Meet Author Lorraine Carey

 Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

As a veteran teacher, Lorraine began to write for Young Adults hoping to inspire young readers. Now residing in Florida, since retirement has given her more time to write when the spirits are willing.

Lorraine Carey is not only a paranormal enthusiast but has had many unexplained events in her lifetime and has used these as a focal point in her fiction novels. Most of Carey’s books were written during the course of nine years while living in the Cayman Islands with her husband. The island was the perfect inspiration for her. Lorraine currently resides in St. Petersburg, Florida, where she is a private tutor for young children. She continues to write and is planning on joining up with a paranormal investigative team. Her empathic abilities seem to attract the spirits giving her even more motivation to continue writing.

Christmas Miracle

A short story by R.A. "Doc" Correa 

December 24, 2024, Warwickshire, UK

Thomas Holt finishes his last sip of tea. Though he is still seated at the supper table in the kitchen he can hear the excited voices of his grandchildren echoing down the hallway from the living room.

“Where is Grandpa?” one of his granddaughters asks.

“He’s finishing his tea dear,” replies June, Thomas’ daughter.

“But mommy, we want a story so we can open a present!” demands little Davy.

“Patience son,” his father, Michael, tells him. “You must learn patience, Davy.”

Thomas stands and grips his cane. He walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the living room. Gazing upon his gathered brood, Thomas grins. His son Michael, Michael’s wife Kat, and their two children, Davy and Prudence sit on the couch. Thomas’ daughter, June, her husband Harold, and their three children, Robert, Clarissa, and the little one that started this exchange, Alice, are scattered about the room sitting in chairs or on the carpeted floor. All are facing the Christmas tree, and the pile of ‘loot’ spread beneath its lower limbs. The only empty seat in the room is the recliner that Thomas has claimed as his own.

Standing behind them just inside the living room Thomas announces his presence by stating, “So, you want a story.”

“Yes, Grandpa, a story, a wonderful Christmas story! Then presents, lots of presents!” the children shout excitedly.

Kat hushes them by saying, “Inside voices children!”

The children become quiet, their faces displaying concern that their outburst may have cost them the chance to open presents this Christmas Eve. Plaintively they all look at Grandpa.

“What kind of Christmas story would you like to hear? One with elves and toys? One with a fat, bearded man all dressed in red sliding down your chimney? Or would you like to hear a true Christmas story, a story about a Christmas miracle?” Thomas asks.

The children all look at each other, and then Alice asks, “A true Christmas story?”

Thomas answers, “Yes sweetie a true Christmas story. A story about my grandfather when he was in the Great War.” He walks over to the bookcase and pulls out a photo album. With an album in hand, Thomas walks over to the recliner and sits down.

He starts to open the photo album when June asks, “Don’t you think they’re a little young for this story Dad?”

“Nonsense sweetie. Robert and Davy are both ten now and Alice is six. They’re old enough to hear about their great great grandfather’s Christmas miracle,” states Thomas. As he’s speaking, he finds the page he’s looking for. Thomas waves for the children to come to him, saying, “Come over here kids. I have a picture to show you.” Once the children have gathered around him, he points to a fading photograph, at the same time Thomas tells them, “This is my grandfather, Harold Holt. The man standing next to him is a German soldier named Hans Schrum. They met on Christmas Morning, December 25th, 1914, on a field in Bois de Ploegsteert, Belgium. They were enemies in a terrible war, but that Christmas Day something unexpected happened…”

***

December 24th, 1914, Bois de Ploegsteert, Belgium

Private Harold Holt grips his rifle tightly to his chest as he lays in the mud at the bottom of the trench. Damn! I’m going to have to clean this thing again! he growls to himself. The trench walls are only three feet high. The muddy earth slides off them with the impact of each German canon shell. For the last five days the bombardment has been ceaseless.

Just like everyone else in the first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment Harold is exhausted. They have been in France since August 22nd. The battalion was involved in the retreat from Mons and the battle of Le Cateau. Then there was the race to the sea as the Allies and the Germans kept trying to outflank each other. Now assigned to defend a sector in Bois de Ploegsteert, Belgium they have been digging trenches. With the High Command preparing to go on the offensive, they were told only to dig the trenches three feet deep. Because the trenches are so shallow they spend most of their time laying in them. Those that stand or sit usually get their heads shot off.

This winter has had little snow, mostly it has been raining, and then freezing to ice at night. Each morning Harold has found himself, and his kit, frozen to the ground. When the sun rises it gets just warm enough to melt the ice, transforming that frozen ground into a clinging muck forcing Harold, and his fellow Tommys, to struggle to get dry and keep their rifles clean. A dirty rifle will not fire, and a rifle that will not fire means death in this God-forsaken place.

Between the rain and drizzle, the trampling feet of thousands of soldiers, the senseless attacks that have been launched, and the incessant artillery barrages the once beautiful Belgian countryside has been transformed into a hellish dreamscape populated by the dead, the dying, and the zombified ‘living.’

