Walking the Edge

By Curt Jeffreys

Home by the Sea – Haunted by the loss of his own daughter, Kyle Jennings must face a nameless horror from the dawn of time to save a little girl with sea green eyes.

Eustace – When Eddie Wilkes' father died he left his son more than just a rambling old house.

Beggars Can't be Choosers – When you're the last man on earth the dating pool is limited.

Disconnected – It's bad enough to lose your only brother but it is more than Chris Jensen can handle when he discovers the truth behind Kevin's death.

A Simple Task – Reverend Peters thought he had seen the worst humanity had to offer in the trenches of war-torn France – he was wrong.

Exit Left – Power, position and wealth don't add up to a hill of beans when you find yourself trapped in the parking garage from Hell.

Signal to Noise – As Rebecca Lundrgren descends in to madness she finds it harder and harder to filter out the signal from the noise.

Dark Legacy – Gil wanted to give his wife a pleasant distraction, a few hours to escape her pain, but their day trip to the mountains goes terribly wrong as they each uncover their own dark legacy.

Gut Feeling – No one believed Greg's pain was real, not even his wife. If he was to find relief he would have to take things into his own hands.

Crawlspace – The excitement of buying and renovating their first home quickly turns to pure horror for Jeff Rodgers and his new bride once he enters the crawlspace.

Terms and Conditions – Even the Devil himself doesn't stand a chance against a woman in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Curt Jeffreys
• Release date: Mar 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310791963

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Walking the Edge

Published by Curt Jeffreys at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Curt Jeffreys

EPUB ISBN 9781310791963

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Photo by Curt Jeffreys, Design by Zachary Jeffreys

www.CurtJeffreys.com

www.facebook.com/curtjeffreys.author

"The edge...

There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is have gone over."

Hunter S. Thompson

For Jacquie Sue

My One True Love

Table of Contents

Introduction

Home by the Sea

Eustace

Beggars Can't be Choosers

Disconnected

A Simple Task

Exit Left

Signal to Noise

Dark Legacy

Gut Feeling

Crawlspace

Terms and Conditions

About the Author

Connect with Curt

Introduction

My darling wife loves to walk right up to the edge of a cliff to stare down into the yawning abyss beneath her feet. Scares the crap out of me. She thinks it's fun.

That's the point, isn't it? Some people dangle their toes over the edge and laugh, others cower and whimper like little girls. (Go ahead and poke your fun – I'm man enough to be at peace with my cowering.)

The stories in this little collection run the gamut from horror to dark fantasy to science-fiction. But they all have one thing in common – they walk you right up to the edge so you can stare down into the abyss. Maybe you'll dangle your toes and laugh, maybe you'll whimper just a bit. Either way, I hope you are entertained.

Thanks for reading,

Curt Jeffreys

March 2013

Home by the Sea

He woke in a sweat, not sure at first where he was, his heart slamming against his chest like a caged animal. This one had been bad, so real even now parts of his mind were still trapped in the dream.

Mary Beth lay beside him, her bosom rising and falling under the sheets in a peaceful rhythm while out in the dark the Pacific pounded out its own rhythm, persistent in its ancient task, reducing North America to sand one grain at a time.

Kyle slipped through the unlit house with practiced precision, taking his accustomed place alone in the family room, the eternal Pacific below his only company. A storm was coming, Kyle could feel it. The wind raced in from the sea carrying cold steel rain and sleet. But even in a storm the ocean calmed him as no drug ever did, brought him a relief no therapy could offer. He let the sound of the surf wash over him, cleansing his soul, carrying away sins real and imagined, carrying his nightmare far out to sea to sink into the eternal abyss, never to bother him again. It was a pleasant thought, more of a mantra, really, repeated night after night all these years.

