Hell Town RV Park
Where one man’s trash is another man.
(a Web Serial)
From The RV Files
By Clara Bush
Episode 7, Chapter 1
(for Episode 1 click here and for Episode 2 here)
(Rated Mature for Adult content)
Spooky didn’t know why, but she pretended to be asleep while Brodie showered and dressed for morning coffee with his buddies. She doubted whether he was actually meeting buddies. More accurately, she guessed, he was meeting a buddy. A sex buddy.
He did say he loved me. She played with the thought. She had every right to be suspicious, didn’t she? But he did say “sex,” not “make love.” In Spooky’s mind, there was a difference. She was glad he’d used the word, sex. To her that meant the others didn’t mean anything to him.
“You do have every right to be suspicious,” Shayd said once Brodie slammed the RV door shut. “But the real question has always been, do you love him?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” she said as she sipped her Earl Grey and munched down on an English muffin slathered in butter and honey. She selected a playlist from her iPhone’s downloaded music, clicked on Bluetooth and her speaker. She loved her music in the mornings as much as she loved her tea. She was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark,” the part where he says he’s tired and bored with himself.
Spooky could relate. Am I just tired and bored with myself? she wondered. Is that why I imagine I’m talking to ghosts? “Did I invent you?” she asked and expected an answer. She needed affirmation she hadn’t created Shayd, Chetan, and Singer in her own image. Affirmation from them, she was as important to them as they were to her. But no affirmation came.
“I guess that’s a bad question?” She opened her computer. Several of her regular clients had emailed her. One wanted to know if her new love interest would last. Another needed to know if he was safe to travel to India for a month. The final email was from someone she hadn’t communicated with in two years.
The email read: Hi, Rumer. I was thinking about you, missing our talks, and wondered how you were doing. (She visualized him stopping and considering what to write next.) The email continued: Also, I’m worried about you. I think you could be in danger.
It was from an old client of hers. Aron. He’d become intimate with her. He knew things about her no one else knew. Things she didn’t share with her clients. It was always strictly professional. But Aron knew about her haunts, Dovie, and Brodie. In their last email, he said he knew she was unhappy and asked if they could meet.
Shayd told her Aron was psychic like her. They shared a connection, Shayd had said. But Spooky wanted no part of such a relationship and quit answering Aron emails. She blocked him and feared he might be stalking her.
“How did he get an email through to me?” Then she remembered the recent phone call Shayd initiated to Dovie. “Someone has been tampering with my email account. Shayd?” Sometimes he acted like a spoiled child, and he was the only one of her haunts who would meddle. “Okay, don’t answer. But I know it was you. Please, stop.”
Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face” was playing. She thought about Chick and wondered if “A Face Without Eyes” would work. At that precise moment, the lights in the motorhome flickered, the music stopped, and a woman moaned through the speaker. The moaning continued. Not the pleasure kind of moan so common on porn channels, but an agonizing moan. Like the moan her mother issued right before she died in the car crash. Spooky had never forgotten the moan.
They’d crashed head on with a pick-up truck. The passenger seat crushed into Spooky’s knees as her mom went flying through the windshield. Spooky was trapped and couldn’t move to help her mom. Or her dad. No one came for hours on the isolated farm road to their house. She knew when both her parents died, because the moans and gurgling blood sounds ceased. She knew when the man in the truck died too. His spirit moved beside her and told her he was sorry he’d been drinking. And speeding. Just a few beers, he’d said. He stayed with her until help came, and talked with Shayd about what to expect in the hereafter. They murmured she’d be okay, as she faded in and out of consciousness.
She often wondered why she didn’t see her parents’ spirits. Why she wasn’t granted one last, good-bye. She assumed, since her parents had never embraced anything supernatural, or opened themselves up to the possibilities of the unexplainable, they were too scared to come to her. Too frightened to say they were wrong for trying to hide what she was.
She guessed, but didn’t know for sure.
The lights flickered again and a long series of a woman’s moans volleyed off the walls of the RV. “Chick, is that you. Do you need me?” Even though she’d been thinking of her mom, Spooky knew it wasn’t her. The only woman it could be was Chick. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” the voice said.
“What can I do?”
“Be my friend. Be my friend. Be my friend.”
It was the same child-like tantrum. Definitely Chick. “I call you Chick, but what is your real name?”
“Call me Chick. Chick. Chick. I like. Like. Like”
“How can I help you? I know, be your friend. But how?”
