A while ago somebody told me it's a good idea for a writer to post a little of his or her latest work on a blog. That way a potential reader might read it, like it, and decide to to buy the whole book. It's a fascinating concept, not unlike those ladies at the Krogers stores on Saturdays who hand out free samples of Italian sausage with pretzel sticks in them, or bacon-flavored Cheez Whiz on Ritz crackers. So here's my free sample, part of the first chapter of my latest Joe Box novel, TO SKIN A CAT. I trust it's tasty. And remember: support your local author.
Chapter 1
The faces in the wall were back. Burning. Berating. Jeering. Taunting.
I jumped up, balling my fists as I stared around, wide-eyed.
They were everywhere, ominously floating. Shifting. Silently moaning. That was always the worst part. Their mouths moved in the flames, but no sound could be heard. My hands were clenched so tight I felt my nails drawing blood. Some of the visages before me looked hauntingly familiar. Guys I’d served with in the war, or as a cop on the force. Sometimes even my wife and son.
The problem was, they were all faces of the long-ago dead.
Through the ocher walls came their grasping hands, beckoning me to join them. Up through the floor came more gray, ethereal fingers, plucking at my clothes and grabbing at me. With every bit of self-will I possessed I stood stock-still.
“It’s not real,” I said out loud. “None of this is real. There aren’t any faces.
There aren’t any hands. There aren’t.” But it didn’t seem to be working. Still they called me, like the Sirens to Odysseus.
I felt my resolution crumbling. Turning to powder like old plaster. That’s when inexplicably the hands retreated, and the faces faded.
Once more I was alone in the dank room, drawing in gasping, shuddering breaths. Knees weak, I leaned against the wall, now bare of phantoms, willing my pounding heart to slow down before it tore itself apart.
I couldn’t take much more of this. One of these times they weren’t going to leave. Not until they took me with them.
Almost surrendering to despair, it was all I could do not to hang my head and weep.
A part of me sneered in derision. Joe Box, tough guy. Vietnam vet. Former cop. Hardnosed private eye. Look at him. About to cry like a little girl.
Yeah, what of it? I almost answered, checking my reply at the last second. I had to watch that. Talking to myself, especially here in this dark realm, could be habit-forming. All I needed to make it through this was a friend. Just one. Just one tiny friend.
I got my wish.
Under the wooden door, slithering into the room came a small green garter snake. His vermilion skin was bright, almost like a cartoon. And like a cartoon, his face carried a happy smile.
I returned it, grateful for the company. As a kid growing up in the hills of eastern Kentucky, I’d kept garter snakes as pets lots of times. The last one I’d owned, right before my dad and Granny and me had moved up to Cincinnati. I’d named him Lester. This little guy here looked just like Lester.
I bent low, offering him my hand. The snake ignored me, instead curling himself around my ankle. I smiled again. That was like Lester too. He did that lots of times.
“Hey, Lester,” I said. “Want to take a walk around the room? Like we used to?”
Lester didn’t answer. He never did. But this time there was a reason.
He was morphing.
The creature looped around my ankle wasn’t a green garter snake anymore. It was a small black python. When it looked up, its eyes glowed with lovely cold fire.
Slowly, almost casually Lester began climbing. And as he climbed, he began growing and thickening. He was eight feet long now, and as thick as my arm as he coiled himself around my body.
In a slow, mesmerizing rhythm, Lester began pulsating with dark, rich colors. Blood red. Jet black. Running from his head to his tail.
This wasn’t so bad. His weight felt kind of good too. Good old Lester… I started to stroke him.
And that’s when things went south.
Lester’s eyes locked hard onto mine as he started to squeeze. The breath exploded from my lungs as my eyes bulged. What the—? This wasn’t even close to being right. Why was he trying to kill me?
I didn’t know, and I didn’t have time to ponder it. Whipping my body from side to side, I struggled to free myself from the death grip. To no avail. I was running out of time. Sliding my hands down Lester’s body, frantically I sought some kind of purchase on his slick scales. It was a couple of feet from his neck that I found it. A soft, mealy spot. My thumbs sunk deep. Heartsick, and with everything I had, I ripped poor Lester open. His flesh parted like cold, wet newspaper. The snake shuddered. That should have ended it. But it didn’t.
Through the rents in Lester’s sides erupted a horde of scorpions.
There were dozens of them, hundreds, each as big as my thumb and as black as sin. They kept coming, crawling all over me with spiky feet. Everywhere they touched, their stingers felt like the blue-white tips of acetylene torches, searing and cooking my flesh.
Helpless, I screamed in fear, rage, and agony.
The scorpions screamed back, a piercing cacophony, joined by the Lester-thing. The faces in the wall had returned, and they’d found their voices, laughing maniacally.
In the midst of the madness, I fought to stay sane. “Come on, Box, wake up,” I growled. “Resist this. It’s not real.”
I awoke with a start. Jumping up off the couch and staggering to my feet I found myself drenched in cold sweat and shaking like an aspen. The images of the nightmare still fresh in my mind, I ran my fingers through my hair. Three nights in a row now. Three.