He couldn’t remember a time when the Pacific hadn’t been there for him, to calm him, to ease his pain. His life had been a beautiful, terrible thing, passing like a warm summer’s day; seeming to last forever, then done too soon. Not that his life was over, but he was more surviving, coping, than living, just treading water, barely keeping his chin on the sunny side of the surface.

Of course, Mary Beth knew none of this. She knew about his insomnia, suspected his depression. But she didn’t know the truth of it, the darkness lurking just below the surface of his mind, threatening to drag him down into a void he knew would never release him once he succumbed.

His father used to say character is who you are when you’re alone in the dark. Kyle wondered what kind of man cowers alone in the dark fighting memories and nightmares, refusing to seek help, even from the one person he promised to share his life with. A sick man, he decided. A sick, terrified fool of a man.

Along towards three he saw the lights. Twin beams of yellow bobbed through the rain as the car made its way up the narrow, curving lane below, climbing the hill to the Marsten house. The tiny figures of a woman and a man carrying a small child fled the car, sloshing through the rain, their headlight shadows dancing across the house before disappearing inside.

It couldn’t be the Marstens though. They were a childless elderly summer people from Portland who only used their summer house in July and August. A local Realtor rented it out to tourists the rest of the year. But winter is not prime tourist season on the Oregon coast. The rain is cold and constant, with wind gusts violent enough to lay a grown man flat. So, despite the realtor’s best efforts, the Marsten place sat empty from late fall till early spring as the tiny village of Manitas hibernated through the long winter months, dreaming of the return of the tourists and their money come spring.

Lights flicked on and off around the house below as its new occupants made themselves at home, finally going off for good around three-thirty. Kyle crawled into bed around four, wondering why anyone would bring a child out here in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, in the middle of a storm.

Dawn snuck up on the village as the sun refused to put in a proper appearance, lurking instead behind thick gray clouds, leaving the village immersed in near twilight. Kyle had been up since six, drinking coffee, watching the Pacific reveal itself in the growing light.

What time is it? Mary Beth yawned from the bedroom door, her sleep-hair a flaming red halo.

After nine, sleepy head.

At least I slept, she said. You?

Not really. Up at two, in bed by four, up again at six. Not bad for me. He didn’t mention the dream. He never did.

We have new neighbors, he pointed down the hill. At the Marsten’s. They came in last night under cover of darkness. Very mysterious. I’m thinking some sort of sleeper cell.

It would have to be a sleeper cell to come to Manitas in November, she laughed. Who are they really?

Don’t know, he said, reaching into the closet.

And just where do you think you’re going?

Have to be friendly, love, he shrugged into his coat. Bring out the welcome wagon and all that.

You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going out in this? You’ll get soaked.

If everybody in Oregon stayed inside every time it rained nothing would ever get done. Besides, he winked, if this keeps up it won’t rain.

Oh, no, she moaned. That joke was old when your dad told it twenty years ago.

Classics never age, he laughed. Anyway, a squeeze and a kiss and I’m off to the Marsten’s.

You’re off, alright, she giggled, slapping away his groping hand. And too curious for your own good. But, she purred, if you come back quick I’ll warm you up, and I don’t mean coffee.

Kyle parked his vintage (meaning rusted-out) Jeep next to the shiny new Audi in the Marsten’s drive. A child’s car seat was strapped in the back, a parking permit for a large Portland law firm hung from the rear-view.

A thirty-something man answered on the third knock. His eyes were distant and vacant, reminding Kyle of the poor souls you see on the ten o’clock news who’ve just survived a tornado or earthquake and their brains haven’t quite gotten a handle on the crappy hand life has just dealt them.

Sorry to bother you, Kyle stuck out a paw. Kyle Jennings. I live straight up the hill from you. The house with all the glass. You can see it from here, he pointed. I saw you come in last night. Can’t sleep sometimes. Insomnia. Terrible problem.

The man shook Kyle’s offered hand unenthusiastically, remaining silent.

Sorry, Kyle said. I’m rambling. I do that sometimes. Sorry. And your name is?