Harold feels someone starting to crawl over him, which makes him start to panic until he hears, “Sorry mate, I’ve got a message for the battalion CO. This is the only way to get there without getting me bum shot off.”

The weight of another Tommy on top of him causes Harold to sink deeper into the muck at the bottom of the trench. Bugger! Now I really have to clean this damn thing! Once the messenger has crawled off of him, Harold rolls over onto his back and gets his cleaning kit out of its pouch. As he breaks down his rifle Harold can feel the cold, gooey muck he is lying in pour over the collar of his greatcoat and ooze down his back.

***

At noon the shelling stops. After several moments Harold can hear the others talking.

“The Boche stopped early.”

“What gives, are they attacking?”

“No mate, you’d ‘ave ‘eard their battle cry by now if they ‘as cooming!”

Harold feels someone grab his boot to get his attention. He looks at his feet and sees Donny’s frightened face. “Hey ‘arry are dey cooming?”

“No guv, if dey was cooming dey’d be hollerin by now,” says Harold.

Donny asks, “Then why’d the shellin stop?”

“I don’t know mate, I don’t know,” answers Harold.

The men of the first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment spend a tense afternoon waiting for the other shoe to drop. Staying at their posts the frightened Tommy’s eat a cold supper of ‘Bully Beef’ and peaches out of the tins with their fingers as they keep a tense watch on the German lines. They are so certain that the Boche are up to something that when they feel ‘nature call’ they do not make their way down the trench line to the latrines, instead they crawl over the back of the trench to a nearby shell crater, relieve themselves, and then crawl back to their posts. Everyone knows that the German’s trenches are less than fifty yards away, when they come the Germans will be upon them in no time.

As twilight arrives on Christmas Eve, 1914, the men of the first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment keep a close watch on the enemy, with bayonets fixed, wondering what, if anything, is going to happen.

***

By seven in the evening, it is a dark, starry night with no clouds. The long hours of being ready for a fight have tired the soldiers of the regiment. Many have fallen asleep with their rifles still in their hands. The captain has the company stand down, leaving a few sentries on alert. Around ten pm Donny, who is on guard, calls out, “Corporal Peele, there’s something going on in the Boche trenches.”

Corporal Peele takes the platoon's trench periscope and uses it to look above the edge of the trench. He is so astonished by what he’s seeing he keeps rising up until his head and chest are fully exposed.

The British and German trenches run parallel to each other in this sector. They both are on a slight ridge with a mild depression in between. There is a rickety barbed wire fence running between them. The British trench is slightly higher than the German, and because of this Corporal Peele can clearly see the Germans are placing lit candles all over their trenches, and they have put up a pine tree with decorations. As the Corporal drops the periscope and stares at the Germans they start to sing.

The sound of the Germans singing rises up out of their trench, wafts across no man’s land, drifting into the trenches of the first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. The sound wakes many of the soldiers. After a few choruses of the song Corporal Peele grouses, “What in the ‘ell do they ‘ave to sing about?”

The Germans start to sing another song:

“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum

Wie treu sind deine Blätter

Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit

Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum

Wie treu sind deine Blätter”

Suddenly Donny shakes Harold’s shoulder. “They’re singing Christmas carols, ‘arry, they’re singing Christmas carols!”

“You’re daft Donny. What makes you think they’re singing Christmas carols?” replies Harold.

“That song, it’s Oh Christmas Tree!” states Donny.

Harold asks, “How do ya know dat Donny, they’re singing in German.”

Donny answers, “That tune, it’s the same in every language. I’d know it anywhere, me mum and me sing it every Christmas Eve.”

Harold thinks a moment, then nods. It makes sense, more sense than anything else that has happened since August 22nd, after all it is Christmas Eve.

The Germans finish their song, and cheer and applaud each other. Before they can start another Donny stands up, and in a deep baritone, starts to sing.

“O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant

O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem

O come and behold Him, born the King of Angels”

Harold stares at his friend, I didn’t know he can sing! Damn, he’s good!

As he listens other Tommys join Donny in singing the Christmas carol. The silence coming from the German trench tells them that they are listening too. When the British soldiers finish the song the Germans cheer and applaud, so do the other members of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment.

For over an hour the soldiers of both armies take turns serenading each other with Christmas carols. At last, they start to bed down. As Harold gets his bedroll ready a German soldier shouts out, “Gute Nacht, Engländer.” Corporal Peele shouts back, “Good night lads.”

***

Harold wakes shivering. Damn it’s cold! He shakes his bedrolls outer shell, cracking the coat of frost. The ice snaps and cracks as he sits up. Chunks of ice cling to his bedroll, greatcoat, and rifle. Harold scoots out of his bedroll and shakes it to clear it of ice. Then he rolls it up. Harold takes his rifle and bangs the rifle’s butt on the ground, knocking ice off of it.

As he does a German soldier shouts out, “Engländer, hast du eine Flasche?”

