Forever
Authors: Linda Cassidy Lewis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A
Kindle Scout
selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
For my family, whose love helped me get through a terrible year. I love you too.
1
SO IT BEGINS
July 12, 1817
H
er hands and face bloodied and dirty, the young woman stepped out of the dark woods. Her auburn hair flamed in the last rays of sunset. A faint clang of metal against metal, sounding from the canvas bag slung over one shoulder, accompanied her movements as she lifted the hem of her skirt and forded the rushing stream.
On the far bank, she turned and knelt at the water’s edge. She set the bag aside and leaned forward to swish her hands through the cool, clear water, cleaning them and then her face. One by one, she lifted straggling locks of hair and pinned them back into place before raising a cupped handful of water to wet her parched throat and another to cool her pale, bared neck. With a sigh, she sat back on her heels and looked toward the trees. Tears welled in her eyes. She closed them, forcing silvery trails from lashes to cheeks. During her moment of silence, the sky grayed to dusk.
With a parting nod toward the woods, she picked up her tool bag and stood. She smoothed her dress, ensuring no trace of her secret remained. Once more, her bosom rose on inhale and sank with a sigh. With her back straight and head up, she turned and walked steadily upstream, toward the cabin in the distance, prepared to face her hell.
In the dying light, Tom Cogan forced his way through the underbrush. He muttered curses as he searched for Max, his black Labrador retriever. The dog wasn’t lost. Max knew these woods as well as he did and would return to the cabin eventually, but Tom had hoped to lock up the cabin and get home before dark. He’d promised Julie he wouldn’t miss dinner—again.
A low growl told him Max was nearby. Seconds later, Tom stepped around the trunk of a massive pin oak and spied him. Dirt spewed backward from the dog’s frantic pawing.
“You’d better be digging up buried treasure, Max. Otherwise, you’re making me run late for nothing.” Whimpering, the dog stepped back from the hole he’d made and looked up at his master. Tom glanced in the hole and then at Max. “A rock? All this trouble for a damned rock?” He squatted beside the shallow depression and looked closer. “Is that an inscription?”
Max barked, trotted a few steps away before looking back at him and barking again.
“Hold on, Max.” Thinking his dog had uncovered part of a tombstone, Tom dug his fingertips under the rock and pulled it from its grave. It came away whole, a thin slab of slate, maybe eight-by-ten inches. Not likely a tombstone, then. But yes, those were letters, spelling out more than one word. Brushing his hand across the surface dislodged most of the clinging dirt. Tom squinted to focus, but the feeble light of dusk made the words impossible to read.
“Well, well. Let’s take this back to the cabin and see what we have, boy.”
Tom stood and turned back toward the way they’d come. A finger of icy wind crossed his throat and stirred his hair as it wound around his neck.
Shit
. He hoped another surprise snow wasn’t on the way. It was already April, and he was anxious to get bass fishing season started. In fact, he’d driven out here this evening to check on his boat. He’d made sure the cabin was still standing too, of course. Not that many people would call the modern three-bedroom structure a cabin. And not that its soundness was a real worry. He’d designed and built the place. It would stand long beyond his lifetime.
Beside the porch, Tom rinsed off the remaining soil and dried the stone on his jacket before taking it into the house. Though the words had been little more than scratched into the surface, they were easy to read under the bright kitchen light. He shook his head in wonder; the initials in the inscription matched Julie’s maiden name.
“What are the odds of that, Max?” The dog, lying on the fireplace hearth, whimpered again.
Not for the first time, Tom admired his handiwork in the fireplace surround. He’d fashioned it with stones dug from the woods and the dry creek bed that crossed this property. His gaze traveled from the fireplace to the piece of slate in his hands. Julie would get a kick out of the inscription. He couldn’t help smiling as an idea how to surprise her with it came to him. He’d insert this stone dead center under the mantel. Maybe that would win him a few points, close the distance that he’d felt between them lately. How better to show her the stone’s sentiment was his own than by displaying it in a place of honor?
* * *
The despair emanating from the human sitting in the black luxury sedan had acted as a beacon to guide the dark entity. The drivers of the dozen other vehicles parked in the I-94 rest area had pulled in to wait out the fierce thunderstorm, but this human had come here to die. The dark entity, though already linked to the human’s mind, hovered in the space between their worlds.
Damning financial reports lay scattered on the seat beside
it
, which is how the entity thought of the human. It leaned across the console, opened the glove box, and pulled out a pistol. Its wife had bought the Sig Sauer 9mm for him the day she realized he was a millionaire and feared someone would try to kidnap him for ransom. To soothe her, it had carried the weapon, not on his person but in his briefcase or car. His talisman. His protection from harm. The entity enjoyed the irony of that as the human laid the cool metal against its tongue. An icy breeze filled the car, turning what would have been the human’s last breath to a gasp. It lifted its finger off the trigger. It flinched at the entity’s raspy whisper.
