The Collection

By Erik Lynd

A dark family legacy.  A house with many secrets…

 

Mark Holloway never asked to grow up on the road, dragged from one city to the next by a mother who always seemed to be running from something. He hoped the moving would stop now that they have returned to her hometown.

 

But not everything is as it seems in the peaceful seaside town of Hannity on the Coast.

 

He soon discovers a family he never knew he had and a horrible legacy he is destined to inherit. With his mother's health failing and a killer on the loose, Mark must find the strength to overcome his dark family tree and save those he most cares about.

 

The Collection is a supernatural horror novel that takes you to the edge of terror.  If you enjoy Clive Barker, Stephen King, and John Saul, you will love this dark tale by Erik Lynd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Broken Gods Press
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393496427

Book preview

1

Apparently, Hannity is where you come to die .

This is the thought that occurred to Mark Holloway as he and his mother sped past the largest cemetery he had ever seen. Row after row of stones thrusting up from the ground like the crooked teeth of some earth-bound monster flashed by the car as they drove along highway 101. They had past the sign proclaiming Hannity, Oregon: Population 10,300 just moments before seeing the first of the gravestones. The gravestones stretched away to the top of the hill on the right, and Mark imagined they continued down the other side, perhaps all the way to the ocean. What did that say about a town when the first sight you were greeted with was a town of the dead?

We’re here, his mother said.

Mark said nothing, but looked out the window at the gravestones and wondered where exactly here was. He thought of the last place they had lived. He thought of the old, moldy hallways of the apartment building. He thought of his room with the boxes that were never completely unpacked because they would not stay long. He thought of the lights and chaos of that city. Things moved fast in the city and he had liked it. Had it been home? No, not really. But that word felt odd to him anyway. Mark was not sure if he knew what home was. They had stayed there longer than anywhere, so maybe that qualified. Either way he wanted to be there not here.

What’s up Marko Polo? His mother asked, a lopsided grin on her face. Don’t tell me you aren’t a little excited. It’s the coast; the first time we’ve lived by the ocean. Can’t you smell the salt air?

I liked the old place.

For a moment her grin faltered and he could see sadness in her eyes. She was only thirty-five, but the grind of moving from one low paying job to another, sometimes two at the same time, showed. She tried to hide it, at least from him, but he could see the toll this life was taking on her. He would see her late at night, quiet sobs sending tears down her cheeks to dampen the bills on the kitchen table. Sometimes he would find her on the couch still in her work clothes, sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion.

A glint of light drew his attention to the silver necklace she wore. The necklace he and his father had picked out for a Mother’s Day gift shortly before his father had died. It was one of the few memories he had of his father. He never saw her without it.

Well I promise you no more moves for a while. You’ll be here for a long time. She reached out and flipped the hair hanging across his eyes. You’ll be quick to make new friends. Becky said there was a kid your age in her apartment building.

She was smiling, almost laughing, but something was wrong. She was hiding something behind that crooked grin. It scared him.

Aunt Becky is excited to see us; she’s always wanted to meet you. She doesn’t have a large apartment, but you’ll have your own room.

They had passed the cemetery and he could see houses emerging from the trees and hills. They were old, Victorian his mother had said, but for him the word Victorian inspired images of huge mansions on large plots of land. Most of these homes were small and a little run-down. Perhaps that was proper so close to the cemetery. They reflected the slow decay of what lay underground.

He tried to shrug off his dark musing, but it was difficult. They had moved every year or two since his father died ten years ago. It was hard not to be depressed when all of your family possessions could fit in the back of an SUV. He supposed it could be worse; they could be homeless. His mother always found a job quickly, and though they lived cheaply, but they didn’t starve.

As a child he had never questioned it, but as he got older the moving had started to scare him. Perhaps it was just a case of the grass was always greener in the next town, but he began to think that maybe it was something more. The constant moves made him feel like a fugitive. They didn’t change their names, they didn’t leave town in the middle of the night and his mother was always diligent about forwarding their mail, but he couldn’t help feeling as if something was after them.

Then there was this move. A move to a town he had never heard of, to live with an aunt that his mother had spoken of only once or twice. When he tried to pry more information from her on who Rebecca Reed was, she changed the subject. All he knew was that she was older than his mom and lived in the town of Hannity. She was not wealthy, but had enough money that she did not have to work. She had received the money from her father when he died.