Corporal Peele shouts back, “What? I don’t understand you?”

A different German soldier shouts back in English, “He said Englishmen do you have a bottle? I think he wants to trade a bottle of schnapps for some English beer.”

Sargent Smythe shouts out, “I got some beer.”

“Walk over here, we won’t shoot,” says the German soldier.

Sargent Smythe answers, “I’ll walk halfway and you walk halfway.”

For a few moments they can’t hear or see any activity in the German trench, then they see a German soldier climbing out of it. He is not wearing his helmet and is not carrying his rifle. Once the German is out of the trench he reaches down and gets something from another soldier. He stands erect and starts walking toward the British trench. To Harold, it appears he’s carrying a bottle.

Sargent Smythe mumbles, “I’ll be buggered.” He kneels down and takes something out of his kit bag. Sargent Smythe climbs out of the trench, leaving his rifle next to his kit bag, and starts to walk towards the German soldier, carrying a bottle of beer.

The soldiers of both armies watch the two men walk towards each other until they are face to face. For a moment the two men look each other over, then they shake hands and exchange bottles. After they open the bottles both men take a slug, and then they hug each other. The onlooking soldiers applaud.

By twos and threes other soldiers begin to leave the trenches and walk across no man’s land towards each other. At first, they are timid, even suspicious. Add in that most don’t speak the others language communication is near impossible. Most of them try to speak with each other using simple words and hand gestures. The few that speak both languages are kept busy helping their fellow soldiers talk with each other.

As the men become comfortable with each other they start to share pictures of home and family. They even exchange jokes.

One enterprising Tommy brings his grooming kit, sets up a couple of crates, and starts offering a haircut for two cigarettes. After all, everyone wants to look their best on Christmas Day.

After a while the soldiers start wishing each other a Merry Christmas. They exchange small gifts, pipes, tobacco, fruit, and slices of cake they had received in packages from home.

Some brave souls try the other sides field rations, and all agree they taste awful. It is at this point the soldiers signal for their cooks to come forward. When the cooks come out the soldiers jeer at them. After taking a lot of good-natured ribbing, the cooks start working together with whatever is available to prepare lunch for everyone.

The soldiers move from no man’s land to their trenches and come back bearing salt, pepper, tea bags, ration tins, whatever they can find to give to the cooks. As noon time arrives all the donations have been used to prepare the lunch meal. The soldiers retrieve their mess kits and line up to be served.

As the soldiers line up Harold notices one German soldier standing alone. He seems to be looking over the battlefield. Harold walks up to him and asks, “What’s up mate?”

The German replies, “I visited here a few years ago. It was such a beautiful place. Now look at it, look what all of us have done to this beautiful country.” He shakes his head sadly.

Harold says, “Guv, tis sad at that, this is ‘orrible, I speck itz gonna be more ‘orrible ‘fore itz over.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true,” says the German.

“Mate, your English tis better ‘an mine. Howz ‘at pozble?” asks Harold.

The German soldier answers, “I went to university in London. My father has, I suppose now it would be had, an import-export business with stores in Berlin and London. He felt I should go to college in England so I could help him with suppliers and customers in your country.” He looks at Harold for a moment, then offers his hand saying, “I’m Hans Schrum.”

Harold takes his hand and shakes it vigorously, “I’m ‘arold ‘olt, but the lads call me ‘arry.”

Hans replies, “I’m pleased to meet you, Harry.”

“Likewise,” states Harold. “Let’s get in the grub line mate, it ‘ight be good.” Together they get in line with the others.

***

Back at GHQ the commanders look over the reports they have just been handed. The first is the logistics report, the artillery ammunition is finally getting forward to the gun batteries. General Smythe mumbles, “Good, the muddy roads are being defeated at last, we will be able to renew our barrages by morning.” The next report is from the intelligence officer. The airplanes they’ve commandeered to fly over German lines have provided photographs that show they have been having the same problems as the allies have. They also show the Germans have overcome the problems and their artillery ammunition is arriving at their guns.

The next report is setting off alarms throughout the chain of command. Thousands of German, Belgian, French, and British soldiers are leaving their weapons in their trenches, meeting in no man’s land and celebrating Christmas together. “What the hell!” shouts General Smythe as he hands the report to Générale Fayette.

The generals go to Généralissime Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the supreme allied commander, in a panic. Once they’ve told him what was going on his face takes on a grim expression. The Marshall gives his orders, and the panicky generals rush to have his orders transmitted to the offending units.

***

For the first time in months, the men have eaten a satisfying meal. They all agree it is not as good as the Christmas dinner they would have had if they were back home, but it is the best meal they have had since this whole thing has started. German and British soldiers sit mingled together enjoying after dinner banter. Jokes are told, photos of home are shared, and a few precious bottles of wine are passed around.

A few British soldiers start to sing bawdy marching songs. Shortly, German soldiers join in. The few soldiers who speak both languages translate them for the others. To their surprise, they find that both armies sing many of the same songs. For a brief period, the soldiers compete to see who can sing the loudest, and just how bawdy they can make a song.

