Burn Out The Day: A Winter Walker Thriller

By Daniel Bautz

THE FIRST NOVEL IN AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR DANIEL BAUTZ'S 

WINTER WALKER THRILLER SERIES

Winter Walker's daughter is tragically killed leaving him shattered and adrift. Left In a world where shadows whisper secrets and the past refuses to stay buried. When Winter stumbles upon a chilling similarity between the death of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anatolian Press LLC
• Release date: Jun 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959396536

Daniel Bautz

Daniel Bautz's journey to become a chilling, thrilling author of horror adventure began in rural Ohio. His artistic origins started with his grandma teaching him to paint and inheriting drawing skills from his grandfather. While earning a living in graphic design, he attempted filmmaking with mixed success. The foray into filmmaking helped him to realize his true creative calling lay in writing.Despite hosting a podcast and pursuing filmmaking, writing emerged as his genuine passion. With the guidance of his brother, he refined his storytelling abilities. In 2022 he signed with Anatolian Press. In 2023, he achieved a significant milestone by releasing his award-winning debut novel "Life Is In The Blood," now followed by "Aristotle James and the Phantom Funeral Coach," cementing his transformation from an aspiring artist to a published author.Don't miss out and stay current on Daniel Bautz by visiting DanielBautzCTP.com and subscribing to his newsletter.More Books by Daniel BautzLife Is In The Blood

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pink bubbles emerged around her lips as her last words formed soundless on them. The spray of blood jetting from the young woman's neck terrified her at first. The beeping of the Rem-Pod, once exciting to her, seemed to agitate her as she struggled to breathe through the blood flooding her lungs.

Perhaps her spirit would mingle with the ones already here. Maybe she would find the answers she came here seeking but from the other side, beyond the veil of the living. Her struggling ceased and she gave in to the calming blanket of black spinning its silk around her.

The smirk slid over his face as he wiped his blade, which slid into its sheath with a hiss. No witnesses. That directive was more fun than he expected. He considered it a perk. It beat the hell out of walking in damp, dank places rotting where they stood.

Perimeter cleared, interior cleared, ready for the technicians to do their work. He glanced at the crumbled body on the dirty floor. There was that annoying twinge. Too bad, he thought she seemed nice. No, she was in the way.

He kicked the beeping black box she laid out with his steel-toe boots. It shattered and went silent like its owner. Even if her spirit lingered here like the romantic idea of these quasi-explorers of the unknown liked to think about those who die prematurely, the technicians would take care of that.

He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and spoke. Yeah, we’re clear. One cleanup in the atrium. Yeah, I know. Only if necessary, felt necessary. Besides, perhaps it’ll help with your haul.

He ended the call hoping the person on the other end sensed him rolling his eyes. Sadly, his penchant for sarcasm was usually missed these days. People didn’t follow the tone of voice or communicate like they used to. Part of the reason he didn’t mind when he killed one. Time to make his escape. The technicians annoyed the hell out of him.

Too late. They filed in with equipment like tall, not orange-faced Oompa Loompas. Behind them was Erasmus Hawthorne. Gaunt, bald, piercing golden eyes, wealthy beyond imagination, and sour as alum. Pat!

Pat rubbed his temples and forced a smile. What the hell was he doing here anyway. Mister Hawthorne. Where's Doctor Bellew?

What did I say about unnecessary wetwork? Erasmus hovered over the body Pat left in the center of the floor and pointed at the deceased young woman with his twisted, knobby finger.

You also said you wanted no witnesses. You tell me which of those directives is a priority, and I will adjust myself to that. As the technicians lit up the room with halogen lights, Pat noticed a camera attached to the breast pocket of the dead woman’s jacket. Pat's eyes studied Hawthorne. The wiry, bent old man nodded when Pat held the GoPro up for his employer to see. All you needed was this to get out and all over YouTube.

To that point, this woman has a substantial following on that platform and other social media platforms. I knew, and another million people knew she would be here tonight. So, we can’t just make her disappear. Can your cleaners point this in a different direction?

Pat’s eyes moved back and forth as he searched the back of his mind for an acceptable scenario that wouldn’t put the police on their trail. This area is an opium den, lots of desperate people. I can think of a plausible story to tell.

