom of the briefcase, through all the loose sticks of gum, pens, lipsticks, compact, comb, and receipts. I dumped the whole thing out on the table. No tape.

I sat down in front of my Mac, determined to write this article from memory. What difference would it make if there were some tiny discrepancies, a few inaccuracies? Who would people believe, me or that nut-case in prison? Me or that guy who claims he flies at night, right through prison walls?

Sugar. Creamer. I dumped the horrible coffee down the sink and made tea. There was the strangest taste in my mouth.

Michelle wasn’t in her office when I arrived, so I tossed the four-page article on her desk then headed to the corner café for a breakfast-lunch. I helped myself to coffee at the self-serve counter and spread the morning paper across my table. The front page captured my attention, the way it meant to: “Copycat Killer Strikes.” Below that:

“When serial killer, Fenmore Gregerson, was sentenced to eight counts of life without parole, the town of Wenatchee, WA believed it was finally safe. Like other famous serial killers, Fenmore Gregerson has his admirers, though—those determined to make names for themselves by stealing his modus operandi…his signature methods of murder. Police give no details of this latest killing, except to say the victim was a thirty-year-old Tai Kwon Do teacher and the attack happened between midnight and 2:00 a.m.”

“Here you go, Sweetie. One poached egg on dry wheat toast and three stewed prunes in light syrup.” The waitress slid the plate across the table as I folded the newspaper and set it aside.

“You know,” I shoved my coffee away. “I’d rather have hot chocolate.”

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