Around two in the afternoon, a British Lieutenant digs into his kitbag and pulls out a soccer ball. At first they all stare at it, then suddenly they are picking team captains and selecting players.

The first match is British against the Germans. The Germans win the match by two goals. The second match is enlisted versus officers, the enlisted soldiers win by one goal. Though the playing field is uneven and mucky all the soldiers have a good time, and the only injuries are a couple of sprained ankles. Some of the more ‘artistic’ soldiers create a couple of trophies out of ration tins, and whatever else they can find.

The captains of the winning teams are awarded their trophies and then sprayed with shaken warm beer.

Harold and Hans spent most of the time cheering on their favorite teams and talking about home and family. It surprised both of them how much they had in common. The few differences seemed trivial. And yet here they were on opposite sides in this monumental disaster that people were calling the Great War.

When Harold told Hans about his girlfriend Hans surprised him by saying, “My fiancée lives in Coventry.”

Harold stares at him with his mouth wide open. “How’s ‘at mate?”

“Janice, she lives in Coventry. We met a year ago when I was on a business trip. We were both in the Imperial Museum, in the Egyptian wing. We were looking at a model of the Great Pyramid of Giza, and started discussing how wonderful it would be to visit the real pyramid.”

“Well, ‘at’s different mate. I don’t know any girl ‘hat ‘ould go to a museum,” states Harold.

“She is beautiful and brilliant Harry,” says Hans.

“Mate, sounds like like you ‘ave it bad for ‘er,” Harold says.

Hans nods and replies, “Yes, very bad.”

***

The commander of the 10th brigade reads the message his communications officer, a young captain, has brought him. It is from the supreme allied commander. It is terse and to the point:

All allied soldiers are to immediately break of all interactions with German soldiers and return to their trenches. No further fraternization or communication with enemy soldiers will take place. Any soldier that has any further communication or fraternizes with enemy soldiers will be shot.

The commander rereads the message. He has a reputation for being hard, something he earned in the Boer War. Though this war is quite different from fighting a guerrilla war he knows how hard things are going to get. The men need this break, and they may never get the opportunity again. He tells his communications officer, “Change your log to reflect that we didn’t get this message until tomorrow morning.”

The captain salutes him and leaves the bunker.

***

The evening turns to night. The soldiers start returning to their trenches. Harold and Hans sit taking in the night sky. After a few moments Hans says, “Harry, would you do me a favor?”

“If I can mate, what is it?” Harold replies.

Hans reaches into his greatcoat and pulls out an envelope. “This is a letter to my fiancée, could you mail it for me?”

“What’s in the letter?” Harold asks with a bit of suspicion.

Hans chuckles. “I expect a little suspicion is called for given the situation. The letter tells her I’m alright. It also says, given our circumstances, if she wants to end the engagement I understand. That’s all Harry. The letter is in English if you wish to read it before mailing it.” With that Hans hands him the letter. Harry tucks it into his greatcoat. Hans softly says, “I suppose I should get back.”

Harold agrees saying, “We both should mate. ‘ake care Hans.”

“Take care, Harry,” Hans answers.

They both stand, shake hands, and then walk back to their trenches. Harold wonders at how this man who is supposed to be his enemy feels more like a brother. Once back in his trench Harold puts on his helmet and the rest of his kit. Taking hold of his rifle, he sits down.

From across no man’s land, a German soldier calls out, “Frohe Weihnachten, meine Freunde!”

Corporal Peele shouts, “Merry Christmas lads!”

***

December 24, 2024, Warwickshire, UK

Thomas Holt did not realize he had stopped talking until little Alice asked, “Why are you crying, Grandpa?”

He looks over to her and smiles. “The tears are for what could have happened and didn’t sweetie.”

Davy queries, “What do you mean Grandpa?”

Thomas answers, “Historians say one hundred thousand Belgian, French, British and German soldiers took part in these unauthorized Christmas truces. I keep asking myself what would have happened if more soldiers had taken part? Could it have stopped the war and saved millions of lives? I guess we will never know. Come children, let’s open some presents.”

With that Davy and Robert start handing out gifts.

R. A. “Doc” Correa

www.goldenboxbooks.com/ra-doc-correa.html

A retired US Army military master parachutist, retired surgical technologist, and retired computer scientist. He’s an award-winning poet and author. “Doc” has had poems published in multiple books and had stories published in Bookish Magazine and Your Secret Library. His first novel, Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star review.

Unsung Heroes

 They don't expect a reward or recognition

Unsung Heroes y Erika M Szabo

If people knew what the biker gang did and were not expecting any reward or recognition, these unsung heroes would be celebrated by many.

The deafening rumble of powerful engines echoed through the stillness of the night as the Panthers rode their Harleys through town toward their favorite bar. The moon, full and luminous, hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the rugged faces of the riders. Their leather-clad bodies were silhouetted against the darkness, their tattoos and scars illuminated by the moon’s pale light.

