When the Owl Calls

By Harvey Stanbrough

This is a sequel to Jonah Peach. But rather than horror, When the Owl Calls is psychological suspense with a little police procedural mixed in.

Hiram Peach was only three years old when his father went on a rampage in the small rural town of Springer.

But in this case, the fruit didn't fall far from the tree. Before he comes of age, Hiram's already showing signs of psychopathy.

It's only right that he should avenge his father. Or at least finish what his father set out to do.

Come along for a wild ride in this page-turning psychological suspense thriller. You won't be able to put it down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Jun 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227437990

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

Book preview

When the Owl Calls

Present Day

Chapter 1: Dust and Onions

In the darkened, abandoned root cellar on a Monday morning, Hiram Peach lay on a stainless-steel table, his hands folded neatly on his lower abdomen. At just over six feet two and broad at the shoulders and hips, he took up most of the table. His coat, a lined, olive-drab field jacket he’d picked up in a second-hand store, was folded under his head to form a pillow.

As the first rays of dawn seeped in through the cracks around the trapdoor, he opened his eyes.

Dust. Dust and onions. The smell of dust and onions permeated the air, reminding him of where he was.

He shifted his gaze down past his white t-shirt, his dungarees, his scuffed-brown lace-up boots. The boots were angled to either side. Between them, beyond them, the ascending wooden stairs were faintly illuminated. Dust danced plainly in the thin slips of light.

For a moment, he studied the narrow beams, letting his eyes adjust. The dancing motes of dust seemed to welcome him.

He grinned. Well would’ja lookit that. It’s morning. And I’m here, Papa. I finally made it.

From somewhere outside, the faint call of a barn own filtered down through the trapdoor.  

*

Last night, the final short leg of Hiram’s journey—well, the final leg to the root cellar at least—had been a little arduous. Carrying his small olive-drab duffel bag, he’d crossed and re-crossed more than a mile of furrows and ruts in a freshly plowed field. All of that under the dim light of a thumbnail moon.

He stumbled often, only guessing where the next furrow was as he scanned the darkness for the old barn and house. His father had marked those some twenty years earlier with small squares on a ragged, edge-worn road map.

Not that he cared either way about the barn or the house, but he hoped they would be easy to see. Once he found them he could find the nearby root cellar. That was what mattered. The root cellar would energize him, motivate him to continue to his final destination. The location of the cellar was marked on the map too, but only with an X, and that was near the small squares.

According to the map—and verified by his compulsive count of the telephone poles along the road (there were 273 of them)—he’d traveled thirteen miles along the rural road before he found the right telephone pole and turned left into the field about four miles short of the town.

It was important to him to turn precisely where his father had turned.

Of course, that thirteen miles was after he started south from the highway around seven hours earlier. He didn’t count all the miles before that, but there had been a bunch of them. All told, he’d been walking since sunrise, and the sun had been down almost a half-hour when he walked away from the highway.

But none of that mattered. His legs were still good and his feet were okay. All that mattered was that he was on the right rural road and at the right field. And it was definitely the right telephone pole. He’d found the X his father had marked on it with his knife.

For a long moment, he’d let his left palm rest on that X. He didn’t feel the presence of his father as he thought he might. But then, the blade of the knife, not his father, had actually carved the X.

*

Walking even that rural road—now asphalt instead of the dirt his father had walked—was easy compared to crossing the field. But most of the normal people were in their houses on their farms or in the nearby town, eating supper or watching TV.

So only one car had passed him by, and the occupants had paid him no mind. That was shortly after he’d turned away from the highway, and about four hours before he reached the place where he turned into the field.

Nor had he paid attention to the faces in the car or even how many occupants there were.

They might have been teenagers out for a joyride or to practice driving. Or maybe misdirected tourists. They might even have been younger residents of the town. But they definitely weren’t older residents. They definitely weren’t people who remembered his father’s visit all those years ago. Seventeen years, to be exact. Almost eighteen years. Almost two decades.

If they had remembered, they probably would have gone straight to the police in the town and reported sighting him. But they obviously hadn’t.

His father’s legacy was harsh. If the people in the cars had reported him, there would be cops all over the place. They’d be up and down Route 12, looking for the walking man.

Chapter 2: Thumbnail Moon

As he crossed the field, occasionally Hiram glanced up to check the position of the thumbnail moon.

It moved bit by bit, never casting more than the dimmest light.

By that reckoning and with only that light, he finally stumbled upon what was left of the old barn and the burnt-out remains of the house nearby. It was well after midnight.

After checking his map again and after orienting it to the cardinal directions and the ruins, he soon found the trapdoor.

When he bent to brush aside some of the dried yellow grass and pull the trapdoor open, it came up more easily than he expected it to. The rusted hinges complained only slightly, but all the one-by wood slats were loose on the crossbars. At least none of them fell away.

He peered into the hole and could barely make out the top steps of the stairs.

