From Away - Series One, Book Four: a Serial Thriller of Arcane and Eldritch Horror: FROM AWAY, #4

By Deke Mackey Jr.

Something lurks in the black waters surrounding Mossley Island. An arcane and eldritch horror. For 50 years, it's waited. Fading into myth. Allowing those who fought off its last invasion to succumb to age. Now, with the island all but unprotected, this ancient evil prepares to mount one last attack.

SPOILER-ALERT! From Away is a continuing story told in serial format. It's strongly recommended you go no further, until you've read Books One through Three.

The fourth freaky installment of this serialized story finds the Watch rushing to defend Mossley Island against an underwater sneak attack, as Sylvie meets an enemy agent face-to-face.

Wanda begins her new life in captivity as Dr. Ramsey's lab-rat, while Trevor looks behind-the-curtain at the Home, determined to uncover and expose the Old Men's secrets to the world.

Meanwhile, a visit to St. Neot's reveals the mysterious day-to-day existence of the Sisterhood, before Ren is forced to face the ultimate consequence for breaking the Circle.

Featuring creepy nuns with mysterious motives, a sinister cabal of strangely robust senior citizens, and a militia of lighthouse keepers watching the ocean in case unspeakable terrors rise from the depths, this eerie seven-part serial will draw readers in with atmospheric tension and surprising twists, and refuse to let go as it hurtles towards a startling cliffhanger conclusion sure to leave everyone desperate for the next gripping chapter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deke Mackey Jr.
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994835970

Deke Mackey Jr.

Deke Mackey Jr. has spent most of his life sitting cross-legged in a corner. Rocking in place. Knocking his head against the wall. Quietly telling himself stories. Recently? He's been getting louder. Occasionally, he can be found making trouble at: dekemackeyjr.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"You’re still acting like this was an honest-to-God monster, Cass. Owen eases off the throttle. Adjusts the wheel. Matching the patrol boat’s course to the coastline on the GPS monitor. And there could be monsters out there, I don’t know... But we both saw this thing when they dumped it in back of the truck. It must’ve been right scary, face-to-face, but... Wasn’t a real monster or nothing. Just a costume. With a regular person inside."

Mist pebbles the windshield. A thousand refracting horizons. The last of sunset’s pinks fading to purple in each. The island becoming a silhouette. Losing detail as night falls.

That’s what you think, is it? Just a regular person? Cass leans on the spotlight. Too early to turn it on. Shore still visible, if not for much longer. How big would you guess Roscoe is? Bigger’n you, yeah?

Owen bristles. Pfft. Bulkier maybe. Not as tall, though.

Around two-sixty, say? And what? Six-three?

I’m six-three.

Call it six-two, then. I don’t give a shit. Big guy, however you slice him.

Yeah, okay. Owen nods. His eyes underwater now. Watching the sonar display. Easily avoiding fingers of seaweed reaching up toward the hull.

"So this thing - this regular person, you’re saying - it carried Roscoe up out of the ocean and ran off through the woods. All two hundred and sixty pounds of him over one shoulder. Fast enough to stay ahead of Sylvie, and far enough ahead of her to have time to stop. Get out of the costume. And dump it in that hole for her to stumble over. All this after getting spiked on a drop-wall and stuck in the back with a speargun bolt?"

Owen’s brow creases. Laid out like that, it is more of a feat than he’d realized. But where’s the good in imagining the enemy into something more’n he is? All this time, we been told it’s these terrible creatures we’re up against. Then, we finally run into one and come to find: It’s just a man. A strong man, I’ll give you that. But shouldn’t we be relieved?

Maybe. All I’m saying is... Just because it was wearing a monster costume on the outside, doesn’t mean there wasn’t a monster inside, too.

Owen shivers. As much as he’d like to, he can’t pretend she doesn’t have a point. To hear Burl describe the attack? It was savage. More beast than human. Then again, the thing also set a trap to catch anyone chasing it. Beyond the capabilities of most animals.

