Restoration

By Sharon Mikeworth

Bronze Award winner for the 2021–2022 Reader Views Literary Awards in horror.

Finalist in the Readers' Favorite International Book Awards.

Recipient of the Readers' Favorite 5-Star Seal of excellence.

 

"A taut horror thriller marked by an air of otherworldly…" — The Prairies Book Review

 

"A deliciously horrifying thriller. You'll sleep with one eye open long after you finish the book!" — Reader Views

 

"Fans of Joe Hill will enjoy this novel. Entertaining and terrifying at the same time!" — Readers' Favorite

 

Taking refuge in a cabin deep in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Cliff Phillips tries to come to terms with the breakup of his marriage. The natural seclusion is exactly what he needs, and he settles in for a month-long stay, soothed by the unspoiled beauty of his surroundings.

 

But his peace is short lived, and he soon finds himself unsettled by the eerie desolation and marshy decay. Out paddling the lake in the center of the historic park, he is nearly capsized by a mysterious disturbance. Not long after, a neighboring lodger flees following a terrifying night and another one vanishes without taking any of his belongings.

 

Cliff's worst fears are confirmed when he has his own frightening encounter. But how will he ever get anyone to believe what he now strongly suspects: that there is something hiding in the lake's murky depths?

 

Sharon Mikeworth's latest novel, Restoration, is a new addition to the great wilderness horror tradition of Dan Simmons, Scott Smith, Jack Ketchum, Michael Crichton, and Adam Nevill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: River Nation Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734936520

Sharon Mikeworth

Award-winning author Sharon Mikeworth was born and raised in South Carolina, where she resides today. Before discovering her passion for storytelling, she worked in the computer industry as a programmer, instructor, and tutor. In her spare time when not writing, she can sometimes be found hiking and canoeing in the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains.

Book preview

RESTORATION

© 2021 by Sharon Mikeworth

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

River Nation Publishing

111 N 3rd Street #1021 Smithfield, NC 27577

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7349365-2-0 (eBook)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7349365-3-7 (trade pb)

Cover photograph by Lana Kray / Shutterstock

Design and pre-press by Lighthouse24

www.sharonmikeworth.com

To my son Jason Lee Mikeworth

‘Where the light is brightest,

the shadows are deepest.’

~ Goethe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Preview – Into The Mist

Other Books

About the Author

Chapter

1

The cabin wasn’t what Cliff had envisioned. He had expected it to be rustic, but this was taking it to a whole new level. Just how old the place was hadn’t been so obvious from the few pictures provided on the website. He pulled the outer door open and stepped onto the stone floor of the screened-in porch. Not that it wasn’t sound; the chestnut logs making up the structure looked as if they could easily stand another eighty years. By the CCC plaque resting above the door, that was when the cabin had been erected—eighty-four years ago to be exact.

The Civilian Conservation Corps was a relief program implemented by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. During the Great Depression, young American men had been put to work conserving the nation’s natural resources with projects like maintaining forest roads and trails, fighting fires, and planting trees. Cliff had briefly read over the little bit of history provided when he made the reservation with a large portion of what was left in the checking account. But somehow he hadn’t caught on to the fact that his lodging would be an actual CCC-era cabin erected during the development of the park in 1937.

Still, it had been a bargain, much less than anywhere else would have cost him. Because it was the beginning of the off-season, he had been able to get the place for a month for the same price it would have cost him for a week anywhere else. Which gave him plenty of time to get his head straight for whatever came next.

The website had offered, "The perfect place to relax and restore your spirt in a rustic cabin deep in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains."

He glanced over at the two rocking chairs on either side of a low wooden table on the far end. Rustic or not, it looked like the perfect place to rest and enjoy the view while not being attacked by mosquitoes. How many people had sat gazing out over the lake in those old rockers?

Eighty-four years. He shook his head and slid the key in he’d been given by the lady working the desk at the former trading post that now served as the office and gift shop, and shoved the door open.

He reached in and flipped both the switches on the wall inside, but they only illuminated the porch and walkway. He turned them back off and went on into the cabin. There was another set of switches across the room by the kitchen counter. He flipped them up, and a dim light came on above the sink and a bench-style table on the other side of a gleaming stove and refrigerator.

The place was immaculate. And pleasantly warm. He glanced behind him into the short hallway that ran between the two bedrooms. The thermostat hanging by the bathroom door had been set to 70 degrees. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled the freezer door open. A small pile of cubes lay in the bottom of the ice bin.

Someone had gotten the place ready for him.

