Today is a good time to just sit back and do some reading. Perhaps you are considering what to add to your Kindle (or other such device). Considering that the weekend is all about Dan O'Brien, take a peek at this excerpt from Bitten and you may have to look no further...
Excerpt:
Chapter
1
Madeline Leftwich sat at the train
station every day at exactly thirteen minutes past midnight. The faded brown
bench on which she sat did not often have consistent occupants as transients
and hobos were sparse this far north.
But
there she sat, hands crossed over her lap. The floral pattern of the thick
skirt she wore was hand-made, buckles and clasps galore adorned the uneven cut
and fold of the garment. Her face possessed an absent quality, not that
characteristics were missing, but instead a vacancy of spirit. That bench meant
a great deal to her. This was the very place that childhood was left behind.
It
had been exactly thirty-nine years since her mother had placed her on that very
bench, brushed back her hair and told her everything was going to be alright.
She had said she would be right back. A promise to a child is a sacred thing.
Even as an adult, Madeline could not tear herself away from the compulsion to
come wait for her mother every day at that exact moment she had left her. The
whistle blew each night as the passenger train rolled into town.
Cold
air rained down upon the open station. Often, there would be sheets of ice that
would expel from the track, lining the waiting area just beside the tracks on
the concrete platform. Attendants had grown accustomed to her presence. Some
even offered her coffee in the wee hours of the morning when they had no other
friend. This night, however, she was quite alone.
Heavy
bleating of the distant train horn filled the night, filtering through a cloudy
fog. The susceptible and otherwise occupied Ms. Leftwich was not yet privy to
the gossip of the town. Murder, a topic of great concern no matter the venue,
would be especially virulent in such a small community. Distance revealed a
dark object hurdling through the night, steam and precipitation sluicing from
the heavy and hot steel that cascaded across the hours of darkness.
The
station was empty. A half-lit banister showed the narrow, icy path that crawled
back out to the blacktop just outside the front of the station. She watched the
train collide with the open air of the darkness, the squeal of the tight brakes
announcing its arrival with startling clarity. Heavy doors opened; artificial
light spilled from the side of the train.
Madeline
watched the open door carefully – waiting. Seconds passed into minutes, yet
there was no sound external to the cold nature of Minnesota. Winter had a
feeling, a symphony all its own. Groaning trees fought against the arctic grip
of snow and ice. Lakes moving in the distance, far beneath the heavy weight of
the ice that had taken residence upon them, filled the night.
Someone
stepped out. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her lithe frame, her sandy
blonde hair tucked beneath a brown wool cap. The scarf around her neck was braided
and frayed; as though it were sewn by someone she knew well, not the simple
manufacture of mass production. Brown eyes watched the empty train station with
great interest and a precision that marked her immediately as more than a mere
observer.
A
bulge at her side revealed a weapon. The simple black bag that was slung over
the shoulder of the long brown trench coat made her appear to be a woman on the
run, or perhaps one who simply liked to travel light.
Seeing
the frail form of Madeline, this sole occupant of the midnight train station,
she made her way toward the sitting woman. Her voice was sweet, her tone full
of purpose. “Excuse me, ma’am. Is this Locke? Locke, Minnesota?”
Ms.
Leftwich watched the woman with wide eyes, pooling with tears. She was severely
confused. Was this her mother? Had this been the person she had waited so long
to see? She hesitated. This woman was younger, younger than she was. Was this
possible: a mother who was younger than you?
“Ma’am,
I…”
“Mother?”
queried Madeline Leftwich, her voice rising shrilly.
“Pardon
me?”
Madeline
did not stand, but instead shuffled her purse at her waist. “Are you my mother?
You left me here a long time ago. Said you would be back, said you would be
back soon.”
Staring
into the vacant eyes of Madeline Leftwich, it took the woman a moment of
complete incomprehensibility to see that there was not much left. Where there
might have once been potential for a woman, were the remnants of some sad
description of what could laughingly be called life.
“No.