He looks to the island. Bathed in darkness. Lights turning on in homes as Islanders realize the day has departed. Roscoe’s still out there. Somewhere. They have him. Whatever they are.

The radio crackles. Nearly sending both shipmates leaping over the sides. Tower Three to Patrol One, come back.

Rolling her eyes, Cass answers: We hear you, Tower Three. Go ahead.

Uhhh... We’re looking at something down there with you, Cass.

W-What? She stiffens. Turns in place. Looking out over the water in all directions. What’re you seeing, Tower?

Looks like a boat. Fifteen footer. Currently, we have it at quad Whiskey-Seven. Heading for No-Man’s Land. Something they’ve dealt with a hundred times: A joy-rider, headed out-of-bounds. No reason to worry it might be anything more. Gonna need a standard intercept.

Owen clicks a few buttons. Switching views on his monitors. Plotting standard intercept. He spins the wheel. Pushes the boat back in the direction they came.

Uh, Tower? Cass hates herself for asking: What if it’s... Another one of those... Things?

If it’s one of those things? The radio is silent a long moment. Then you kill it, Patrol One.

~

"Come hither! Come hither! My little daughter,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

What’s that from? Sylvie enters her father’s workshop. Finds him bent over his latest project. Peering through magnifying glasses. Carving a tiny sliver of balsa wood with a utility knife. Reciting a poem to himself.

Martin looks up at his daughter. Over his lenses. What’s what from?

"Come hither, come hither, and all that jazz. Sounds familiar." She can’t help but smirk as she says it.

Her father’s aghast. Ya know damn well what it’s from. Philistine!

Sylvie points to the framework of a schooner. Slowly taking shape next to the wine bottle it’s destined to inhabit. Another Hesperus, then?

Her father grunts. Continues his work: Building a broken ship. Foundered from the outset. Of all his shipwrecks-in-bottles, this has always been Sylvie’s favorite. Though others have included bones on occasion, the Hesperus is the only one to feature a complete human: A girl. Lashed to the mast. Hollow eyes staring out. A tiny detail. Missed by most. Sylvie’s spent hours staring through bottle glass at the poor drowned waif. Wondering what her story was. Imagining scenarios that might’ve led to her binding.

Though she doesn’t know it as fact, Sylvie’s always been secretly certain the miniature face is based on her own. The Hesperus was first added to her father’s repertoire when she was a child of similar age. He had to have modeled the girl after her. It only made sense. So sure is she, that it’s become an unspoken point-of-pride. Unspoken and unquestioned. She’ll never seek out confirmation. Knowing she’d be crushed should it turn out to be untrue.

At any rate, it’s not based on her sister. Wanda didn’t enter the picture until years later. So, at least there’s that.

Her father swivels on his stool. Turns from the worktable. Selects a small chisel from a rack of nearly identical tools. Settle in okay, did ya?

I’m in, anyway. Can’t say I’m feeling settled.

Mm. It’s an antsy-pants night, followin’ after a right fidgety day. He pulls a set of helping-hands closer. Adjusts the alligator clips for better access to the small ship’s wheel held between them. Night like this, y’almost hear it, don’t ya? Whispers of them what’s plottin’ agin ya seem to carry on the breeze.

Who is it you imagine plotting against me?

The enemy. A matter of fact. He points his chisel at her. No more foolin’ yerself now. Ya know sure they’re out there, and it’s got ya right agitated.

She frowns. There’s more going on in my life than just the Watch, Dad.

Is or isn’t, impact’s the same, ducky: Knowin’ there’s a body out in the world, wishin’ fer yer demise? Takes a toll. Can’t stand on nish ice long, ‘fore ya get the bivers. He pulls off the thick lenses. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Rests tired eyes. But any time I ever got that feelin’, tell you what I’d do... The old man turns to his daughter. I’d climb on up to that ol’ crow’s nest. And I’d roust them b’ys with an All-call. Get ‘em all on guard. Standin’ smart at attention.