With practiced ease, they killed the engines and dismounted their bikes. Raven, the gang’s robust leader, took off his helmet and shook his head. His long, jet-black hair swung to his back, covering the black panther painting on his leather jacket. “I’ll go through the back door,” he said, turning to his second in command, Jackal, his voice sounding deeper than a panther’s purr. “I need to talk to Pedro.”

Jackal let out a deep, guttural grunt. He was a tall, lanky man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. His voice was rough and strained, the result of a brutal bar fight that left his vocal cords permanently damaged. He hated speaking, the sound of his own voice reminding him of the painful incident. And he cringed at the thought of his friends jokingly telling others, “You should’ve seen the other guy!” The guilt of knowing that he had caused someone to lose his life in the fight weighed heavily on Jackal’s conscience. Although not his fault, the drunk man attacked him cutting his throat and he acted in defense, the man died hitting his head on the pool table when Jackal pushed him away. The memory still haunted him like a shadow that he could never escape.

Stubby, the compact and sturdy member of the gang, let out a deep exhalation. “I hope he has some good news for us,” he said, his voice laced with tension. “It’s been two days since we heard the Hyenas had crossed the border with a new shipment, and we still don’t know where their hiding place is.”

Raven let out a heavy sigh as he approached the corner of the building. Each step caused small pebbles to crunch under his sturdy boots.

As he peeked through the open back door, Raven spotted his informant hunched over the sink. He motioned to him discreetly, and Pedro nodded in response, quickly glancing around to ensure they were not being watched. With cautious movements, Pedro made his way toward the door, holding onto a large garbage bag.

Raven waited for him behind the garbage container. “Did you find out?” he asked the fidgety man.

Growing up in the vibrant streets of Mexico, Pedro was all too familiar with the dangerous activities of human trafficker gangs, called hyenas. His cousin had been pressuring him to join their gang since he was just a teenager, promising him a life of wealth and power. But when he met Maria, she showed him that there was another way out - a chance to escape poverty and break free from a life of crime. Together, they bravely crossed the treacherous border and made their way to a small town in America where they found jobs and rented an apartment in the bustling Latino community. Pedro kept his ears open and listened closely as drunkards at the local bar spoke about the dark dealings of the notorious gangs. He knew he had made the right choice by following Maria, and now he was determined to make a better life for both of them while helping others who didn’t see a way out.

“I heard that there is an abandoned house about five miles from here deep in the woods,” Pedro whispered, his eyes darting nervously toward the door. “I’m not sure if the gang is hiding there or not, but I know that the guy who talked about the house is their connection on the US side. He takes care of the sales. He was well liquored up on tequila and kept blubbering about the house and that the family who lived there a hundred years ago were killed.”

“It’s possible,” Raven mused, his voice low and gravelly. “Thanks for the information, Pedro. You’re one step closer to joining us.” He raised his fist for a bump, sealing their partnership with a resounding thud.

The stocky man’s face beaming with joy hurried back to the kitchen.

Raven entered the bar through the front door and found his gang at their usual table in the far corner. “We have a possible location. Finish your drinks and let’s get going.” Raven informed his comrades.

The five members of the Panthers understood the gravity and urgency of their mission - to rescue innocent teenagers and young children from the clutches of ruthless human traffickers, who sought to sell them as commodities for sexual exploitation.

With fierce determination in their eyes, they raced toward the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, their roaring engines leaving a trail of dust and adrenaline in their wake. Although people in town were used to their presence, and they never heard anything bad about them, the fear that something might happen always left them with unease when they heard the roaring engines.

The scent of gasoline and leather lingered in the air, adding to the intensity of their presence and the darkness seemed to part before them as if even nature itself knew not to stand in their way. As they reached the dirt road in the woods, Raven raised his hand in a commanding gesture, signaling for his comrades to halt.

With practiced ease, they killed the engines, dismounted their bikes, and hid them in the thick bushes.

“We go the last mile on foot,” Raven instructed his men. “No guns, until we’re forced to use them,” he said.

“Fists and knives,” Stubby added, and the group murmured in agreement.

They moved forward with silent, calculated steps. The air was heavy with anticipation and danger, each member acutely aware of the risk they were taking. As they crept closer, shadows seemed to dance around them, adding to the sense of danger.

With firm determination in their eyes and weapons at the ready, their hearts burned with righteous anger, knowing that they were the only hope for these helpless souls. Since they were honorably discharged from the armed forces six years ago, at first, they had a hard time adjusting to civilian life. Later, Raven and Jackle opened a car repair shop, Doc became a veterinarian. Pokerface, the always stoical looking yet highly emotional friend opened a Dojo and taught self-defense.