Closing the freezer, he turned and crossed the hardwood floor, moving into the living room area that encompassed the other side of the cabin. Something brushed against his face and he jerked back, flinching, and craned his neck up. It was one of two long strings leading down from a ceiling fan hanging from the rafters above him. He tugged on one of them, and a light came on, illuminating the space.

Two wing chairs, a couch, and a loveseat were grouped around a working fireplace. But the rack beside it was empty. He made a mental note to inquire about getting some wood. Though the days were still warm, it was already the end of September and it was bound to get cold as his time there wore on. And a fire would be nice. It was precisely the kind of soothing atmosphere he needed.

He looked around some more before unloading the truck. Little soaps and shampoos had been placed by the bathroom sink, along with a stack of fresh towels and washcloths. The bathroom had obviously been refitted at some point, but the original door, which looked like something from a medieval castle, had been left and could only be locked by sliding a plank into a slot in the doorjamb.

The place was clean, but sparse, and he could see daylight from the outside in places where the chinking between the logs had eroded over time, which probably explained the extra blankets he found in one of the bedrooms. But it was inviting, nonetheless. In particular the two bedrooms were charming with hooks made from branches for hanging clothes, simple bureaus under wood-framed mirrors mounted on the wall, and colorful quilts covering the beds.

The kitchen was equipped with nearly everything he could possibly need, as well. Which was a good thing because Tricia had pretty much emptied out the house along with the checking account when she left. He found utensils, a full set of dishes, drinking glasses, pots and pans, and a set of mugs hanging above a coffeemaker. One of those coffee packets you get at hotels had been placed on top of it, and a tiny bottle of dishwashing liquid sat beside it. Whoever managed the park must have been attempting to make up for the rusticity with plenty of amenities.

He gazed around him. All the curtains were closed, but were the windows locked? He walked over to one that looked out onto the porch and slid the thin, faded curtain to the side.

There were two sets of windows, an outer one that could be raised from the bottom like normal, and another single pane on the inside that was held closed by a piece of metal positioned across the faintly wavy glass. He pushed the metal bar off, grasped the frame around the pane, lifted, and it swung up like a pet door. If someone left an exterior window open and forgot to move the metal piece back across the interior pane, one good push and something, or someone, could crawl right in. Still holding the inside window up, he examined the other one and saw it latched at the bottom. Satisfied it was secure enough, he moved away and began systematically checking all the other windows. He found two with broken inner bars and concluded the exterior sets had probably been added later as a security precaution.

He grabbed the keys off the table where he’d tossed them and stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. He had immediately added the cabin key to his others after the lady at the office—a fortyish woman named Kay—advised him to always keep it on him. Apparently some of the doors had a habit of accidentally locking behind you. He reached out and twisted the knob, and it turned easily in his hand. Still unlocked.

The park was emptying out. He could see a few people here and there hiking the trail that ran alongside the lake but only one person out on the water. A man in a green vest was fishing from an aluminum boat in the swampy part just past the last cabin on this side. Cliff’s was the next to last. He had picked it on purpose. Although it wasn’t quite as private, it had a shallow spot that was going to be great for putting a canoe in and out. Along with jon boats, pedal boats, and kayaks, the park also rented canoes, and he planned on trekking down to the office the next day to get one. By road it was a long, winding ride to get down to the shop for any supplies or to use the office’s Wi-Fi, and by trail, it wasn’t much quicker. Therefore he planned on traveling by canoe. He could land it at the long sandy area by the boathouse and be able to carry supplies easier that way.

It was going to be a little strange at first, not having the Internet or cable TV. Or a phone. There was no cell reception there, either. He’d already checked. Knowing he’d go crazy if he didn’t have something, he had brought the television and Blu-ray player along with a stack of disks that had been in his and Tricia’s bedroom (other than her clothes and personal things, she had left every single item in their bedroom, as some kind of message he supposed). Plus, he had picked up some reading material, and drawing supplies in case he wanted to sketch a bit.

He had plenty to do. There’d be chores around the cabin, he could hike the trails, take the canoe out and fish.

And best of all, he could enjoy one solid month of not worrying about Tricia.

THE SUN WAS dropping behind the trees by the time he unloaded his stuff and arranged it to his liking. He went to get one of the sodas he’d grabbed at a little country store on his way up, then decided something stronger was warranted. He considered his options. He could mix some of the rum he’d brought with one of the Cokes, but he didn’t really care for rum and Coke. Or he could drink it straight and chase it with Coke, which was even less appealing. He had retrieved the half-full bottle from the back of the bar cabinet before he’d left the house for the last time. Probably the only reason Tricia hadn’t taken it was because she didn’t care for hard liquor.

