The Dark Rite

By Anthony Izzo

Jim Bridges and his family are gathering for one last camping trip before the snow flies. The family property has a dark past. Twenty years ago, a group of campers were found murdered nearby. Members of a cult who live near property were suspected, but nothing was proven. Jim and his family begin to hear strange things in the night. Tapping on windows. They start seeing mysterious shadows. Soon they realize something evil resides in the woods. Something with ties to the cult. Jim's weekend camping trip turns into a battle for survival against dark forces he cannot fully understand.

 

A chilling novella from the author of The Foundation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Knuckle Books
• Release date: Jul 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201985127

Anthony Izzo

Anthony Izzo is the author of 17 thrillers. He enjoys writing tales of mayhem that include anything from zombies to psycho killers to murderous shapeshifters. Anthony was a judge for the Buffalo Dreams screenplay competition. He recently had a story appear in the "SNAFU: Future Warfare" anthology. When not writing, he enjoys playing loud guitar, reading crime novels, and giving craft beers a good home. He makes his home in Western New York and features Buffalo prominently in his work.

Book preview

As Jim Bridges steered his SUV down the road toward the cabins, all he could think of was the people who’d been killed up here. Always bothered him, even though his family had been camping here for years.

It had been twenty years ago, 2002 to be precise. A group of campers, three men and four women, found in a circle in the woods, unspeakable things done to their bodies. Clawed to shreds, guts and eyes torn out. An animal attack had been ruled out. No one had been charged or caught.

The owner had been highly motivated to dump the place, and it had sat until the Spring of 2005.

His cheap-ass father had bought the place three years after the murder. Three cabins in a semicircle with a long flight of steps leading down to a dock at the lake. They were meeting Dad and his brother Larry – and their families – for their annual weekend reunion before the snowflakes flew.

What’s on your mind? Kayla said.

She’d looked up from her phone, apparently sensing he was in deep thought. Being married fifteen years keyed you into people’s moods. Jim could tell whenever she was upset. Did this thin-lipped smile with no teeth. 

Thinking about the murders up here. The weird shit we’ve seen in the woods over the years.

Just lights, usually.

Still weird. I never liked this place, Jim said.

I’ll protect you, Kayla said.

Oh, stop. I’m fine.

Don’t worry so much. It’ll be fun.

They rounded the bend in the road. The road to the cabins went back hundreds of feet from the road, and the three structures stood at the top of a hill, a fire pit in the center. Behind the cabins were the steps to the dock. Dad had taken his boat out of the lake for the winter. Most of the places on the lake were empty. Not many people up here after Labor Day.

Jim parked at the cabin to the far right. They’d be staying in that one. Mom and Dad would be in the center, with Larry and his family in the far left cabin.

They climbed out of the truck. Their stuff was in the capped bed. Kayla fished the cabin key from her purse and climbed the cabin’s steps. A small porch occupied the front of each structure. In the summer, he’d sit in one of the Adirondack chairs with a Corona in hand and listen to the motorboats hum on the lake. Too damned cold for that now, being early November.

Wonder if those hippies still live the other side of the hill, Jim said.

Don’t think they’re hippies. It’s some sort of religious commune.

I heard the County Sheriff tried to force them out. Probably the ones out there with lights.

I know where you’re going with this. They were questioned. No connection to the murders.

My old man couldn’t buy a timeshare in the Bahamas. Had to pick this place up.

Quit yer bitching, Kayla said. We need to get the fire going.

I’ll start unloading the truck and grab some firewood.

Jim grabbed a few armfuls of firewood from the cord stacked behind the cabin. Then he grabbed the box of kindling from the truck and hauled it inside. Within a few minutes, he had a fire going in the woodstove, and a nice warmth filled the cabin. He headed back to the truck and began unloading. A plastic tote with kitchenware, a cooler stocked with hot dogs, lunchmeats, and most important – a twelve pack of Corona. They also had a ton of chips, crackers, and cheese. You’d think they were staying a week.

They got everything squared away, made the bed up, and decided to crack open some beers. It was a little after three in the afternoon, but Jim figured fuck it. They were on vacation.

As he and Kayla sipped their beers, he heard a truck engine coming up the drive. He peered out the front window and saw Larry’s Bronco.

I suppose we should go out and say hi, Jim said.

He’s your brother, after all.

Jim set his beer on the counter. Kayla brought hers along. As they stepped outside, Larry was pulling up in front of the far left cabin.

Larry stepped out of the Bronco. His sister-in-law Melinda got out, along with Larry’s son Dylan. His brother had put on some weight. Jim hadn’t seen him since last year’s weekend getaway. His belly hung over his belt, and Larry took a moment to unhitch his belt and loosen it a notch. Some of the muscle from Larry’s college football playing days remained, but a lot of him had turned to pudding.

Hey, Lar, Jim said.

Hey, jackass, how are you? That pretty wife of yours hasn’t left your skinny ass yet?

Good to see you too. You going MMA, joining the heavyweight division?

That’s pandemic weight, smart-ass. Everyone’s gained.

Larry, knock it off, Melinda said.

Hey Uncle Jim, Dylan said. Aunt Kayla.

Good to see you Dylan, how’s school? Kayla said.

First semester’s good. Three-point-eight.

I told him going for film was a waste of time. The money’s in Engineering or Computers, Larry said.

I’ve seen his stuff, Jim said. Dylan’s got talent.

Talent doesn’t pay a mortgage or buy groceries.

Jim could quibble with that, but he kept his mouth shut. Want a hand settling in?

Naw, but you and Dylan could get the fire set up for later.

On it.

Larry opened the Bronco’s rear hatch and pulled out a rifle case. Melinda tutted and rolled her eyes. I thought you were leaving the shotgun home.

Better have it and not need it. Get the odd bear or coyote up here, Larry said.

We’re going to talk about this, Melinda said.

I’ll bet we are.

Jim said, C’mon Dylan, let’s get the fire set up.

––––––––

Do you think we’ll see the lights this year? Dylan said, bringing an armful of wood to the fire pit. Dad had put it in after they bought the place. It was little more than a hole in the ground surrounded by rocks, but it got the job done.

Don’t know, Jim said, arranging the sticks that would serve as kindling. Weird, whatever they were.

I think they were ghost lights. Dad told me to quit being stupid.

Your father has a way with words. It was probably the people from the commune.

Who the hell goes out at night in the woods? Dylan said, dumping the firewood near the pit. Jim started arranging the wood in a teepee fashion over the kindling.

Can I tell you something else?

Shoot, Jim said.

Last year I heard voices outside my bedroom window. Whispering. When I looked out the window, no one was there.

What kind of voice? Man, woman?

Didn’t sound like either. Gave me the chills, though.

Jim knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. Did you tell your parents?

Are you kidding? My dad already thinks I’m weird for wanting to make movies.

He’s just upset you’re not following in his footsteps.

Couldn’t tell him something like that.

Larry was firmly entrenched in corporate culture. He owned an engineering firm. Took his predominantly male staff on golf and fishing expeditions a few times per year. Jim had overheard him on his cell using business speak like circle back and we’ll have to swivel chair for that. Larry lived for that shit.

Jim was happy to be gone from the corporate world. He and Kayla scraped out a living as artists. Well, he was a freelance writer and she did paintings and made jewelry. They had a small, one room apartment in Allentown. Once a month they ordered take-out on a Friday for a treat. He didn’t care how much money they had. He’d rather die than sit in conference rooms for the next thirty years.

"You think we’ll see the lights?