His grandfather was another mysterious figure in his family tree. He knew even less about the old man than he did about his Aunt Rebecca. He had often wondered why his mother hadn’t received a part of the inheritance, although he suspected that they had not been on good terms.

Mark looked over at her. She did not notice him looking and the grin was gone. She looked tired. Had she lost a little weight?

Hannity is where you come to die. He thought once again. Then frowned, shrugged it off and settled back in his seat to observe the town that would be his new home.

Quaint was not the word that Mark would use to describe Aunt Becky’s apartment building. Run down maybe, fixer-upper probably, but not quaint. It was large though. It towered over the homes around it, perched like a stodgy old owl in the middle of the block. The homes surrounding it were more modern, but smaller and also run down. They were the homes of lumbermen, miners, or fishermen; workers from all the industries that had flourished here in the first half of the century.

It was white, though yellowing in places, and four stories not including the large attic under the steeple roof. The classic Victorian look was completed with the large wraparound porch. It looked like the setting for a horror movie.

They pulled up to the curb and he stepped out. The yard was well kept. Flowers and bushes lined the porch and the sidewalk. The yard’s vibrant life was a sharp contrast to the dull look of the house. He glanced at one of the top floor windows, half expecting to see Mrs. Bates gazing malevolently down at them. When he did see a figure, his breath caught.

Someone was there, but it was no deranged psychopath wearing a wig. It was a girl about his age. She had long dark hair, and as he watched she smiled and raised her hand in a slow wave. Mark found himself smiling back and started to raise his own hand in response, but his foot caught the curb. He fell, but caught himself, scraping his palms on the rough sidewalk. He hissed in pain and looked back up at the girl. She covered a giggle and his face flushed red. Then he also started to laugh. Even at a distance the mystery girl’s laugh was infectious.

Hey Marko! He dragged his eyes away to look at his mom. Grab some bags; we’ll come out for the rest later.

He looked up, but the girl was gone, only the sway of the curtains remained to prove she was not an apparition.

The front door opened before they made it to the front steps. A woman came flowing out of the building. She was large with a smile that threatened to split her face open. Deep wrinkles, laugh lines as his mother called them, surrounded her mouth and indeed, she looked as if she laughed every day of her life. Her hair was dark with just a few splashes of gray. And despite her bulk she moved with a gracefulness. A white sundress billowed around her and from her left hand dangled a large sun hat.

Mark was nervous. This was family; his mother’s family. He had never met anyone from that side. He thought that some tragedy in the past must have caused the estrangement of his mother. Certainly it could not have been her choice in men? His father may not have been wealthy or the part of the social elite, but his mother’s family had no reason to stick up their noses.

Now here he was confronted by the unknown. She was smiling. It was irrational, but he was waiting for her to burst out in a mad cackle or screech and pounce on his mom.

My, my little sis, look at you. Aunt Becky said and stopped at the top of the stairs. She clutched her hands to her bosom and looked them over. You look great. Is this strapping young man Mark?

Mark raised his eyebrow. Strapping. Who says that anymore? But her smile only widened and soon he was smiling back at her.

My god, look at you. I saw some pictures of you once, but you were much younger. You have grown into a handsome young man. And Steph, you look great. She rushed the rest of the way down the steps in a fluttery burst and threw her ample arms around her sister.

You look great too, his mother replied and tried to return the hug with suitcases in her hands.

Oh hell, no need for false flattery, I know I’ve put on some weight. She held out her arms. Well, maybe a lot of weight.

She stepped back and Mark tried to stifle a chuckle at how much the two of them looked alike when they smiled, even though Aunt Becky outweighed his mom by at least 150 pounds.

Aunt Becky looked at him and then suddenly engulfed him in a giant bear hug. He was a head taller than her, but that didn’t stop her from lifting him off his feet.

She smelled of baking, he thought, like cookies or cake. His mother had once smelled like that. It was a long time ago, but not so long that he couldn’t remember. Back when his father was still with them. He squeezed her back. He did not cry, but he came close.

Well, let’s go in. No need to keep you standing around out here. She flashed a smile at them. Can I grab a bag?

No, no, Marko here can bring the stuff in later, lead on. She gestured toward the large house. Show us our new home.

