Where one man’s trash is another man.
(a Web Serial)
From The RV Files
By Clara Bush
Episode 4, Chapter 1
(for Episode 1 click here)
(Rated Mature for Adult content)
Dovie met the children midway in the road, gliding effortlessly, while Spooky jumped over ruts to catch up. “Mom, stop it. You look crazy,” Dovie said.
Instead of stopping the craziness, Spooky stared at the girl’s feet. Dovie nudged her. The girl’s feet looked normal. “Hello, remember me from yesterday? I didn’t get your names,” Spooky said.
The boy tilted his head to one side.
“Be normal. Act normal,” Shayd whispered.
Spooky offered her hand to the boy. “You can call me Rumer. But my daughter you should probably call, Mrs. Towers. She may be your teacher this coming school year.”
He took Spooky’s hand and placed it on his forehead. I know you know, he said.
Spooky heard, but there were no vocals. Know what? She thought.
We are not like you, he answered. He smiled at Dovie. “Hi, Mrs. Towers. I won’t be in your class. I do my studies at home.” He pointed to her stomach. “Is it a boy or girl?”
She wasn’t showing. How did he know? Spooky wondered as a chill cruised her spin.
Dovie placed her hand on her nonexistent bump. “A boy. What’s your name?”
“You give me one,” he said and pulled the girl toward their trailer.
Before entering, the girl turned toward them. Spooky was sure the child hissed. The trailer’s screen door hung lopsided on its hinges and clacked as the children disappeared into a black void.
“What did he mean by that?” Dovie asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t really know. Maybe he wants you to give him a nickname.”
“You ever see their parents?”
Spooky wondered how to answer Dovie’s question. It was a catch twenty-two. If she answered, no, Dovie might go on alert. Her daughter was protective of children in general.
“Tell her, yes.” Shayd insisted.
“Yes. I saw them. Once. From a distance.”
“Maybe I should call Child Protective Services to make sure the kids are okay.”
Spooky coaxed Dovie toward her car and opened the door. “No. No need. I’ll keep an eye on them and let you know if I think you should report them to CPS. Drive safe, sweetie. Take care of our little one.” She kissed her cheek.
“I will. Thanks for lunch. I enjoyed all my old favorites.”
After making sure Dovie was well out of sight, Spooky walked to the kids’ trailer. She knocked on the wobbly screen door. It shook, fell straight down, and forward. Spooky caught it with her forearm to keep it from landing on her head.
“You broke our door,” the boy said.
“Where are your parents?” Spooky asked.
“We don’t have parents.”
“Everyone has parents.”
“Everyone on Earth has parents,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Come in. I’ll explain.” The boy stepped aside.
Spooky peered in and recoiled. Through the doorway, a shimmery chasm dared her to enter. It pulsated like a living thing, but it had no true form. All colors one minute, and an instant later, no color but black.
The girl hissed then reached for Spooky.
“She says you can be our mother,” the boy said.
Spooky tried to step back, but the pulsating black compelled her to enter. To trust and not fear. She lifted her foot to advance.
“No,” Shayd shouted.
“You must not,” Singer hummed.
“Not for you,” Chetan murmured.
Spooky sensed Shayd’s presence in front of her, attempting to keep her from entering. She pressed forward. “The black says the children need me.”
“No, my love. They don’t,” Shayd said.
“They don’t.” Singer hummed.
“Not now. Not this way,” Chetan murmured .
“Look away, now,” Shayd ordered.
She eyed the boy. “What it that?”
“Answers. You and your daughter are curious about us. It has answers.”
“Step away,” Shayd insisted.
She took a calculated step backward. “Thank you for the invitation. Maybe another time.”
“Call me Kappa,” the boy said.
“And what’s your sister’s name?”
Kappa’s eyebrows narrowed. “Sister? What is…sister?”
Spooky pointed to the girl. “What do you call her?”
“Call her River.”
Spooky took another step back. Then another. “I’ll come some other day.”
“Be sure you do or we’ll come for you.”
On her next step back, she collided into something humanlike. She turned. Mind Control guy flicked his black, forked tongue at her like a snake. She dodged it, but it kept growing until it reached her.
He licked her cheek and said, “Shhhh. Do not disturb the children.”
His breath forced her ham and Swiss quiche to churn and surge upward for release. She swallowed it back down. She compared the stench to decaying cows left in the sun to rot. She was familiar with the smell from the time two heifers died giving birth on the ranch near where she grew up. Because the cows were too heavy to move, the rancher left their bodies, the fetuses, and placenta in the pasture for the vultures.
Spooky walked by that pasture everyday on her way to catch the school bus. But for an entire week, she ran past the decaying dead things, holding her nose with one hand and her books in the other. She was thankful when the stench brought the vultures. She now wished some vultures would pounce on Mind Guy and carry him away.
Spooky shoved the man. “Get away from me you freak.” She heard laughter. His and the children’s. Deafening, demented shrieks, ridiculing her as she ran for the safety of her motorhome.
Click on the link below to continue following the Hell Town Web Serial.
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
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any mean, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.