Well acquainted with her father’s surprise All-calls, Sylvie has yet to call one herself. Something about the idea appeals to her.

After all, it might could be ya’re feelin’ that way for reasons, yeah? Yer inner emergency warning system goin’ off. Tellin’ ya somethin’s up ya’d otherwise maybe miss. And that’s so? Ya best pay heed. Call the Watch in line. Be sure they’re bright-eyed and wary, just in case.

Sylvie nods. If nothing else, the constant threat of surprise All-calls helped to keep everyone on their toes. Not a bad policy at all.

Her father groans. Stretches. Long as ya’re here, I should ask... Got a place I need to get tomorrow. Think ya might be up to givin’ yer ol’ Da a ride?

Sylvie curses herself for hanging around too long. If I can’t, I’m sure we can find someone.

Kinda hopin’ you’d come along. If it’s all the same.

Yeah. If I can, Dad. She heads for the door. Pauses on the threshold. Aren’t you even curious? Why I’m here? A small voice. Timid. Her father, the only person to ever hear from that side of her.

Lard Thunderin’, Sylvia Jane... The why don’t matter none. Ya need to stay, y’always got a place here.

But... Don’t you care?

Not one blessed whit. Ya want me to know, I figure ya’ll tell me, won’t ya? Otherwise? It’s yer own business, an’ I’ll keep my nose clear of it.

Sylvie absorbs this. Exits.

When her footsteps have quieted, her father picks up a half-inch wooden dowel. Partially carved. He pulls a dog-eared photo from his shirt pocket. Holds it under the light. Wallet-sized. An elementary school portrait: Sylvie in second grade.

Referring to the picture, he resumes carving the daughter of the captain of the Hesperus. Bound to its mast by him for her own protection.

Doomed.

~

The boat burns.

Dead in the water. Flames licking the sky.

Something must’ve shorted out as they crossed over the Reef. From a safe distance, Owen watches the fire. A single bright torch blazing on the black sea. Too far off to make out more. Cass has the binoculars. Night-vision engaged. Not looking at the fire. Instead, methodically scanning the surface of the water.

I’m not seeing anybody. Through the lenses, the world is green. Flaring white where the flames reflect. We’d hear ‘em too, from here. If anyone was calling for help.

If they were conscious. Owen attaches a step-pump to the inflatable raft. Starts stepping. Like it or don’t, we need to go check.

I don’t. Cass lowers the binoculars. Does any of this feel right to you?

"Feel right? Owen chuckles. When’d you get so paranoid?"

She crosses the deck. Steps on the pump. Holds it down. It could just as easily have been us. You get that, right? Instead of Roscoe, it could’ve been you that got taken. Or me. She glances off. At the fire. What if this... What if it’s some kind of trap?

Owen struggles for an answer. One that will reassure his partner. One that won’t ring false.

Tower Three to Patrol One. What’ve we got out there kids?

Owen moves to the dash. Lifts the receiver. A derelict, Tower One. On fire. No sign of any occupants. Just the boat. He looks to Cass. Finds her watching him closely. Arms crossed. Anxious. Her nerves are contagious. How, uh... How you want us to proceed?

Same as always, Owen: Go get ‘er. Bring ‘er in.

But... It’s on fire.

So put it out, Patrol One. What the hell? Are you new?

No, Cass is just... Look, Bernie... We’re thinking there’s somethin’ about this... It just doesn’t pass the smell test. He nods to Cass. She returns it. Eyes hopeful.

When Tower Three replies, Bernie’s voice has lost its severity. Softened. Guys. Everyone’s on edge, what with Roscoe gone. The circumstances around that. But the job hasn’t changed. We don’t let people cross the Reef. And if they make it across, we bring them back. By all means, please... Be on guard. Be careful. But do the job. All right?