Mark could see a smile on his mother’s face, not the crooked one she usually wore, but a full-blown smile. Mark finally noticed the sunshine and the smell of salt water in the air. This place didn’t seem so bad.

As they walked up the path to the door he looked up at the top window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl again, but the window was still empty. Who was she? Was she a ghost? Maybe he would ask his aunt about her.

Something new going on over there, Joe said as he gazed out his window at the Amble house across the street. He eyed the unfamiliar car parked at the curb and watched as the boy and his mother walk into the house.

"Someone new over there, Randolph," Joe said and turned to the cat licking its paws, patiently waiting for his master to finish opening the can of cat food. When Joe didn’t immediately return to opening the can he let out a meow of protest. Apparently the inexhaustible patience of a cat had its limits.

Joe ignored him and looked back out the window. That boy is going to be in trouble, he thought. He could see it in the boy’s step and the set of his shoulders. It was the way the boy looked at the ground more than at the world around him when he stepped out of that car. He’s going through hard times or soon will be.

Joe knew things; he was old school as they say. He could see the dark shadow hanging over the boy.

Sowing’s been done, time for reaping.

When Randolph swatted his calf vigorously, Joe shook himself and looked down at the cat with a smile.

Sorry old man, this old man was lost in his head again.

But he did not immediately return to the can of food, despite Randolph’s faint warble. He looked again at the house across the way. He felt the wrongness of it more intensely than ever.

It had always felt wrong. He could almost smell it when he walked by the looming structure. It smelled of earth and corruption. It smelled like the grave. But Becky was a nice woman, and while she might not be able to afford the upkeep, she made an effort with the yard and flowers. She kept the rents low too, so those who needed it could afford to live there; like that lovely girl and her family on the top floor.

Perhaps the house was just a house after all, one that had been turned into an apartment building. Those boys in the basement though, they were bad news.

He sighed and his breath seemed to rattle in his soul more than in his chest. If momma was alive she would have known what was going on, she would have known what was in the air. She would know what charm to use.

But she ain’t here Randolph. He returned to opening the can of cat food. Just you and me to watch out for this old town.

Randolph yowled impatiently.

And all you do is eat. Joe said and dumped the can of food into his bowl.

Randolph hesitated only long enough to give Joe an indignant meow before digging into his meal.

Aunt Becky opened the door with a flourish.

Welcome to Amble House. She said.

The inside of the home was better kept than the outside. Millwork, dark with age and layers of varnish, outlined the foyer and hallway. Beyond the entrance a long hallway stretched the length of the house. Two doors were set evenly spaced against the left wall. A single door stood on the right wall just before the large staircase ascended to the floor above.

They walked up the stairs to the top floor where a door on the right led to his aunt’s apartment. Aunt Becky and his mom went in, but Mark lagged behind. He hesitated, hoping for a glimpse of the apparition he saw in the window. She would have been in the front apartment on the other side of the hall from his aunt’s, but that door remained closed. Disappointed, he followed his mom and aunt.

When the house was first built it was named Amble House. I’m not sure why, but before the other homes were built on the street all that land was gardens, and the original owner liked to walk around his grounds day and night, Aunt Becky was saying.

"You know he Ambled around." She flashed him a smile.

It was eventually sold to daddy and he gave it to me. He’s the one who had it converted to apartments back in the fifties.

Is it haunted? His mother asked and winked at him.

Unfortunately no, Aunt Becky sighed. As far as I know, no one has ever died here. Even the original owner passed away at a nursing home.

Unfortunately? Mark asked.

Well I can’t think of anything more interesting than living with ghost. Can you?

I suppose not.

Of course Mark could think of a hundred things more interesting than trying to fall asleep at night, wondering if you were going to wake up to a dead guy floating over your bed.

And this is your room, Aunt Becky said as she opened the door just past the bathroom. It’s not much, but at least you’ll have some privacy.

Mark stepped past her into the room. Boxes and shelves were stacked against all four walls. Pictures hung on the walls, but many more lay against one another on the floor. Objects of all shapes and sizes cluttered the room, including several hats that looked ready to disintegrate in the slightest breeze, clothes old enough to be featured in a museum, and books; many, many books. Some looked like journals or diaries, others were romance and thriller paperbacks.