Good, get on it and get out of here. We’ve work to do, and you’re in the way. Pat lingered as Erasmus walked toward a woman with a radio in her hand. She stopped barking into the device when the old skeletal man approached. They had their work. He had his.

Pat flipped his phone out again. Can you grab my old thirty-aught-six? Ammo's in the glove box.

He ignored the order to leave, marveling at the dozen people dressed in tactical black gear buzzing around the nattily-attired ancient billionaire. Lines taped, bulky equipment rolled in under tarps, computers set up on collapsible tables. Erasmus Hawthorne conducted these people like it was an orchestra. He noticed every detail and directed every motion.

Check. I’m going to prop her in a window. You see her head take the shot. Pat lifted the young woman’s cooling body into his arms. She weighed more than he expected, but dead bodies always did. At the window, he sat her on her knees. He held her upright. You have a visual? In the neck. The exit wound will disguise the carotid incision I made. I understand that’s a tough shot, but that’s why we pay you what we do.

Her flesh erupted, exploding from her neck. The head almost came off as Pat held her up by the hair. He let the body fall into the pool he made earlier. He knew from experience the local bumpkins who made up the police in this area wouldn’t look too closely.

Blazes! What are you doing, Pat? Erasmus Hawthorne’s face glowed red, and the blue veins under his thin skin throbbed. You could have damaged the equipment!

Mister Hawthorne, is the equipment damaged?

Erasmus shook his head. Aren’t you going to remove the body?

No, change of plan.

What are we supposed to do with that lying there. Hawthorne pointed his long, narrow index finger at the female on the ground again.

Pat couldn’t hide his frustration. He sucked his teeth and made a squeaking sound. Leave it alone.

It’s going to slow us down.

Either work more or faster, but she needs to stay.

We have sixty days to complete our first run. Sixty days. We don’t have room for setbacks.

Then get to work, trust I’m the professional you hired, and let me do my job. I don’t need an oversight committee. If you’re not happy, you can fire me. Pat smiled and nodded.

You can always be retired. Erasmus projected the sentiment at Pat’s back as he exited the building. Get back to work, everyone, be mindful not to get in the mess in the middle of the room.

Pat’s smile never faded. He waved at his men leaving in their black Odyssey, not in greeting but in affirmation of mission accomplished. Now he would wait in his car for Hawthorne and his ghouls to finish their job so that he could wrap up his.

Chapter 2

Winter Walker’s muscles ached with the burn of lactic acid. Today was arms and back day. He wiped his bald head with his workout towel. Working out was something he’d managed to carry over from his youth. He knew staying fit helped with cognitive function. Amongst its other benefits, he valued it for keeping his mental acuity sharp.

Winter kept the morning routine, though he hadn’t worked for months. Workout, shower, catch up on the news, coffee, breakfast. Then the days devolved. The gravity that kept him in orbit left him when they did. Still, he couldn’t sleep in. The routine ran through until the coffee urn emptied. Besides, being awake may be a nightmare, but it beats the terror that comes with sleep.

Winter Walker sat amid his two favorite smells, coffee and newsprint. And he couldn't manage to care. His muscle memory worked the paper to a manageable size. Fold in half from the top and another half vertically. With his paper adjusted to preference, Winter lifted his mug. Best Dad Ever read the inscription fading on the glazed ceramic. The words that once made him adore this mug stung. It served as a reminder that they were gone.

He sipped and started reading his paper. He almost spit out his coffee when he read it.

Ghost Hunter Shot While Trespassing.

The mug tumbled from his hand. The teak wood top of the table drank in the bitter liquid. He checked the date on the paper. It was today’s date. This story was too similar—too familiar. A young woman going through an abandoned building ghost hunting. Like his daughter. Shot. Like his daughter.

Don’t think about Celine. Details. Gather details. This wasn’t far from here. Osceola County.

Farmer shot first without confronting the trespasser. Claimed he was robbed several times and wasn’t having it again. After discovering the girl, he called the police on himself. Prosecutors are weighing options on what charges, if any, to file against the farmer. Local crime scene investigators matched his 1917 Winchester 30 / 06 ballistically. Shot in the neck.

This was too similar. Celine was shot going through an abandoned hospital by an idiot security guard. She was obsessed with a YouTuber and started hunting ghosts. That kicked off a bug that, as much as Winter tried, couldn’t be discouraged. Celine’s mom, Anneliese, encouraged it. It was this fascination that killed his daughter at sixteen. One week after getting her license.

