A sample from THE EYE OF THE ABYSS!
Chapter three is complete and so far things are going smoothly. In all, it will be about a twenty-four chapter book, with a lot of lore and backstory woven throughout the mystery and the horror. It will, I think, end up being a kind of spiritual sequel to Buried Deep. Continuing, not the content of the book, but the themes, the tone, and the overall vibe of the book.
Here’s a little bit from the third chapter, presented without context:
Arnold was the last one up, having decided to unpack and attach the garden hose to the faucet outside. The moonlight was nearly full, and the sky was cloudless, offering plenty of visibility. Not that he needed it: What a strange thing it was to be back at the house of his childhood, the place where he’d only spent the first nine years of his life, and to know it so well it was as if he’d never left.
Thirty-seven years had passed, but it might as well have been a week or two; he walked straight from the backdoor around to the side of the house where the faucet was located without needing to take even a second to reflect on where to find it.
After screwing on the hose, he stood up, hand pressed against his back, and listened to the sound of nothing. Their neighborhood was larger and more populated than it had been when he was a child, but the neighbors seemed quiet enough for his liking. A quick scan set his eyes on a few houses, most of which had their lights off and their residents gone to bed. One house had a lamp blazing in a side room and, unless he was mistaken, a figure standing by the window, peering out into the night, looking in his direction.
It was too dark to spot Arnold, surely, he thought to himself. Probably it was just a nosey neighbor taking one last look at the street before retiring. He walked back around the house, toward the back door, but stopped at the faint crackle of a twig snapping near the outside faucet. He spun around and saw nothing. The raised hairs on the back of his neck told no lies, however.
“Who’s there?” he asked, trying to sound stern. No answer came, which was better than a reply, he decided. There was, however, a faint pulsating glow coming from the ground next to the water spigot. His feet moved him toward it and his back compelled him to stoop to the ground to find it. He half-expected to discover a glow worm or some other creature meandering through the overgrown grass.
He was on the ground before he even realized what had happened. Hands pressed against the cold earth, Arnold’s face was pointed toward the house, to a small rectangular window no bigger than a mail slot. On the other side was the basement of his house, and shining from that subterranean room was an odd, golden glow.
The window was grimy. He had to press his face close to the glass to see inside with any clarity. Once he did, the source of the light came into view: A small vase, black like iron, was perched atop a dusty table. From its brim came a golden beam. The light filled the room, blocked only by the basement’s seven support pillars and a single, silhouetted shape: A figure stood directly in front of the vase, staring directly at the pair of eyes watching it from the other side of the window.
A gasp of pure terror erupted from Arnold’s lips.
He rolled away from the window and hurried to his feet before running—nearly stumbling—around the house toward the back door. Quickly he shut the door and, feeling as helpless and afraid as a nine-year-old child, hurried out of the kitchen, away from the basement door…behind which, the heavy echoes of fast-ascending footsteps grew louder and louder. Ignoring them, too afraid to face them, he threw open his bedroom door and closed it quickly behind him, not too loudly, being careful not to awaken his wife.
Seconds later, stripped down to his underwear, he slipped into his bed and pulled the sheets entirely over his head. There he remained, shivering not from cold but from the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body.
A faint click pierced into his ear. His bedroom door had opened. It was too dark under the covers to see and, for the life of him, there was no strength or courage in his body to pull back the covers. He remained where he was, frozen in place, listening…feeling the heat of a presence lingering, looming, leaning over his body.
Wanting him.