| |
When a family tragedy rips a young woman from her quiet existence, only two things give Delia any solace: steely determination, and the butcher’s son. Well, that and the ominous whispers that warned her of impending danger throughout her childhood.
~~~
~~~
Please enjoy the Special 2-Chapter Sneak Preview we offer below, or....
~~~
GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
A DARK NIGHT THRILLER Series at Evolved Publishing
~~~
Please keep reading for....
CHAPTER 1
~~~
A gunshot woke Delia from sleep. Her eyes flew open as the loud crack roared through the house, and she bolted upright in bed. She wore a long linen nightshirt, but gooseflesh raced across her body.
The shot came from within the house. She knew because, on occasion, her father had to put down one of the animals outside, which produced a muffled sound. This one sounded like it came from downstairs; the very walls had vibrated with its force.
She jumped out of bed.
Heavy footfalls stomped up the stairs, adding a thumping bassline to the echoes from the gunshot still ringing through the house. A confusing noise filled her head, the type of sound a windstorm made against her bedroom window.
Moments later, a scream bellowed up the stairs and found its way to her room.
She recognized the voice immediately, though something about it sounded terribly wrong.
Her father never screamed like that. His voice was usually soft and kind. A mere word from him offered hope and compassion. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he sounded strained and angry.
“Delia! Delia, come here!”
She hesitated for only a moment, then her feet moved toward the bedroom door.
What’s wrong with him?
Her hands shook, but she reached for the door handle anyway. As she pulled the door open, her father burst into the room.
His haggard face frightened her, his eyes wide against his leathery skin. He wore filthy jeans and a white t-shirt stained with dark red splotches.
Is that blood?
Delia’s breath hitched in fear.
“Go sit on the bed!” Anger and something else tinged her father’s normally kind voice.
Delia obeyed, though she moved slowly, unsure of every step. “Where did that gunshot come from, Daddy?”
“You sit there quietly.” Her father fumbled with the shotgun. He pulled a shell from one bulging pocket and attempted to load it into the weapon.
“Where’s Momma?”
“Sit quiet, ya hear me?” His clipped words came out loud as he concentrated on the gun.
Something cold and dark settled in the pit of Delia’s stomach. She trembled as she repeated, “Where’s Mother?”
The shell her father was fumbling with finally slid into place with a loud click, and he sighed with relief.
“She’s with our heavenly Father now, Delia.” He smiled sadly and cocked the shotgun. “But don’t worry, we’re going to see her soon.” Then he advanced on her.
She felt lightheaded with panic but, strangely, her senses sharpened.
The father she adored took a step toward her and raised the shotgun with trembling arms. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the dirty tang of steel in the air.
Making a split-second decision, she leapt off the bed and dove directly for him, but she wasn’t trying to reach for his gun—she wanted to escape. With a spectacular, waterless swan dive, she threw herself into the empty space between his legs, trying desperately to get to the blocked doorway.
She made it halfway through before he slammed them shut against her. His legs clamped down against her hips. “Delia, you mind me now! This is for your own good!”
She ignored him, using all her strength to pull her slender body out from under his grip. Though he tried to pin her in, she wriggled free and shot down the hallway to the stairs.
“Delia!” he screamed madly behind her. He came after her with an uneven lope, but because he was so much bigger, for every two steps she took, he only had to take one.
She made it down the steps without stumbling and somehow made it to the front door. As she reached for the handle, another shot filled the air. She dropped to the ground just as a shot blasted the top of the wooden door into splinters. She pinned herself to the floor for a moment, long enough to see the body of her mother lying motionless on the living room floor.
“Momma,” she whimpered.
Fear and heartache clawed their way into her chest and her breaths came fast and hard. Her father had lost his mind. He intended to murder her, and his steps followed closely on the staircase.
Loading the gun had taken him a while last time, and he now plodded down the staircase as if lost.
She had a chance—a slim one—but if she ran, she just might make it to safety.
Delia jumped up and grabbed the door handle. With one last look at her mother’s body, she swung open the door and bolted out into the night.
She ran through the backyard toward the field. A glance over her shoulder revealed her father exiting the house. She had to make it to the field before he caught up to her. She could hide in the tall wheat. The great moving sea of pale yellow loomed in the darkness ahead. She kept running, not pausing for a moment when the long stalks of wheat brushed against her arms and face.
Her farm girl’s feet were tough and calloused, so the rough clay underfoot didn’t hurt. She stopped once, thinking she would hide, but her father came crashing through the wheat in her direction, so she ran as fast as she could—the way she did at school when she was trying to win a race, which she always did. Tag had always been her favorite game, but now she played for her life. She didn’t know if she could outrun her father, whose breathing was getting louder behind her, but she had to try.
Her life depended on it.
She ran to the only place she knew, to her only hope. Her aunt and uncle lived on the other side of the field, in a small house with a large yellow barn. Uncle Don lived on the short side of the 200-acre wheat field. Even in the dead of night, his barn loomed ahead in her mind, a safe haven of bright yellow, a beacon of hope—as long as she didn’t tire out before making it through the mile of dark field in front of her.
“Delia!” her father called in a panting voice, already tiring.
So was she. Delia’s lungs burned with effort, but after being in the field for five minutes, she finally spotted the big sodium light on the top gambrel of Uncle Don’s barn.
“Delia, stop right now!”
She wanted to stop. Her lungs were on fire now and her feet felt sticky. She didn’t know if the stickiness was from the soft earth or if they were bleeding. The broken stalks of wheat that lay on the ground were razor sharp, and must have been cutting her feet, but her mind focused only on getting to her uncle’s house before getting shot.
What if he kills Uncle Don, too?