“
no no no not yet
”
The entity, sneering at this human’s weakness, slipped into its body, settling into its weight and dimensions, as a hand into a glove. After a few seconds, the entity’s vision cleared, and his ears registered the drumming of rain on the car’s roof. A faint oily taste prompted him to jerk the gun barrel from his mouth. He tossed it to the seat beside him and flexed his hand, judging the strength of it.
It felt good to be back. He always enjoyed his time spent in the physical world.
When he tilted the rearview mirror so he could see his new face, some of his enthusiasm waned. His lip curled. This was a far cry from the handsome, young face he’d worn the last time. That could work in his favor, though. It would be much easier to gain the trust of gullible humans when he appeared harmless. None of those whose lives he’d soon be
guiding
would suspect him a threat. At least, not at first.
The entity shoved the handgun back into the glovebox and rifled through the briefcase beside him. He pulled out the wallet and opened it to view the driver’s license.
Edgar Mason Woodridge
he read. A mouthful he’d have to change, though not officially. His powers would persuade these humans to see whatever name and address he projected into their minds.
The credit cards were worthless to him, but the nearly three hundred dollars cash would fuel his drive to Indianapolis where he’d establish his new identity, complete with a substantial credit line. He glanced back to the mirror. One item high on his list—rid himself of the ridiculous comb over the balding human had favored. He tossed the wallet on the seat. Ignoring the downpour, he turned the key in the ignition and pulled the car out of the rest area and onto the interstate.
The restraint necessary to pace himself in exacting his revenge would be torture. Exquisite torture. This time, he would maintain complete control of them. He would be cheated of nothing. He was anxious to begin, now that the final piece was in place.
“Thanks to her pathetic stone.” He laughed out loud. “Isn’t that just perfect?”
June 5, 2010
T
om stood at the patio door glaring out over his shimmering back yard. Ungodly was the only way to describe it. The air in this suburb of Indianapolis, already thick and sticky as honey at dawn, had now reached a simmer under the noon sun. It didn’t help that he’d woken that morning with a now familiar sense of dread. He’d experienced that feeling often in the last couple of months, and it had grown stronger lately. He figured it had something to do with the disturbing dreams that started about the same time. Last night’s was a bona fide nightmare. In a panic, he’d searched the woods in the dark—always those same woods—but something new had been added. He’d seen the silhouette of a man moving toward him and felt terror like he’d never experienced in real life. When the shadowed man spoke, Tom had clamped his hands over his ears and screamed.
Screamed
. Like a child.
At breakfast, even though he’d been embarrassed that such nonsense as a dream had scared the crap out of him, he told Julie about it. But like she had when he told her about the other dreams, she dismissed it as a sign he was just stressed over work. He didn’t believe that was the cause, but he couldn’t offer a better explanation. He chalked up the intensity of the nightmares and his sense of foreboding as two subjects he couldn’t communicate to his wife.
Now, he pushed away those thoughts and redirected his anxiety by voicing an observation of the day’s weather. “It’s the first of June, goddammit.”
Julie replied, but she was shoulders deep in the cabinet under the sink, her voice too muffled for him to understand.
“What did you say?”
“Fifth,” she repeated.
“Fifth what?”
“Today’s the fifth of June, not the first.”
He allowed himself a grimace but stifled the sarcastic response that zipped to his tongue. His mood wasn’t her fault. And if they were going to be cooped up together all day, he would be wise to let the little things slide. Because of the unseasonable weather, they’d canceled their weekend errands and took refuge in their air-conditioned home. Not a bad place to be—a two-story stucco with four bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. Though they had formal living and dining rooms, they spent most of their time in the open-concept great room that combined the kitchen, breakfast, and family rooms in one space that took up two-thirds of the downstairs.
All morning, Tom had prowled in search of faucets, hinges, locks, and switches in need of repair. Julie had emptied the kitchen cupboards and now, after sorting, tossing and organizing, she was filling them again.
She sat back on her heels and peered up at him over the granite counter top. “I’m almost finished here. I’ll fix a nice salad for lunch. How’s that sound?”
“Great.” He said it because he should. Because he ate too much greasy, fast food at work, and she tried to counteract the cholesterol damage whenever she could. He loved her for that.
Praying that the unseasonable temperature was only a fluke and not some kind of omen, Julie stuffed the last full trash bag in the container and retreated to the kitchen. Omens weren’t something she usually watched for, but with her only child going off to college in August and her husband pulling away from her, she faced the summer with something less than enthusiasm. Keeping secrets had only added to her stress.