The air was thick with tension and adrenaline as they prepared to put an end to this heinous operation. They spotted a large van parked in the clearing as they cautiously approached the rundown house. Its black exterior blended with the night sky, but its chrome bumpers glistened in the moonlight. Crouching low, they peered from behind the vehicle to see a guard stationed by the door. His posture was tense as he held a sleek machine gun at the ready. In the flickering light streaming from a nearby window, they could hear faint sounds of children crying and men shouting from inside the house. The hair on their necks prickled with a sense of danger and urgency as they plotted their next move.

Jackal glanced at Raven, who gave a subtle nod of approval. The lanky man dropped to his hands and knees, moving with the grace and precision of a stalking animal. He slinked through the shadows, keeping his body low and silent as he crept towards the unsuspecting guard.

When he was within a few feet of the man, Stubby made a slight noise by tossing a small rock toward the corner of the house. The guard, startled by the sound, turned his head in that direction. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jackal sprang forward with lightning speed and wrapped his arms around the guard’s neck in a chokehold. With his other large hand covering the guard’s mouth and nose, he effectively silenced any potential screams for help.

Without hesitation, the rest of the bikers sprang into action. In a flurry of movement and precision, they made their way silently to the door. Doc, whose occupation as a veterinarian had provided him with some interesting skills, quickly punctured the guard’s neck with the needle attached to a syringe filled with a powerful animal tranquilizer. As his body went limp, Jackal eased him down against the wall while Stubby secured his wrists and ankles with strong duct tape. The operation had gone flawlessly so far, but they knew they still had to move quickly and quietly to ensure their actions inside just as smoothly.

Read the full story in the book: 

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs. 

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a cozy mystery

The Mystery at Love’s Manor

D.W. Thompson

Chapter One

A feeling of dread squeezed my soul in its dark grip. I bolted upright in bed and searched the darkness for the source of my discomfort. Was it a sound, real or imagined? A consequence of my first week’s stay in a new home? I was chilled to the bone, and goosebumps rose on my flesh. Too many of my premonitions proved well founded to ignore…something was wrong. My thoughts went to my estranged family. Nana, in the sunset of life, was in a battle with the demon possessing her—Dementia. Her curse weighed heavily on my brother, Daniel, his wife, and their relationship. If something was as wrong as my churning gut indicated, was it Nana?

No, if it was Nana, Gwen would have called to let me know. Wiping the crud from the corners of my eyes, I crawled out of bed. Last night’s mystery novel fell from its hiding place between my flannel sheets. The day’s traumas and the two-hour drive to gather the last of my possessions from my old digs had overwhelmed my curiosity about the fictional “who-done-it.” My brother used to mock my choice of literature. I considered it professional reading.

I glanced out of my bedroom window. Raindrops slithered down the glass, and the filtered dawn cast its shadowed light. I wished the window faced east for the sunrise, like my childhood bedroom in the old house. Nana is staying there now. It was the closest one to Daniel and Gwen’s bedroom. I hoped Nana would find more peace there than I had.

Sliding my feet into cheap imitation fur-lined slippers, I set the book on my nightstand and made my way to the kitchen, and the coffee pot. The old- fashioned percolator began its flirtatious dance, and the scent of the fresh ground coffee teased my nostrils. I glanced around the room, noticing all the work needing to be done. The condition of the place made it affordable for me. The paint was chipping from the walls, and the kitchen cabinets were stained with decades of accumulated grease. The sink’s constant drip kept time with the ticking of the kitchen clock, a throwback black cat with rolling eyes and a swishing tail. But it was home, and it was mine. Well, mine and Old Joseph’s—the name I gave to the source of falling objects and bumps in the night. What I only somewhat jokingly referred to as my resident ghost. I wasn’t sure I believed in ghosts, but I was a firm believer in my vivid imagination.

As I poured my first cup of the day, the phone rang, and my teeth clenched. I hated the sound, the nerve-rattling jangle, and the irrational call to immediate action it demanded. I wished the telemarketers would at least allow me to enjoy my morning coffee. Who else would call so early?

At the second ring, I felt an ice-cold trickle creep up my spine, like the time Sammy Mattingley threw ice cubes down the back of my blouse. My hand trembled, hesitating to answer when I recognized the number. It was my brother, Daniel.

At the third ring, I wished he hadn’t discovered I was home. Last month, Gwen spotted me leaving the crappy hotel I used as my temporary local residence while I house-shopped. This phone call meant the cat was out of the bag. I felt disloyal anyway, not letting Gwen in on my secret return, but Daniel? My ten years away hadn’t healed all the old wounds. Creating a new life and forging my independence provided a much-needed salve to my soul. Still, I wished he didn’t know.

By the fourth ring, I’d convinced myself his call was to bitch at me—feigning hurt for not telling him I was back. My finger brushed against the phone’s “ignore” button…but what if it was about Nana? And he was my brother…the DNA test said so.

I answered before the fifth jingle when the voicemail would kick in. Might as well get it over with—in case it was about Nana…

“Hello?”

“Emma, I need you at the house as soon as you can get here.”