Too much thinking about them. Winter turned his attention back to the article. Two paranormal investigators dead, months apart. In neighboring counties, no less. Orange and Osceola. Coincidence wasn’t a thing.

He checked the byline. Bobby Carns. That’s a start. Should he call the reporter? Winter conducted an internal debate. Coincidence. He walked to the kitchen to get paper towels to clean the coffee.

After he lost them, he started his own investigations. It began with Celine’s laptop and watching the videos she watched on YouTube. Then going through her collection of paranormal programs on the DVR. Winter wondered why so many people engage in this activity. He started with cemeteries, then tours in Orlando and Saint Augustine. In a few months, he was chasing after ghosts. He hoped that he could convince himself that there was an afterlife.

Something else gnawed at him as he stood still. The less skeptical called it a sixth sense. Winter denied that but could not fight the gut feeling. He tore off the paper towel and froze.

This struck too many chords. Too similar to ignore. His daughter was killed in a similar fashion. What he chalked up as a terrible circumstance now seemed intentional. Another paranormal enthusiast in the wrong place was dead. That farmhouse. Winter had been there! He talked to the owner before conducting his investigation. That investigation for the first time, the only, had him questioning his materialistic worldview.

That was it. He’d call the newspaper. He pulled on his white beard as he listened to the ring. Pick up. A million thoughts ran through his head, but this is how you answer questions. Like his daughter told him when he asked her why she liked ghost hunting. The only way to find answers is to explore the questions.

Hello, Leesburg Daily Commercial. This is Maria. How may I direct your call?

Hi Maria, I want to speak with Bobby Carns.

Let me try his desk. May I ask who is calling?

Name’s Winter Walker. I’m calling about the shooting in Osceola. The young woman shot by the farmer.

I’ll try to connect you. The phone clicked, followed by classical music. Winter appreciated something other than soft jazz nothing, or perpetual commercials about the company. Winter paced the travertine of his lanai. He plucked his coffee off the table as he walked. He took a gulp.

Hello, this is Bobby. What do you have? The voice was curt, a slight affectation of a lisp. Winter swallowed the coffee. This better not be a prank. I’m going to hang up.

Hold on! Sorry, I wasn’t ready. As much as I like Vivaldi, I was already in the third season. The voice on the other end either didn’t get the joke or wasn’t amused.

Yeah, what is it? I don’t have time to chit-chat.

The lady that was killed, she was a ghost hunter?

Yeah, like it said in today’s paper.

The farmer they arrested; you talk to him?

No, he’s still being held by the police.

I met the owner. He’s probably drunk right now. If that man, the one I met is the shooter, I'm the King of Prussia.

Okay. That’s for the police to sort out. I’ll follow up on that, though.

What is the official police line? And have you been out to the property yourself?

Trespasser was shot. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a ghost hunter with a decent following on social media. Police haven’t released her name yet. I’m guessing the farmer will get a manslaughter charge and plead it down from there. Look, you can read this all on the front page. I’ve got a boat parade to cover, so unless you have something for me, I need to go.

I have plenty for you. Something weird is going on. I think this is murder.

Yeah. Well, again, for the police to sort out. Thanks for calling.

Hold on, don’t. Winter sighed before offering the next sentence. Google ghost hunter killed Orange County.

Okay. Yeah, see it. That was several months ago. And?

That was my daughter. It must be connected.

I’m sorry to hear that. But I don’t see any connection. Bobby Carns, the reporter sighed and hung on the line for another beat. Got anything else? Because, like I said, I’ve got work to do.

Winter rubbed his chin. He was overreacting but he didn’t get gut feelings like this. No. That’s all I got, that and a hunch, but that’s it.

Look, I’m sorry you had, are going through this. My condolences.

The line clicked dead. Winter wanted to be angry, but he understood. There was no evidence to support his suspicions. It might be, with a little effort, he could find something. Winter went to his office and an hour later, he was back on the phone. Winter again had an audience with the reporter who covered the Osceola shooting. He just gave a simple directive. Google for trespass, haunted and manslaughter. If you think something funny is going on, call me. If you think I’m crazy after doing that, you are lying to yourself. I’m heading to Osceola.

Winter hung up. He grabbed his investigation pack, put on his tarp hat, and climbed into his International Harvester Scout. Sinking into the Winter Walker-shaped indentation that had formed since his father gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday.

