Cold Hollow (Cold Hollow Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

Hugo Morrissey showed up early and took Liam out to the trail closest to their home. They returned with an empty bag of apples and Liam babbling about how Mr. Morrissey had taught him to get the deer to eat from his hand. The child was hyperventilating as Myrna laughed and calmed him down.

His little hand began trembling as he held it out to her. “They got them, Auntie Myrna! They got their angel wings!” Myrna saw three long white feathers in Liam’s hand and her eyes filled. She choked back a sob and hugged him to her chest. “I told you they would. I told you that they would be watching you from the clouds as soon as they got their angel wings. Wasn’t it nice that they sent you that message on Christmas Day?”

Liam looked up at her and wiped a tear from her cheek. He was smiling. “It sure was. This is the best Christmas ever, so far.”

Myrna looked at Hugo and mouthed the words “Thank you,” at him. He brushed it off as though it was nothing, but to hear Liam tell the story of how it had happened, Myrna knew that Hugo had put an awful lot of thought into the surprise. She couldn’t figure out how he got the feathers to float down to Liam at precisely the right time as they were feeding the deer, but she hardly cared. It had made the child happier than she had ever seen him.

She watched as he stood on tiptoe and placed the feathers atop the fireplace mantel next to his parents’ and sister’s urns. She often caught him talking to the urns, but the child psychiatrist said that it was a healthy thing for him to do. She said he would eventually stop, but for now it made him happy.

Tom came from the kitchen and asked, “Hugo, did you hear about what happened to the owner of the tavern?” Myrna watched as Hugo put his hands behind his back and shook his head. “Well, he was in one hell of a bar fight. He came into the emergency room last night, barely coherent and beat up. We had to admit him.”

Hugo shrugged and asked, “For the injuries?” Myrna watched him stare at the floor.

Tom responded, “No, for alcohol poisoning. He’s getting renal dialysis.”

Hugo mumbled something akin to, “Aw, that’s a downright shame.”

Myrna nearly began laughing aloud and had to turn away. She feigned fluffing dinner napkins, which she had already fluffed at least ten times. Later that day, Myrna noticed Hugo’s knuckles were swollen and scraped. She didn’t bring it to anyone’s attention. She knew the owner of the tavern had been good friends with Ranger Bullock, and she figured whatever happened to him, he had it coming.

It wasn’t long before the house was filled with laughter, the noise of toys, good food, and gifts. The Dumonts were in heaven all day playing with the children, and Artie was busy flirting with Amanda Borges. It was comical to see, but Myrna caught Amanda blushing and batting her eyelashes at him, so it seemed as though a romance was blooming. The twelve of them sat around the big table and ate together as a family should.

When Myrna thought about it, they really were a family. They had lived in prison together and in this town together. They had seen the hard times and the good times. At last, they were reaping the benefits of their labor, and it felt great. She doubted any of them would ever slide back into the darkness again. There was no reason to, but some of the residents of the town were unpredictable. Not only that, but Myrna was sure that new residents would eventually show up. The commissioners and government had refused to give up on the integration program. The knowledge made Myrna’s skin itch.

THE END

Excerpt from “Weaving the Web”

A Cold Hollow Mystery

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and people were dying. Life was superb, particularly for a serial killer. This had been his first notion as he opened the front door of the house with a smile on his face. “Honey, I’m home!” Clicking on some music, he made his way to the basement of his modest home. In a darkened corner hung his latest victim, strung upright in an elaborate web of fine silk. He was furious to find  her eyes had already imploded and he had missed it. Frank Sinatra was crooning “The Way You Look Tonight” in the background as he stood studying his latest failure with his hands on his hips.

He reminisced about the hackled orb weaver. The spider
uloboridae
was the grandest of killers he ever had the opportunity of witnessing. Lacking venom, it wrapped its prey in strands of silk, slowly suffocating it from the bottom up, saving the head for last. He had set up a time-lapse video recorder to track its tireless movements during the night, and found it became more active during evening hours. It would rest one hour and begin again. Consuming the previously used web and prey, it would begin to weave anew. The web itself was a piece of art, sophisticated, with a meticulous spiral arrangement, and his was no less.

With a heavy sigh, he wrapped the victim’s face and shrugged. He couldn’t beat himself up too badly over this failure—after all, she had lasted the longest. Well over a week. He remembered the thrill pulsing in him and the rush of adrenaline trilling through his veins each time he returned home to find someone there waiting for him, wanting, needing his ironclad attention.

It was not as though there was a lack of willing victims in the world. It was riddled with riffraff whom, in his mind, people could live without. Just like the hackled orb weaver, he would try again until he perfected his craft. He would be a tireless, professional killer.

Untying the victim’s cocooned corpse and dragging it through the house was inconsequential to him. It was part of his newfound joy; besides, she had deserved it.

***

He rubbed his face with his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. These flashbacks to the past had been occurring more frequently now, which only meant one thing. His hunger was intensifying. He was capable of going years without these compulsions or desires, but when they arrived, his needs had to be met, or the images would continue streaming into his mind at a maddening level. He had become accustomed to hiding his problem from the public eye since youth and continued to do so now.  He currently sat alone in his darkened basement with his eyes shut while massaging his temples. He decided he had been dormant long enough. It was time to get back to work. He stood and dusted off his pants.

His fingers worked with swiftness as he wove the silk web. It was anchored to the support beams above his head, and the sides anchored into the walls two by fours. He continued to weave in an orbital fashion. Each strand was refined, beautiful, and woven with anticipation of things to come. It was big, the biggest he had ever made by far, but it had to be for what he had in mind. It also had to be the strongest. It didn’t take him long before he was on the bottom layer and had anchored the base of the web to the large eyebolts he had drilled into the cement of the floor.

When he finished, he stood back admiring his creation to find it perfect. Racing toward it, he leapt up and flung his body onto the web. Grasping it with both hands to test its weight capacity, he found it had held just as he knew it would. He smiled and released his hold on the web as his chest heaved in excitement. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and his fists clenched and unclenched. He was invigorated, but tempered himself as he left the basement.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emilie Howard lives among the wildlife and forests of northern Rhode Island with her family and furry companions. Here, she taps away at her keyboard, hoping to give her readers a chance at escape from the norm, an adventure into unknown realms, or a fright. After publishing her first novel, she will hardly budge from her post at the desk, except at night when the wolves are howling…

If you happen to visit her and cannot find her at the desk, you just may find her in the woods with her favorite companion by her side, feeding the deer. Emilie is infatuated with wildlife and often captures some amazing photographs. Her surroundings have become the inspiration for some of her novels.

Emilie J. Howard can be reached by e-mail at:
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OTHER TITLES BY THIS AUTHOR

A Fantasy/Paranormal Series

Faolan-Book One of the Conri Clan Series

The Shield Maiden-Book Two of the Conri Clan Series

The Chosen Ones-Book Three of the Conri Clan Series

Fire and Ice-Book Four of the Conri Clan Series

Battle of Destiny-Book Five of the Conri Clan Series

Thriller/Suspense

Depravity

Cold Hollow-Cold Hollow Mysteries Book 1

Weaving the Web-Cold Hollow Mysteries Book 2

The Maestro- Cold Hollow Mysteries Book 3

                                         
Credits

Cover Credit: Self Pub Book Covers.com/Shardel