“Chick. Chick. Chick. Soon. Soon. Soon.”
The lights flickered. “It’s always the damn lights,” Spooky screamed and held her head in her hands like she was trying to press away a headache. Suddenly Idol’s song picked up where it left off. It was one of her thinking songs and thoughts replaced the pain. Chick says words in threes. Three is the Empress on Tarot cards. In Christianity, it is the holy trinity. In Taoism, three begets all things. Past, present, future. Body, soul, mind. Beginning, middle, end. Birth, life, death. All threes. There are three phases to the moon. Genies grant three wishes. Our world is three dimensional. A woman is said to have three life stages: the maiden, the mother, and the crone. Damn, I must be in the third stage of my life. A crone. Hate that word.
Spooky’s mind wandered like a flitting butterfly. “Damn, I got nothing.”
“But you do,” Singer hummed.
“There you are. Did I finally think of something noteworthy?”
“You always think noteworthy things, but sometimes we can’t give you the answers you need, want, or deserve. So, we remain silent,” Shayd said.
“Being a crone is a good thing. In ancient times, the crone was a wise goddess and the embodiment of wisdom,” Chetan said.
“Maybe because what Earth people think three represents is different from what Chick’s world thinks three means?” Chetan said.
Spooky scratched her forehead. “That makes no sense.” She wanted to explain exactly why that made no sense—that the whole dimensional thing had no basis—but her mind teetered when her computer dinged again.
“You need to answer that,” Shayd said.
“It’s another email from Aron. Not answering it.”
“You need to.”
“No, I don’t. He could be a perv or something.”
“He’s not. I checked him out.”
“Why are you encouraging this?”
No answer. Spooky tapped her foot. “Really, you’re not talking?” She clicked on the email. It read: Rumer, please. I’m worried. I know you don’t know me and probably think I’m a perv. I’m not, promise. I know I scared you when I told you the things I knew about you. And I’ve left you alone these past two years, but I know something is wrong, and I’m afraid you’re in danger.
“See, he says he’s not a perv,” Shayd said.
“Yeah, I bet all pervs say the same thing.”
“At least answer him.”
“What if he is some amazing guy who sweeps me off my feet and steals me away from you?’
“He’s not. Trust me.”
She typed: Yes, you scared me. How do you know these things about me? She poured some more Earl Grey and toasted another muffin. Her computer dinged.
He wrote: I can explain if you’ll let me. Please, meet with me. Just coffee.
She replied: I don’t drink coffee, and you would not want to come to where I am. Seriously, you wouldn’t. And I can’t leave.
He wrote: I’m already here in Prayer Town. Meet me. I beg you.
To follow the Hell Town Web Serial, click on the links below.
The reason I began writing a blog was to create a brand for my fiction. After almost four years of blog writing and much research, it dawned on me, I’m not doing what I love doing. Yes, blogging is a form of writing, but my love is creating characters with flaws, placing them in scary situations, and adding a little romance. Which is not the definition of a blog. My love is being so far up my imagination I’m living in a different dimension where I’m one of my characters and the other characters are leading me on a path to discovery.
As a way of keeping my blog active, and immersing myself in what I love most, I’m adding FREE FICTION to my blog posts. NOT FREE as in take for your own free, it is copyrighted, but FREE FICTION as in read and enjoy. It costs you nothing but a little time and perhaps, a supportive comment. I like supportive comments.
When I began writing, my goal was not to get rich or even make a living. My goal was to share with others my worlds. And I thought, if I had just one person read what I wrote, then my goal would be met, and I’d be the richest person ever.
Why FREE FICTION? As writers, we’re told not to give away our writing. People don’t treasure what is free. I was told. But then the light came on. I have so many story ideas rambling around in my head I’ll never get them all written. When a writer writes a book, whether it’s self-published or traditionally published, the editing and marketing takes a tremendous amount of time. No time is left to start the next book.
Free Fiction allows me to release some of those pent-up stories for others to read. No hassle. Hell Town RV Park will appear on a regular basis until the novella is complete. It is a work in progress. Feel free to comment on the discovery you hope the characters make. Hope you enjoy.
The RV Files is fiction. Any characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, extraterrestrials, demons, werewolves, or ghosts—living or dead—is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright ©: 2017 by Clara Bush
All rights reserved. Published by TURTLE TOP COVE LP.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
For information regarding permission, write to:
TURTLE TOP COVE LP.
P.O. Box 158
South Fork, Colorado 81154
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