Music Box (Digital Short) (Thriller) by Vega Estevan

Author:Vega, Estevan [Vega, Estevan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: mystery, engaging, best seller, riveting, short story, Fiction, dark, suspense, thriller
Publisher: StoneHouse Ink
Published: 2012-03-28T04:30:00+00:00

PREVIEW OF:

The Forsaken

Estevan Vega

1

HE COULD HEAR THE wind whistling. He could see the sun setting. Haiti’s red sand formed tortured clouds around his feet; eventually it climbed into both eyes and sought to make a new home. At the root of him, he wondered if this village could give him what he longed for.

New whispers now blended with the air until he could no longer tell the difference. Dry mouth, back drenched in sweat. It was a penance for coming out here alone; probably to die.

As he looked out into the horizon, a dark summer sun still managed to capture his vision. Even at dusk, the sky’s masterpiece resembled something like a trapped, brooding vulture. Was it waiting to devour his corpse?

He knew he shouldn’t think this way, but the fear of death, a poison he’d never before drunk, existed now. He’d run away long ago because of a sick desire to put an end to his suffering and to control it. He hid well. He escaped. He manipulated and rose to every lustful challenge. Yet here he was again, at the end of his own strength, seeking new power and control. He forced himself to believe in the opposite—to believe he would not surely die but instead be reborn.

“Death, the last enemy,” he muttered.

There was a piercing rhythm in his veins all of a sudden. But what was it? Did it possess a name? Did it originate from within or without? There was no one around for at least five hundred yards, he was nearly certain. When the driver had quickly abandoned him to this village, several of the village’s bewildered residents returned to their homes. Perhaps they knew something was about to change. But what? What had crawled into him the last time he blinked? What new craving lingered under his blood?

He turned his wrist around, glancing intensely at it. Snakelike veins moved, and whether he flexed or didn’t, nothing altered. Something was alive and throbbing under the surface, and it stung. The vipers crawled higher up one arm, splitting off to make copies that would do the same. With every slither, he could feel them growing, multiplying, the storm in his veins now more concentrated. Screaming didn’t save him, didn’t end the torment. He dropped his bags immediately, and the shaking began.

He heard a voice. “Let it in. Let it take you. Do not fight.”

Where is the voice coming from? He shifted his stance, but still he saw no one. Once more his vision splintered. The violent serpents showed him things he had never experienced. He was living the sins and murders of people he had never met, enduring the clips of rage, the reel of dark and horrible things. The things these serpents wanted him to feel. His heartbeat was a deep echo. He looked down at his wrist again, and the veins were black, twisting his arm like a wild infection.

“Why do you fight it so?” The voice spoke again. It was the same haunting whisper he’d listened to before.

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