I am very sorry. I’m not…”
Madeline
stood now, her features scrunching in anger. “Why would you lie to me? Why
would you leave me here? Why?”
“Ma’am,
my name is Lauren. Lauren Westlake. And I am neither your mother nor a trained
therapist. Can you tell me if this is Locke?”
Madeline
interrupted, her face flush. Her words were filled with venomous rage. “Don’t
pretend I’m a child. I know where I am. I know who I am. Just because you are
my mother, doesn’t mean you can leave me behind.”
Lauren
Westlake looked at the woman in a mixture of shock and horror. She resisted the
urge to physically restrain the woman, concerned about the reaction she might
have. “What is your name?”
Madeline’s
face was the very picture of surprise. “You don’t remember your daughter’s
name?”
Lauren
was uncertain how much further this charade should be carried, whether or not
disengaging from the woman would be simpler. Looking at the woman carefully,
she noticed that her clothing was handmade. The name Madeline was sewn carefully into the breast of her outmost jacket.
Stifling an irritated sigh, she continued. “Madeline. Your name is Madeline.”
And
then as quickly as the madness had come, it dissipated. “Why are you talking to
me?”
“Excuse
me. I…”
Madeline
looked at Lauren strangely and stood, gathering her belongings. She moved past
Lauren and out into the night as though the interaction did not even happen.
Lauren watched her go, scrutinizing the entire exchange in her own mind.
Shaking her head, she adjusted the bag at her back and moved forward past the
dock of the train station and into the cold area just above it.
Ms.
Leftwich was nowhere to be seen. As far as Lauren was concerned, that was for
the best.
The
night was cold. A heavy veil of fog seemed to grow like a behemoth. She looked
down the lane and saw only two endless views of darkness. The blacktop was
crystalline, frozen precipitation having created a surreal sheet that seemed as
though it would be better suited for ice skating than vehicular travel.
“Not
exactly a warm welcome,” she muttered, drawing the top of her coat closer to
her face. There were muffled sounds in the distance, voices that were muted;
sounds that could originate from only one kind of establishment: a bar.
Lowering her head and pulling the strap of her bag tight, she soldiered on.
*
* * * *
Madeline
had made a mistake that night that would cost her life. Each night that she sat
alone at that train station, she would wait for the sun to rise and then
scamper home, ashamed. This night, however, her emotions had gotten the better
of her. And it was in these woods that she would now find herself in the
presence of a particular creature of the night, one that would come to haunt
and terrorize the inhabitants of the small town of Locke.
The
moon overhead stung the fog, driving the ethereal wisps from its view. Wide and
threatening, it looked peaceful when viewed in the company of others, in the
arms of a lover perhaps. To Madeline Leftwich, a woman lost in her own mind, it
was a portent of doom.
Thick
branches grew over the sorry excuse for a path that she walked each day. By
daylight the intricacies could be gleaned, but at night it was a haunted maze
littered with obstructions and potential trip falls.
Her
shoes were a dark fabric. Not the kind of material used when hiking through the
woods at breakneck speeds, though that is what Madeline would need that night.
When she paused at the center of the trail to make sure she wasn’t being
followed, the dead silence of the night became a far more frightening sound.
“Who
is there…” she half-whispered, her voice cracking.
A
branch snapped, frost claiming yet another soldier. Crack. Another sound echoed in the night; this time much heavier,
like weight lingering as a fledging branch gasps for its last breath before
being trampled. She pulled her bag close to her chest, her face twisting in
fear. Her eyes were wide as she searched the night frantically. “There is
nothing there,” she whispered, tearing her eyes from the tree line.
Continuing
forward, her steps were quicker, more deliberate. The woods around her thinned
the faster she walked, white speckled pines giving way to broken branches along
a road of depreciating value. The trail widened in places, enough that little
pockets of dirt and soil were pushed up from use.
As
if something were urging her forward, she began to run slightly, her breath
expelled in heavy puffs of condensed air. She wheezed then, a panicked,
hiccupping sound that erupted deep from within her chest.
And
that was when she heard the first growl. There
was something wrong with it. It sounded like an animal, the guttural low
pitches. However, there was something human to it, a strange gargling sound.