Cass looks away. Toward the flaming boat. Owen swallows once. Roger that, Tower. Patrol One, out. He sets the receiver back in its cradle. Continues pumping up the raft.

~

Hey, uh... Sylvie here. Up in Tower One. This is an All-call, so... I’m gonna want to hear back from you guys now. How’re things looking out there?

A trickle of sweat runs down her spine. Little tremors through her hand shake the microphone. Performance anxiety. Of course. Could it actually be getting worse? Is that even possible? It’s one thing to get nervous about appearing in front of the Old Men, but these people? She knows them. Worked with them most of her adult life. She’s their boss. Why should she feel anxious asking them to report in?

She closes her eyes. Pretends she’s alone in the crow’s nest. Without Carol and Lonnie behind her. Judging.

She clears her throat. All right, um... Let’s get started with Tower Two... Talk to me, Tower Two.

This is Monique at Tower Two, Sylvie. All’s well, here.

Thanks, Monique. Uh... Without an exit strategy, Sylvie stumbles. How to conclude the interaction? She settles on: Keep up the good work.

Will do. Tower Two out.

Phew! Simple enough, ultimately. One down, three to go.

Tower Three? What’s your situation? Your... Status. What’s your status?

Bernie here, at Tower Three, Sylvie. Picked up on someone headed off-road a little while ago. Aiming at crossing over. Grabbed Patrol One. Sent ‘em back to nab the guy.

Nothing unusual there. Nevertheless, icy insects skitter up Sylvie’s back. Freezing her perspiration into icicles. They get him?

Made it across before they could catch up. Boat died on the way. P-1’s there now. Eyes on the craft, only...

Sylvie leans back. Looks over the various stacks of monitors. Not finding what she’s looking for. Lonnie rolls his chair forward. Reaches for the switches beneath a doppler radar screen. Clicks the view to: Tower Three and the chunk of geography it serves. The coastline and a pie-slice of ocean. Far from shore, Patrol One is a green dot floating dangerously close to a yellow line: Wreck Reef.

Only what, Tower Three?

They’re saying it’s on fire. No visual on any people. Not in the boat. Not in the water.

Shit. Sylvie stares at a red dot just outside the yellow line. Imagines it flickering with flame. Crossing Wreck Reef causes machinery and electronics to fritz out. Circuits fry. Gears spark. A resulting fire wouldn’t be too surprising. Coupled with recent events, however... Something isn’t adding up.

All right, well... Keep us post--

Sorry to break in, Sylvie, but... This is Patsy, out at Tower Four. Did I just hear Bernie say she has an off-roader on fire?

That’s right, Patsy, she--

We’ve got one, too.

Sylvie’s stomach rolls. Lonnie flips a switch on the doppler. Moves the view to Tower Four. The coastline changes - along with the matching arc of Wreck Reef - but the rest is essentially the same: Green dot just inside the yellow line. Red dot escaped.

Saw it headed out of bounds maybe ten minutes ago. Patrol Two was close, so I sent ‘em out after it. Just heard back. Jake was calling it a Viking funeral. All lit up. No signs of life.

Sylvie looks to Lonnie. To Carol. Her own concern mirrored on their faces. Give me the pull-back. Show me the whole thing.

Lonnie clicks some buttons. Pulls it up: Mossley Island. Five lighthouses represented. Points on a poorly drawn star. Tower One at the top of the island. Three and Four at the bottom. In the ocean beneath them, the two patrol boats on duty sit altogether too close to one another, investigating the two red dots.

They’re bunched up. Carol rolls her chair closer to the desk.

Lonnie agrees: Surprised they don’t actually see one another.

They’re focused on the fires. Sylvie mutters. Completely occupied. Look at all this. She traces the coast above Towers Three and Four. More than three-fifths of the island. Almost everything’s left undefended.