Troxler, the man said slowly. Dennis Troxler.

Um, Dennis, do you mind if I step inside? I’m getting soaked out here.

Troxler looked over his shoulder before stepping aside. I guess so.

An attractive but grave looking young woman materialized behind Troxler, a small girl peeping out from behind her. The child’s porcelain doll face was framed by coal black hair, her sea-green eyes glowed with curiosity. She smiled at Kyle’s wink. He had a real soft spot for little girls.

Dennis, who is it? The woman’s voice was cold and formal, as if speaking to the hired help. Is something wrong?

No, Monica, Troxler answered. Just someone welcoming us to the neighborhood.

Well, Kyle stammered, suddenly longing for the relative warmth of the freezing rain. Sorry for the intrusion. Just wanted to say ‘howdy’ and let you know if you need anything, anything at all, just let us know. We’re in the house on the hill with all the glass.

We’re fine, the woman sniffed. We have everything we need.

So, Kyle said. I guess I’ll be saying ‘goodbye’ then.

Goodbye then. Troxler held the door for him.

I’m telling you, babe, Kyle said, slipping naked between the sheets for his promised warm up. They’re weird.

You should know weird, Mary Beth teased. Now shut up and take me, you stud!

Afterward, Kyle sat in his chair overlooking the ocean while Mary Beth rattled around in the kitchen preparing brunch. The rain was coming harder now, ripping over the house in kamikaze waves that shook the glass walls with each gust. Kyle flipped a switch. Steel shutters slid from hidden recesses, leaving only one floor to ceiling pane of glass uncovered.

Tell me about the little girl, Mary Beth said, handing him a steaming cup. Scootch over.

Kyle scootched as his wife snuggled down beside him.

Five or six maybe, he said. Dark hair, very pale, with the most unusual sea-green eyes. Pretty little thing.

Five or six, Mary Beth said from a far off place.

Kyle knew what she was thinking. He was thinking it too.

Don’t do this, babe, he said gently.

Her birthday’s coming up, Mary Beth went on, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

I know. He kissed the tear away, wishing he could kiss her pain away with it.

She’d be twenty-one this year, Mary Beth sniffed. If only...

If only... he whispered.

If only Kyle hadn’t insisted on driving through the night on their way back to the city. If only they’d stayed five minutes longer at the rest stop. If only he’d seen the truck weaving across the center line a split second sooner. There were more if onlys than Kyle could count. They say time heals all wounds but that’s a lie people tell you when they don’t know what else to say. Fifteen years of pain and the wounds were as fresh as ever. There was no healing, only coping, and some days he was barely able to hold on, staying just this side of crazy. There wasn’t a day went by Kyle didn’t pray to God to take it all back, to leave their little girl alone, to take him instead.

Their food sat in the kitchen, cold and forgotten as Kyle held his sobbing wife till the raging Pacific swallowed the sun in its angry waves.

The storm intensified over the next couple of days. Kyle and Mary Beth stayed inside, warm and snug, riding out the storm as they had so many times before. By Friday, though, the pantry began to run low and Kyle was forced out into the weather to replenish their stock. Mary Beth wanted to go with him, but he managed to talk her out of it.

The road was a mud river made more treacherous by fallen trees and flows of oozing mud washing down from the hillsides. Mr. Connelly, the owner of Manitas’ one and only grocery store, was just closing up when Kyle burst in. He hurriedly grabbed the items on Mary Beth’s list, thanked the old man for his patience and headed back into the storm.

There wasn’t a single car on the road. It seemed the majority of Manitas’ residents had the common sense to stay in out of the rain. All except Kyle and a lone figure tramping through the mud. Kyle swerved to avoid the idiot.

Excuse me, Kyle yelled through the window. Do you need help?

The man turned slowly. It was Dennis Troxler.

Dennis? Kyle hollered against the wind. Get in. I’ll take you home.