He made sure he had the keys and went out the door, pausing to switch on the outside lights before shutting it. He crossed the porch, pushed open the screen door on this side, and stepped out onto the first of the concrete squares that led up to the parking spot where his Ram pickup sat. He started up the hill, still thinking about drinks as he passed by the old-fashioned lantern mounted on a post by the wide, steep steps.

His father’s cocktail of choice had always been a White Russian. Cliff didn’t really drink much himself; he usually only had a few beers or some wine with Tricia (he wouldn’t be doing that anymore) on the weekends or on special occasions.

But right then, a drink seemed like just the thing.

He paused by the side of the truck. He had known that Kay and the two rangers he’d encountered when he entered the office to check in would eventually go home for the day, but he had expected there to be somebody—people staying in the other cabins, at least. But these weren’t your everyday cabins positioned smack up against each other and rented for extravagant sums of money by people who wanted the illusion of roughing it; these were real, and not for the fainthearted. And evidently not much in demand.

He looked over at the one tucked into the woods across from him. Both of the parking spots behind it were empty and he didn’t see any lights through the windows despite the deepening gloom. It was obviously unoccupied. He moved on past the truck and continued down the little paved road toward a spot with a bench by the shore.

Stopping where the asphalt ended, he gazed out across the water at the dim cabins crouched in the shadows on the other side. All sat in darkness, none of them lit from within, and there were no vehicles in the driveways that he could see.

It appeared he was completely alone.

He turned around and walked back up to the truck, unlocked it, and climbed inside. He hit the button to lock it again, and then cranked the engine. Holding back a shiver, he shifted into gear, and pulled out of his spot.

At several points the narrow, curvy road separated off to other cabins, buildings, and sections of the park, and he hadn’t gone far before he realized he must have chosen the wrong direction at the fork he’d passed. He could have sworn he was supposed to go left. Obviously not, because the segment he was on dead-ended not far ahead.

He drove as far as he could and brought the truck to a stop. He could see the black gleam of water through the gaps in the thin line of forest between him and the lake.

He put the truck in Reverse and backed up, then pulled forward, had to back up once more, and finally got going in the right direction.

By the time he had exited the park and driven the nine or so miles to the Family Dollar, the nearest store he thought would have juice if nothing else, he had decided against the rum. If he was going to go to all the trouble, then he wanted something different. He would try his old man’s drink.

He checked his phone as he started into the store (still no signal) and saw it was already going on six thirty. He grabbed a basket and quickly filled it with milk, lunch meat, bread, coffee, sugar, and a few other things—he could stock up better tomorrow—and carried it up to the register.

The young lady working didn’t know where the nearest ABC store was, but the woman in line behind him did.

She was a flame-haired country beauty. Barefoot, wearing cut-off jeans and a snug flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up her tanned arms, the woman immediately brought back memories of visiting his grandmother in the country as a kid. When was the last time he had seen someone walk into a store with bare feet?

You’ll have to go into Walhalla, she said, pronouncing it Wallholler. But it closes at seven, I think. She pulled a phone out of her back pocket as he inserted his card to pay. And it’s almost a quarter till, now. You’ll have to hurry.

Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.

Giving her legs, which were fantastic, a quick glance, something he never would have done when he was with Tricia, he grabbed his bags and hurried out of the store. Tricia hadn’t known how good she had it, he thought. Let’s see how her younger boyfriend likes her in ten years or so. Let’s see if he continues to refrain from checking out attractive females. She might be in for some trouble then.

He barely made it in time. He pulled into Charlie’s Liquor City, air conditioner blasting to preserve the cold things he’d bought, with only minutes to spare.

He moved up and down the aisles, scanning the shelves, and then, finding nothing but larger bottles, walked up to the man waiting behind the register where the smaller ones were kept.

Peering around the fiftyish, bespectacled gentleman, he requested a half pint of Kahlúa and the same of Absolut.

It should be enough. He only needed so much. That wasn’t what he was there for.

He handed over his card to pay, waited for the man to slide the two bottles into a bag, thanked him, and left the store to head back to his retreat.

HE BACKED THE truck up slowly until he felt the rear wheels hit the railroad tie that served as a curb, shifted into Park, and shut off the engine. He gathered up the bags holding the liquor and groceries and climbed out, trying not to think about how creepy it felt to be out there alone in the middle of the forest beside the dark expanse of the lake. He made his way down the walkway, passing beneath the illumination of the wrought-iron lantern.

Temporarily parking the bags on the landing, he pulled the screen open and walked across the rock floor through the yellow glow of the porch light. A granddaddy longlegs crawled onto his right shoe, and he shook his foot to get it off as he inserted the key. He watched its steady progress, making sure it was moving away, then stepped inside.