On a shelf he saw a photograph of an impossibly old man, perhaps his grandfather. He wore a gray suit with large buttons and a wide lapel. On anybody else it might have been clownish, but not on this man. The man’s face was etched in a permanent scowl. A fedora was pulled low over his brow obscuring his eyes, but the tight, pursed lips gave him a look of menace. Mark looked away quickly.

A spot was cleared away around a sofa that he suspected was a fold out, and the closet was empty. He had enough room to maneuver around, and a dresser had been cleaned out for him. Despite the clutter and the dust on the older items, the room was clean. His Aunt must have spent some time cleaning and arranging the room so it was serviceable. Still, he cringed at the thought of staying in here. It would be like sleeping in an antiques store or a pawn shop.

I know it’s not much space, but that was all I could straighten up before you got here. Maybe you can help me out by organizing some of it.

What is all this? His mother asked and walked slowly around the room.

Memories. Stuff from the family mostly. I probably shouldn’t be such a pack rat, but some things I just couldn’t let go. She smiled weakly at his mother.

There’s so much of it.

Mark thought he heard awe in his mother’s voice. She walked around the room sometimes reaching out and briefly touching things. She was hesitant, as if they were part of someone else’s history and she wasn’t sure she had the right to examine them.

What had happened between her and the rest of her family?

2

Downtown Hannity was dominated by three major streets and highway 101 that pierced it. The fast-food joints, gas stations, and motels had naturally gravitated to the 101 corridor. Enough modern gleam and industry hid the heart of the town from the casual traveler heading down that highway. To a passer-by the town looked like every other small community dotting the American highway landscape.

Old town lay beyond the gleam of golden arches and seventy-dollar-a-night motel rooms. The townspeople didn’t seem to mind. Sure they didn’t get as much of the tourism dollars, but that also meant they didn’t get as many souvenir shops selling cheap plastic baubles or crowded restaurants when they wanted to step out for the night.

No sir, quiet was the way the town liked it. But it was a love-hate relationship with the tourists. The town needed some money from the tourists and the vacation home owners. The town was a whore.

The true heart of the city was not the plastic image along the highway 101 corridor. It was, appropriately enough, Main Street. By order of the city council, all buildings in Old Town had to maintain the Victorian era look. So while many buildings were newer or remodeled, they were picture perfect 1800s. The dominant shops were antiques dealers, but sprinkled throughout were cafes, real-estate offices and town buildings. Some were empty and displayed ‘for lease’ or sale signs in their windows.

It was on Main Street, his second day in town, that Mark stood looking through the dirty window of what had been a bookstore. The ‘for sale’ sign had fallen to the dust covered floor. He looked at the name etched on the window again.

Harper’s Used and Rare Books

Mark was a little disappointed; this was a store he would have enjoyed. It had been abandoned for some time. If this town wasn’t dying, it sure wasn’t growing either.

He kicked up his skateboard and carried it down the street, peering in the windows. This part of the town depressed him and made him think of his mother. She looked so tired, so worn out. It was the life they were living. Maybe if they did stay she could rest.

His walk down the street eventually led him to a plaza, the town center he guessed. The plaza was a concrete park dominated in the middle by a bronze statue of a man. The bronze had tarnished, but it was clean of bird droppings. On a pedestal a plaque proclaimed this a memorial to Capt. Charles Hannity, who had founded this town in 1843.

They say he founded the first whore house, said a voice from behind him.

About thirty feet away was a boy Mark’s age. He had long hair that dangled over rather thick spectacles. He sat in a wheelchair popping a wheelie and gently rocking back and forth.

A whore house?

Yeah, you know, where they keep prostitutes? The boy paused for a moment then narrowed his eyes. You do know what a prostitute is right?

Of course I do and I know what a whorehouse is, Mark said.

Good. For a moment there I worried I was talking to a retard.

I was just surprised that they would create a monument for someone like that, Mark said.

Well it’s not official or anything like that, but everybody knows he did a lot of things that most people would frown upon. A big grin spread across the boy’s face. ’Course nobody knew about that stuff until after they put up that ugly statue.

Mark smiled back at him.

Tourist or did you move here? The boy asked.

Just moved.

Thought so, you looked way to thoughtful to be from around here. He smiled again and rolled forward. My name’s Rick.

I’m Mark, Mark said and held out his hand.