“Daniel? How about ‘Good morning, Emma. Did you pass the test and get your license, Emma? I’m so glad you’re home safe and—’ ”

“Not now, Sis. Please get here as soon as you can. It’s important. I need you.”

“Is something wrong with Nana? Is she—” But the line was already dead. Typical of my brother. His needs came before anyone else’s.

Pouring coffee in a go-cup, I threw on a pair of well-broken-in jeans and a sweatshirt, hopping toward the door as I pulled on my soft rubber clogs—as fancy as I get to go to the family farm. They needed me, and from Daniel’s perspective at least, they needed me now. He must figure even the black sheep of the family is handy in bad times. I brushed my hair with one hand and backed my old soft-top Bronco down the driveway with the other.

My recently purchased cottage on the outskirts of Newtowne was seven miles from the farm. The home place was a sprawling acreage with a creek bed running along one border and a pond at the bottom of the hill from the main house—what some called Love’s Manor. Many of those same folks claimed the place was haunted. At times when I lived there, hearing the scratching in the walls and the bumps in the night, I almost believed the stories to be true. Locals claimed the hauntings were from the deaths occurring in the house over the past century—not least of which were my parents, my older sister, Maya, and her best friend, Jessie. Others widened its haunted origins to include the entire town. These candidates included Benjamin Hance, the young black man who was lynched on June 17, 1887, for allegedly attempting to assault a white woman. An even older tragedy was that of the legendary witch, Moll Dyer, whose cabin was set ablaze on the coldest night of the winter of 1697 by village vigilantes. Moll froze to death. It is rumored she still roams the area and wishes to reclaim the lands she once walked. I put little stock in such things. It wasn’t the supernatural that had pushed me away from my ancestral home, nor was it the reason for my return.

The half-mile driveway followed the contour of old tobacco fields—now covered with stubble from this year’s crop of soybeans. Not much appeared to have changed in the years I was away. Driving past the pond, I smelled the honeysuckle vines, and an unexpected tear slid down my cheek.

“Miss you always, Maya,” I said to the ghost of my sister claimed at Love’s Manor.

Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the trees as the Bronco sputtered up the hill toward the house. Cops were everywhere. Three squad cars and a lone ambulance were parked in front of the house.

The car groaned as I slapped it into Park and raced to the house to beat the rain. Daniel met me, holding the front door open.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

“Emma, it’s Gwen. I don’t know what’s happened. The house was broken into, and she’s nowhere to be found.”

“What’s Sheriff Wathen saying?”

“Just what I told you. The glass in the side door was broken, and that’s how they got in. There’s no note from Gwen saying she was going anywhere, and if she was taken against her will, there’s nothing from the kidnappers.”

“The sheriff thinks she was kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what he thinks, but he suspects me of something, the way he’s putting me through the third degree. That’s why I called you. You’re a private investigator now, right? You passed your test?”

“Where were you and Maria when the house was broken into? You didn’t hear anything?”

“No, but we weren’t in the house, Emma. Maria can vouch for that. She heard me driving the tractor to check on the cover crop in the backfield. I offered to take her along as Gwen suggested. She said a break from Nana might be good for her, but Maria wanted to weed Nana’s flower bed. She said she’d promised her.”

“When was this?”

“Last evening. I got back around dusk and parked the tractor in the barn. Maria was still in the backyard in the flower beds. We came in together through the back and went up to check on Nana. She was agitated about something, but I couldn’t make much sense of it and didn’t pay her much mind. You know how she gets. After I calmed her down, I went to bed. Gwen wasn’t there, but she often stays up late. She curls up by the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book. I tried to wait up for her, but I must’ve passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up this morning, and she wasn’t in bed. I went through the house calling for her. That’s when I saw the broken glass.”

“So, after you came home, you never saw her before you went to bed?”

“No, I told you—”

“Have they found anything yet?”

“They found blood on a broken necklace outside in the grass, Emma. The clasp snapped like it was ripped from her neck. It was the one I gave Gwen on her birthday last year.” Daniel’s face was pale, bloodless, and his eyes swollen.

“Deep breaths, brother,” I said.

“Right. So, did you pass your test? Did you get everything unpacked in the new place?”

“I did, and I have. Thanks.”

“What do you think happened to her, Emma?”

“I don’t know, but here comes the sheriff. Maybe he found something new.”

“He’s been grilling Maria for the last hour as if she would know anything…”

Sheriff Wathen stepped toward us. His footfalls were as silent as our father taught us to be when stalking game, like a true predator. John Wathen was Daniel’s age, but young to be sheriff—even in a community as small as ours. It helped that he ran unopposed in the last election and that his family went back as far as ours. His ancestors were also passengers on the Ark at Maryland’s beginning. They’d lost some local standing in recent times over a scandal involving his younger brother Robert and drugs. The family’s wealth and social standing meant Robert got off with less than a slap on the wrist, but it did rub some muck on the family’s name. I heard Robert was running for County Commissioner next year. He’d probably win too.