He turned the key and peeled off the oyster shell concrete under the live oaks arching his long drive to North County Road 470. He slammed the Some Enchanted Evening eight-track into the player, found under the driver’s seat forty years ago, and cranked the radio. Buck Dharma’s blazing solos rattled through the old speakers. He remembered all the grief he caught from his friends riding with him listening to this, but he never cared. They could be the same, but Winter was always going to be different.

Hot air exhaled through his nostrils. Different as he was, he couldn’t avoid his own tragedies. Winter ran toward them. He chased them, hoping to find a satisfactory answer. Time was running out for him. He started feeling old ten years ago. Time was undefeated. Time to see the abandoned farmhouse one more time. His teeth ground, eyes watered as he wrenched at the wheel of his SUV. Time to face those demons again.

Chapter 3

The flat land stretched out from the highway. Rising from the even landscape, the old farmhouse mimicked a gravestone, marking the end of another type of living. Weather-beaten and baked in the harsh Florida sun, the house stood in defiant resistance to the flood of development. Windows broken, sagging roof, plaster littering the floor, wooden floors warped and twisted, a specter of old Florida.

Winter Walker scratched the back of his neck as his four-by-four sports utility vehicle crept up the dirt path. Something felt different here from his last visit. Was it his unconscious mind playing tricks on him?

He knew someone died here just a few days ago. Broken yellow tape wrapped around the porch post flapped in the wind. Dead a few days and already close to forgotten, Winter thought.

His boots kicked up dust as he dropped from his seat. Digging into his backseat, he began speaking to himself about his mental checklist. Digital Voice Record, EMF, pencil and pad, flashlight.

These were his tools, that and his eyes, ears, nose, and gut. He never set out to document any evidence for anyone other than himself. To draw closer to his daughter, dead or not, exploring her interest helped Winter experience that bond. But it also created an ache to prove Celine persisted. He looked at his watch and noted the time. 11:30 a.m. What is today? He checked the lock screen of his phone for that information. It’s already July, halfway through too. The sixteenth. He wrote that on his pad.

Initial impressions. Feels different. Beyond dead. Silent. Disturbed. Very different.

Winter Walker stepped on the porch. He felt nothing. This same house yielded seven class A EVPs, a shadow figure, and scratches across his stomach two months ago. Then, the atmosphere was dense, oppressive, and smothering. Winter remembered feeling a knot in his stomach as he stepped from his Scout last time. Now, it offered nothing. The only oppressive thing felt here was the muggy Florida heat.

His iPhone vibrated in his cargo pant pocket. Winter here.

This is Bobby Carns.

Yeah, so the google search wasn’t just some crazy guy’s conspiracy theory?

There's enough to think that it’s worth looking into. What do you know about all this?

Not much, just that it started about eight months ago.

Okay. Can I meet you somewhere?

I’m in Osceola now.

Wait, where?

I’m on the porch of the farmhouse.

That’s a police scene. You shouldn’t be there.

A laugh crawled out of Winter Walker. I shouldn’t be anywhere. But here I am. Needed to put eyes and feet on the scene of the crime.

How long are you going to be there? I’m like thirty minutes out. Can you wait?

Not waiting to go inside. You better hustle. Winter pressed the red dot. So, it wasn’t him being crazy. This reporter saw it too. A significant number of razed infamous haunted properties and a spate of dead paranormal investigators killed trespassing. The banana spider that took the corner of the porch to spin his web crept down toward a capture fly. Winter tipped his cap to the predator and walked inside.

***

Bobby hung up the receiver at his desk. He grabbed his Canon camera, digital recorder, car keys, and a Yeti full of Gatorade. Carl, got a lead, send a stringer to the boat parade.

Hold up, Bobby. Stringers cost extra money. Don’t have it in the budget.

Can’t do it. This might be big. Bobby slid on his trucker cap. He walked over to his editor’s desk and stared down at the shiny crown of his head. Carl peered over his glasses at the end of his round nose at Bobby.

Might be big, like the Murder Wasps? The question from Carl stung felt like one of those bastard wasps. Carl crucified Bobby for spending too much time on the story, and, to insult him further, the paper never printed it. It almost cost him his job.

No, Carl, this is real and something everyone is missing.

"Well, what is