You going to the high school?

I guess so, Mark shrugged, I haven’t signed up yet.

"First day’s in a couple of weeks. Sophomore?

Yep.

Me too.

Rick looked up and down the street and for a moment Mark thought Rick had forgotten about him.

This is what I do most days. Just watch the denizens of Hannity, He said and nodded down Main Street.

A handful of people moved up and down the street or walked from store to car when only moments ago the town had seemed deserted. When Mark had been looking into the buildings he had the distinct feeling that the town was empty, that is was a ghost of its former self. Oh, there had been people, but they had faded into the background so quietly that they were almost not there.

Now Rick had brought the town back into focus. Tourists moved slowly up and down the streets, gazing into the antiques shops and boutiques. Others moved up and down the sidewalks, running errands or hurrying to get home to catch their favorite show. There was life here, maybe in smaller amounts than the city, but it was here. Somehow that made Mark feel a little better.

Things can get interesting in a small town, Rick said. Take them for example.

He pointed toward a man on a ladder trying to hang a sign. A young woman was holding the ladder to keep it from wobbling.

That is his assistant Emily. The man is Robert Binde. She works for him in his shop, but they are having an affair. Everybody thinks his wife knows about it, but we don’t know for sure.

He nudged Mark and gestured for him to bend close.

The thing is, he said in a whisper. Emily is really with the guy that owns the coffee house across the street. They are setting Robert up so he and his wife get a messy divorce.

Why? Mark asked amazed at this sudden inside information about his new home.

Apparently it’s a much better piece of property. I guess that building is bigger and the coffee shop needs to expand. They’re betting that in the fallout from the breakup, Jimmy, he’s the guy that owns the coffee shop, and Emily can step in and take it.

No shit? Mark said looking at the people in the town in a new light. Then he heard a strangled sound from Rick. He looked down and saw Rick was trying not to laugh.

No, of course not. What do you think this is, an episode of some sort of soap opera? Nothing ever happens around here. It is about the most boring town in the world.

He started laughing even harder.

I don’t even know who those guys are. Man, I had you going.

Mark felt his face flush. He pictured how stupid he must have looked, gullibly taking it all in, and soon he was laughing to.

Hey you know, Rick said when he had stopped laughing, you’re all right. Tell you what. Why don’t I show you around a little? I bet I can find something interesting to show you

They stopped in the coffee shop to grab a soda, joking and laughing as Jimmy poured their drinks. At one point Rick looked around the room and said, Wow, this place is pretty packed, you need a bigger shop.

They left the man scratching his head as they burst out of the shop laughing.

Rick showed him where the movie theater was, and the restaurants that catered to the young townies, as opposed to the ones that catered to the tourists. He showed him the path to a spot on the river where the other kids from the high school hung out. Mark tried to help him navigate the path, but the moment he reached for the handles on the back of his wheelchair Rick’s hand lashed out and smacked him in the gut.

Let’s not ruin a good thing here. I don’t need help, and if I did I would ask for it.

Mark didn’t have to be told twice. He stepped away from the chair and let Rick find his own way.

The path wound down a steep grade, but Rick seemed able to manage it. The path they were on was really nothing more than a dry creek bed. It would probably have a small stream running down the center of it when the rains started. Rick confirmed this moments later.

This is the fastest way, but in a couple of months when the rains start it will be too wet. I’ll show you the other paths later.

After a few hundred yards the path opened to a large grassy clearing with a rocky beach near the river. The river was small and at this point it was shallow enough to create rapids.

Oh shit, Rick said.

Mark followed his gaze to the other side of the clearing where the river was a little smoother. Three boys walked waste deep in the water upstream from the rapids. Two of them appeared to be circling the third, smaller boy. They were all laughing. Two girls sat on the rocky beach, but they ignored the boys in the water.

One of the boys darted in, apparently trying to grab the smaller boy, but the target twisted aside at the last minute and dodged out of the way. With a loud Ha the third boy, and by far the largest, grabbed the distracted boy around the waist and heaved him into the deeper part of the water. None of them had noticed the newcomers to the clearing.

What’s wrong? Mark asked.

The big guy over there is John Treager. He’s an asshole. Come on let’s get out of here before they see us

Rick pivoted on his wheels and started back down the trail. Mark looked back at the kids playing