“Emma,” the sheriff said. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I felt his nails dig in through my sweatshirt. He twisted me around to face him.

“How have you been, girl? I’ve heard good things.”

“I’m doing well, Sheriff.” I grabbed his hand, lifted it off my shoulder, and dropped it as if it were repulsive, rotted flesh. I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“Same old Emma, I see.”

The sheriff smiled as if it hurt his face, and his jowls shook at the effort. He was a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of man and kept his dark receding locks slicked back like he owned stock in several hair products. His girth had grown proportionate to his arrogance since I’d last seen him.

“Congratulations on winning the election, Sheriff. Do you have any clues about what happened to my sister-in-law? This isn’t like her at all.”

“I’m hoping your brother can help me with that. What do you say, Mr. Love? Would you like to chat here or back at the Newtowne station?”

 

****

 

I knew better than to ask the sheriff’s permission to sit in on the “chat,” AKA interrogation. There was bad blood between our families as far back as anyone could remember. My school years with the younger Wathen brother, Robert, did nothing to dissuade me from my family’s low opinion of the clan.

Deputy Sam Mattingley (yes, that same Sammy Mattingley—he of ice cube notoriety) was a different story altogether. Sam was a tall lanky man with a face full of freckles and an aww-shucks way about him. Despite our childhood pranks on each other, we became good friends over time. It only took a wink and a smile, and Sam had a chair set up for me just outside of the door. I could hear every word…

The sheriff started slow, and I’ll give him the credit due—he knew how to get an interviewee to open up.

“Can you give me a description of your wife, Mr. Love? Or a picture for our case file? I knew her, of course, but a detailed description with any unusual identifying features, that sort of thing, would be helpful.”

“Okay. Gwen is five foot, five inches tall, and weighs about a hundred thirty pounds. I know because she was just saying the other night that she’d gained a few pounds and needed to go on another one of her crazy fad diets. She has shoulder-length wavy black hair. Two weeks ago, she had two pink streaks put in the front of her hair at Brandy’s beauty parlor out on Route 235. She said it framed and accentuated her face or something. I thought it was a little strange at first, but it looks good on her. She has a small mole at the base of her neck that she wants Doc Johnson to look at on her next appointment. The only other thing is a birthmark. Where I won’t say…”

“It could be important, Mr. Love, if we need to identify…Never mind. We’ll let that go for now. Mr. Love, what do you think happened to your wife?”

“I wish I knew, Sheriff. I’m afraid for her. There’s the blood on the necklace, and her purse is still here. I think she’s been taken.”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mr. Love. Ordinarily, we wait twenty-four hours to follow up on a missing person’s case when it’s an adult, but for now, at least, her disappearance appears to be involuntary. I understand your pain, Mr. Love, and we’ll do everything in our power to find her. I’d like to monitor your phones in case any ransom demands are made. Is there anything else the sheriff’s office can do for you during this horrible time? I know, I know—catch the perp—but would you like a police presence at night, for instance? You know, to keep an eye on the place? I can spare a deputy…”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“That’ll be fine then. Mr. Love, besides the broken door glass, did you notice anything else different in the house this morning?”

“No, except my wife wasn’t anywhere to be found. Otherwise…wait, there was a half-empty glass of milk on the kitchen counter. That wasn’t unusual for her though. Do you think she got up in the middle of the night and that’s when they nabbed her?”

“It is certainly possible. How long have you known Miss Maria Clements?” “A year or so, maybe. She was recommended by a family friend. Honestly, we couldn’t ask for a better live-in companion for Nana. Maria’s been a godsend. She sees to all of Nana’s needs…and our grandmother can be a handful in her condition. Why do you ask?”

“Did she get along well with your wife? Any tension between the two of them? You know what they say about two women not being able to live peacefully in the same house. Was there anything like that?”

“No. They got along well.”

“I’m surprised. Miss Clements is quite a looker. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and you know how women can be. Young Deputy Abell got all tongue-tied when she opened the door this morning. Young and shapely, yes sir…not that your wife wasn’t a lovely woman herself. But no jealousy there at all?”

“No, Sheriff, and I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“So, she’s just an employee of your family? Nothing more? Ever tempted to stray a bit, Mr. Love? Nobody could hardly blame you.”

I heard my brother’s sharp intake of breath and a soft growling sound. The sound he learned to make to control his ill temper. “No, I have not. What are you implying, John?”

“Well. It’s just that the both of you live here but were conveniently absent when the break-in occurred and you’re each the other’s alibi.”

“My wife is missing, Sheriff. There’s nothing convenient about this situation. Is that all or is there another bee in your bonnet?”

“I reckon that’s about it for now. You know what they  say  in  the  movies,  Mr.  Love—‘don’t  leave town.’ ”

I heard the sheriff’s chair scrape against the floor. I gestured to Sam to grab mine before the sheriff cleared the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Love,” the sheriff said. “Did you know Miss Clements has a police record? Seems she was picked up over in Chapman County for prostitution ten years ago.”

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.