Rising in pitch, it sunk again disappearing into the fog.
Her
feet were not as sure beneath her as she thought. The tips of the fabric shoes
dug into the hard soil, making her wince in pain. Biting her lip hard, she
forged forward, stumbling into an open area of the trail.
Trees
crowded the edges of her vision and the clearing. The trail continued on the
way she had been trampling and then split into two smaller trails yet. The fog
hung ahead of her, pulling away as though it were an entity all its own.
Silence
permeated the area, there was low rustling. And then the growl came again. It
sounded hungry, desperate, the pinnacle of auditory fear. “Who is there? What?
Why are you hiding…” she whimpered. “Please…please.”
It
seemed to come from all around her, enveloping the cold night air. The fog
stirred, deep in its belly a shadow formed. Tall and hunched, it was a mass of
darkness shaped like a man. Heavy in the shoulders, spines seemed to rise
unevenly from the arms and body. The head was lowered and the knees bowed as
though it were ready to pounce.
Yet
it did not. It stood, chest heaving, safely veiled by the fog bank. Hands that
seemed to melt into long thin claws were obscured by the swirling mass of
miasma ebbing and flowing within.
She
was speechless.
Her
mouth opened: no words.
Her
mind raced. Panicked thoughts flooded her mind, erasing judgment and reason.
Muscles constrained, joints locked, she watched helplessly. It took a single
step forward, the heave of its heavy chest frightening.
Madeline
Leftwich was not a god-fearing woman. In point of fact, until that moment she
had not given much thought about death. Never had she thought about whether she
wished to stay in this world: alive, mortal. Now, when confronted with
something drawn from nightmares, her pulse raced and she realized, with a
desperate certainty, that she did indeed wish to live.
The
rain trickled then, a fat droplet striking her across her hair. Her feet hit
the ground hard, her pulse racing as she abandoned her bag. Churning, her feet
dug into the hard winter earth. Her breath sputtered in front of her in rapid
fits of exploding clouds. She whimpered as she ran, tears running down her face
as trees slapped her hard across her cold, sensitive features; some left
bruises, others broke skin.
The
forest was alive with sound.
Creatures
hooted and hollered in the night.
They
knew something was happening.
She
could hear herself breathing heavily.
She
would not last much longer.
Her
foot caught something lodged deeper into the frozen ground, the world spun in
circles as her back collided with the unforgiving earth. The groan that escaped
her lips was foreign.
Frightened
and defeated, she kept very still. Where she had landed proved defensible, high
brush bristling with heavy branches and evergreen leaves that hid her partly
from view.
The
forest beat a heavy drum.
Footfalls
of animals loose in the night filled the air. There was one set of footsteps
that rung above the others: something primal, something large. She covered her
mouth with her hand. Pressing it tightly, a shadow crept across her vision.
She
peered out the side of the brush.
It
stood like a man.
Up
close the fur was matted, uneven, missing in some places. The legs were
muscular and covered in fabrics that seemed to sluice fluid. Hemorrhaging from
the torso, it moved with a predator’s grace.
Its
face was covered in shadow.
Madeline
felt a scream rise from deep in her chest and she pressed her hand harder
against her mouth. Closing her eyes, tears streamed from them. Her chest
heaved, but she tried not to move, locking her body into a paralysis.
She
could not tear her eyes away from it.
Turning,
the face was still well-hidden.
Long
slender fingers, like dull blades, bounced against the creature’s legs. The clothing
was torn and dirty. A smell emanated from it that could only be described as
nausea in the depths of a septic tank. Lifting its head, it sniffed the air, a
hood pressing against its mangled hair.
Her
breath caught in her throat.
The
slow turn of the creature and the bend of its legs as it lowered closer to the
ground was more than Madeline could take. And before she could even remove her
hand from her mouth to scream, it was upon her.
How to find Dan O'Brien:
His (excellent) Radio Show Page: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/amalgamation
Empirical:
http://www.empiricalmagazine.com/
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