He stuck the liquor in the freezer, and went back for the other bags, automatically pulling the door shut behind him. Pausing, he grabbed the knob and tried it. It didn’t budge; it had somehow locked behind him. Shit. He groped his right pocket for the keys and felt the reassuring shape of them.

Exhaling in relief, he crossed the porch to retrieve the other bags.

Once inside again, he put everything away and went to take a shower before mixing his first drink.

HE ENDED UP having to pour the first one out and start over when he got the mixture wrong, but the second one came out better after he reduced the amount of vodka and increased the amount of Kahlúa. He gave it another stir, added a few ice cubes, and took a slurp. The creamy bite of vodka followed by the dark, sweet taste of coffee liquor filled his taste buds.

Not bad. He took another, larger swallow, made sure he still had the keys, braced himself, and opened the door. He stepped out, absurdly grateful for the outside lights. Thanks to the one above him, and the lantern up by the walkway, he could see all the way across the front, down past the little concrete platform where a picnic table and a grill sat, to the water’s edge.

He leaned forward and looked out to his left at the last cabin. If anyone was there with a light on, he couldn’t see it.

He moved over and sat down in the rocking chair by the door, too uneasy to sit in the outer one by the edge of the porch.

It took the rest of that drink and part of another one before he stopped looking around warily and was finally able to relax. He felt even better after he noticed each of the screen doors had latches on the inside that he was able to lock.

Not that a flimsy screen was going to stop anyone—or anything—if it was big enough. But it made him feel better regardless. It would act as a deterrent, at least, possibly giving him some warning if an intruder tried to come in on him.

He picked up his drink and took another sip. Now that he’d had a couple, he could see the appeal. It was sort of like having chocolate milk with a kick, relaxing as well as invigorating. Placing the glass back on the table, he leaned back and set the chair to rocking.

He had been pretty successful in keeping thoughts of everything that had happened, and the long-term ramifications of it, at bay for most of the day, but now, sitting there with nothing but memories and the gentle night sounds to occupy his mind, his thoughts inevitably turned to Tricia. Tricia. He remembered how she’d looked the summer they first met—hazel eyes popping against golden skin and white-blond hair made wispy by the wind and the sea. He’d thought her a goddess. And then later when the incredible happened and she had deigned to sleep with him, he’d thought her an amazingly sexy goddess.

He had been sure he was the luckiest man on Earth.

They had been separated now, truly separated living apart, for over three weeks. And nearly every minute of every day had been filled with pain and disbelief at what it had come to, at what she had done… until he’d gotten to this place. He thought he could now feel a slight lessening of the dull ache in the center of his chest that had pretty much been his constant companion since she walked out the door that last terrible night. To go to him. The oh-so-comforting guy she was now screwing. A flash of white-hot fury and jealousy suddenly surged through him and he barely restrained himself from slapping his drink across the porch. That right there was how he could make it through each day without collapsing into a sobbing, pathetic heap. By picturing the unforgivable, irrevocable step she had taken.

She had met Derek at a wine shop she occasionally frequented. She had gone there to get something for their upcoming anniversary (ironically), and Derek had been hunting a bottle for a colleague’s dinner. He’d enlisted her help in making his choice—no doubt unnecessarily, the cad; he probably knew just as much or more about wine than she did.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

But really, she had done him a favor. Otherwise he might have stayed with her out of some misguided sense of fidelity. He would never admit it to her, but there was a tiny part of him that was relieved to be free of her constant demands and unfulfilled expectations. The last couple of years of their marriage had been anything but happy. It had seemed like nothing he did was ever good enough. Somewhere along the line, the seeds of dissatisfaction had begun to grow within Tricia and she had started to blame him for the way her life turned out, as if she bore no responsibility for any of it.

It was true the salaries he’d earned at his last two positions before going to work for her father hadn’t been particularly great, but they hadn’t been terrible, either. He had spent almost seven years at the former, tending to the warehouse and equipment needs of their clients. He’d taken the job there—a step up from the primarily administrative position he’d previously held—not long before they married. And if not exactly fulfilled, he had been more or less content. Too content Tricia would say. And when circumstances changed and they’d closed their doors, he had quickly found new employment. At one point he had even held two jobs, one at the new company that paid less but had good benefits, and one on the weekends with a lawncare crew. Sometimes he suspected his performing such menial labor was partly what had done them in. Because her distaste, along with her continued dissatisfaction at their lot in life, had led to him going to work for her father, something that in hindsight had not been a good idea.

Tricia was always accusing him of settling—of taking the easy way out and merely getting by when he could do better. Maybe she was right in a way. He had immediately felt like a fish out of water in