Her heart drops as she realizes. She grabs the microphone: Abort, Towers Three and Four! Bring the patrols back in. No salvage. No rescue. Get ‘em away from those boats and spread ‘em out. On high alert.

This is Tower Four... I’ve been trying to raise Patrol Two. They’re not responding, Sylvie.

Jesus... Keep trying, Patsy. Sylvie bites her lip. Thinks before shouting into the microphone once more. Full attention, Towers Two and Five. It’s all been a distraction. They wanted our attention down there. So something must be happening up here.

The towers roger back as Sylvie stands. Spins on the Tower One team. Call in Dale and Norris. Anyone seaworthy. I want more boats on the water, ASAP. Pushing between their chairs, she heads for the staircase.

Carol calls after her: "But where are you going?"

The Boathouse. Sylvie shouts over her shoulder. I’m taking out Patrol Three.

CHAPTER TWO

A gasp from outside.

Dawn turns. Looks through the rotting toy shop. Out the broken front window. Just in time to see Max drop out of sight. She hears him land on the sidewalk: A soft thump followed by a hard clonk. Body, followed by head.

Without a thought, she leaves behind the strange photograph that had held her attention rapt. The mirror image which cannot be her. She rushes for the exit. Focused on getting to Max. Unaware of anything she passes by in her rush to leave the dark shop.

Max! She finds him. Collapsed. Tangled in ropes of the thick black vine which has laid its grasping claim over so much of the town. His face bright red. Eyes rolled back. Throat swollen. Tongue protruding from open mouth. No longer gasping. Not getting any air at all.

She drops down next to him. Tears at the clinging ivy. Why didn’t you stay away? But she knows why. She is why. He came to save her. Unaware she’s somehow immune to the town’s toxic atmosphere. Its ‘bad air’ may make everyone else sick, but it seems to have no effect on her.

Once freed from the foliage, she pulls him into the shadowy street. Moving the lanky teenager more easily than expected. He’s lighter than he looks. Or she’s stronger. His body quakes in her arms. His limbs stiffen. Over-extend. His back arches in some sort of spasm. We’ve got to get you out of here. Can you walk at all?

His eyes dart in all directions. Tears run down his cheeks. His lips quiver. No words come. Dawn can’t wait for a reply. She rises. Arms beneath him. Encircling his chest. She lifts him to his feet. Once again, surprised by how little effort is required. Max is skinny, but he’s tall. It should even things out, but it doesn’t. He’s a featherweight, apparently.

Stooping, she lifts. Gets him up and over her shoulder without difficulty. Takes a tentative step. Then, two. She can do this. Somehow, she can carry him.

Rather than question it, Dawn runs. Toting Max away from the ivy-choked buildings. Along the road. Past the tiny waving flags. Toward the wall, and the fresh air that lies beyond it.

Praying she isn’t already too late.

~

He could’ve stopped her. Held her there.

In his hand: The sharpest chisel. It’s also the quickest.

But he didn’t want to hurt her. Not if he didn’t have to. He’d have taken no pleasure in that. And she wasn’t ready. Not without force. He would’ve had to hurt her to make her stay.

Instead, he let her go.

Hearing the gasp, he’d ducked back into the shadows. Froze as she emerged from his back room. Ran through. Out the door. Out of his shop. Out of his sight. Too soon for her to go. Too soon after far too long.

It had all happened before. Long ago. Way back when, he could’ve made her stay. But forced himself to let her leave. So as not to hurt her. He no longer knows how much time has passed in her absence. Gave up on counting days. Didn’t think he’d live to see her return. But now...

She’d come back. She’d been so close. He could’ve reached out and... And... The chisel darts forth. Strikes at shadows. Fighting himself, he returns it to its sheath. Flexes his fingers. Sore from clutching. Extending them, he watches the webbing stretch between each one.

He peers over the edge of the windowsill. Sees her. Running down the road. Carrying that horrible boy away. Almost to the wall. Exiting his world again. Ripping a hole in the poor, lonely heart