He turned to face the trapdoor, then carefully stepped down into the hole. The top step was solid. He explored with one boot and found the second step, then descended to the third. It felt solid too.

He stopped and pried the shaky trapdoor off the ground. The edges of the boards were rotted and worm-pitted. They crumbled to dust under his touch. He eased the door down above him as he stepped down onto the fourth step, letting the trapdoor drop only the final few inches.

The darkness was complete.

*

When the trapdoor slapped into place, dirt pattered on his ball cap. For a moment there was more dust in the air than oxygen. It coated his lips and cheeks in a fine layer. But even that was tinged with the acrid-sweet smell of ancient, rotted onions.

He smiled. He was almost there. If the table was still here, he’d lie on it to rest. And when he awoke, he would begin what he had come to do.

Farther down the stairs he stepped out of the dust cloud onto the dirt floor. He hesitated for only a moment. Outside, the night was in the low 70s, and there was the slightest breeze. But down here it was cooler, maybe in the upper 50s or lower 60s. And the air was absolutely still.

He began shuffling forward, feeling his way across the room, searching for the stainless steel table he hoped was still there.

In the middle of the third halting step, a glob of what felt like spider-something slapped against his mouth. Probably the bill of his ball cap had contacted it, torn it loose. And in turn the little glob had fought back.

He flicked his tongue across his lips to clear it, then blew.

But whatever it was swung away, then stuck at the corner of his mouth.

He stopped, scowled, and pinched it away with his left thumb and forefinger. He slammed it to the ground and stomped where he hope it had landed.

He took a deep breath and resumed.

After a few more slow, skimming steps across the dirt floor with his arms outstretched and his fingers splayed waist-high in front of him, his left hip contacted the corner of something solid.

He turned and felt the corner of the object with his hands: cool steel, a raised edge, a thick layer of powdered dust. He crouched, found a cold round leg, and traced it all the way to the floor.

There was a wheel. Three-inch, maybe? Four? But it was half-buried in the floor. That’s why the table hadn’t moved.

He straightened again, then ran the fingers of his left hand along the raised edge at the foot of the table to define the width of it. He retracted his hand, found the near edge again, and guided himself along it. When he reached the far end, he removed his jacket, folded it twice, and laid it at the head. He moved back a couple of steps, then turned his back to the edge of the table.

It came to the bottom of his buttocks.

He released an audible sigh, anticipating finally being able to rest for awhile. He put the heels of his palms on the raised edge of the table, lifted himself, and sat down. He swung his legs up—his boot heels landed on the steel with a dull thud—and lay back. He laid his small duffel between his slightly parted legs.

For a moment he only stared into the darkness. But for the lack of stars, he might have been outside.

This is the table where Papa tortured the woman from the grocery store parking lot. This is where she bled and writhed in agony and finally lost her last breath.

Did she scream? Did she glare defiantly at him?

Or did she offer to please him to try to secure her release?

Did she maybe resign herself to her hopeless situation?

Or did she maybe taunt him? Trick him into ending her suffering sooner?

Bad, bad girl. That would have made Papa very angry.

Did he slash and slash and slash at her?

Did he thrust his knife into her over and over again?

Hiram’s erection rose quickly, straining against his undershorts.

Not now. He reached down to unbutton and unzip his dungarees. But only to relieve the pressure. There would be plenty of time for release later.

He folded his hands on his lower abdomen, took a deep breath of the onion-scented air, and slept.

Six Years Earlier

Chapter 3: The Suitcase

It was almost 7 p.m. on a Saturday when Hiram’s mother found the tan fake-tweed suitcase with red, faux-leather corners in the attic of the modest two-bedroom home. She recognized the suitcase. She had seen it before, but not for a very long time. Still, she vaguely remembered. She hadn’t wanted to deal with it nine years earlier after her husband was killed. So she’d put it away. Then she’d forgotten about it.

When she opened it, the contents seemed familiar, and—somewhat ominous. Though it was nothing she could put her mental finger on. The case contained her husband’s mementos. Things that were truly personal to him, unlike the clothing and other items she had donated to various charities in the months after his death. She had purged him from her life.

The only things she hadn’t been able to purge were this suitcase—because she’d forgotten about it—and her son, Hiram. He seemed more like Jonah every day.

Still, she must have kept it for a reason. Who knew how fate worked? These were things Hiram might be interested in. She hoped not, but he deserved to at least see them. Didn’t he? They and Hiram himself were all that remained of Jonah Peach.

She grimaced. Maybe a test was in order.

She closed the suitcase and stood, picked it up, and moved to the opening above the attic stairs. Hiram? Come to the kitchen table. I’ve found some of your father’s things.

She descended the stairs with the suitcase.

Thirteen year old Hiram was already seated when she entered the kitchen.

*

Today Francine Peach wore a stained, drab-brown, calf-length shift that had seen better days. Her breasts sagged beneath it. Her graying copper hair was