She couldn’t worry about her uncle right now; she just had to get there before her father killed her. A moment later, another shotgun blast rang out, and hot buckshot grazed her arm. Blood immediately flowed from the wound, and she almost stumbled in horror and shock.
He shot me! My own daddy shot me! He shot me!
She pushed on. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach and she vomited in her mouth. With no choice but to continue, she spat out what she could and swallowed the rest, batting away the tears streaming down her cheeks. She had almost made it through the mile of dense wheat field. The light on the barn grew brighter.
Behind her, Daddy cocked the shotgun again.
Then, in mid-stride, Delia burst out of the wheat field and broke into a dead run with all of the strength she had left.
Her father fell out of the field a moment later. “Stop running right now, Delia! You’re going to see your mother! We’ll all be together!”
Delia was only a dozen yards from the back porch of the house when she hit the knee-high manure-spreading cart. In the black of night, the dark red hunk of metal had been invisible. She ran straight into it, cartwheeled over the top, and landed on her shoulder. Her vision blurred momentarily, and she gasped to suck in a breath, only to start screaming as her father reached her.
“You,” he huffed, “need,” another deep breath, “to mind your father.”
Delia couldn’t hold back the tears. They poured from her eyes as she sobbed uncontrollably. “Why, Daddy? Why do you want to kill me?”
“Not kill you, darling,” he said in a soft tone. “I’m saving you.” He raised the shotgun and pointed it at her face. “Close your eyes, honey. We’ll be with your mother soon.”
“John!” A booming voice rang out over the yard.
Delia looked past her father and saw Uncle Don, carrying a long rifle, hurrying toward them. At almost sixty years old, Don was much older than his brother. A massive man, he stood six-foot-five and easily weighed three hundred pounds. Everyone liked and respected Uncle Don.
“Go back inside, Donald. This is no business of yours! This is my family business.”
“John! Goddammit, brother, don’t make me put a bullet in you. You get away from that little girl right now.”
“You don’t understand, Don.”
“I do. We’ve all had hard times. We’ve all hit rock bottom at some time or another. All we can do is keep on trucking, keep fighting the good fight.”
“Missy is dead.”
“Jesus,” Don whispered. “Let your daughter go, John. We can take care of her.”
“No one’s taking care of her but me. I told you, Don, this is family business.”
Delia’s dad turned back to her and cocked the shotgun’s hammer.
A bullet blew out the front of his chest, showering Delia with a heavy spray of blood as
her daddy fell to the ground.
Uncle Don walked over and stood above him. “She is my family.”
CHAPTER 2
~~~
One wouldn’t appreciate a funeral on a nice day, but the dark gray skies and drizzle of rain that fell on the small group made the occasion especially dismal. John and Missy Jensen—not well-known but not reclusive, either—had gone to church every Sunday and always exchanged friendly handshakes with their fellow parishioners. Only twenty or so mourners showed up at the internment. Delia stood a few feet in front of her aunt. She stared ahead at the twin coffins sitting next to two holes in the ground.
Behind her, Aunt Deb spoke to a friend of the family—not loudly, but Delia heard every word nonetheless. Not that any of the gossip surprised her. Her aunt and uncle had been as forthcoming as they could be.
“So, you decided to keep the girl then?”
“We did. Donald just couldn’t put her out after all she’s been through.”
“Where will she sleep?”
“We bunked her in with Lilly. They get along all right, considering.”
“Has she said much about what happened that night?”
“She hasn’t spoken at all.”
“About her father or not at all?”
“She hasn’t spoken at all, Judy, not a single word. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t speak at all. It’s like the whole thing has made her go mute.”
“My goodness.”
“Indeed. The child went through something horrible and I’m not sure that she’s going to be okay.”
“You think the crazy might run in her blood?”
“I hope not. We’ll watch her carefully. The bank was taking the farm from John. He’d been struggling for years and, apparently, the loan man finally had enough. Said they were going to take the land, the farm, the house, the animals, everything. He wouldn’t even be able to keep his truck when they were done with him.”
“It’s really no wonder he went off his rocker, I suppose.”
Aunt Deb shook her head. “It’s a very sad business. Those bankers don’t care who they’re hurting.”
“Why didn’t he come to you for help? Surely, Donald could have helped in some way. That’s not to say it was your responsibility, of course.”
“Just before Don shot him, John told him no one was going to be taking care of his family but him. We’re supposin’ he thought that if he couldn’t take care of his family, they were better off dead.”
“My Lord, he truly was crazy, wasn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
The First Presbyterian Church sat quietly in the distance. From the small house next to it, the pastor emerged and walked toward the cemetery where they waited.
“Women,” a deep voice growled under his breath. “Quiet yourselves, now. Be respectful of the dead in this place.”
“I’m sorry, Don.”
“Don’t go spreading this business around further. The girl is going to have a rough enough go of it.”
Uncle Donald had saved her. He worked hard and made a good living as a veterinarian and farrier. They’d paid off the mortgage on their house years ago.
The pastor made it over to the fresh gravesite and greeted them all. He took the time to softly shake Delia’s hand and offered her a well-practiced condoling smile. Then he spoke about life and death. He talked a little about God’s fury, then about redemption. He spoke about forgiveness for a long time. He reminded them that God alone should be the judge of any man.
“Remember, my good people, that we have lost two of our flock today, but that there is still one of that family remaining, one that will need all of the kindness and support we can offer.”
Self-conscious, Delia flushed as all the eyes of the congregation turned to her.
“Remember that a child especially needs warmth in times of cold, and mercy in times of heartache.” The pastor gave Delia another small smile.
A prick of emotion welled up in her chest. She tried to choke it down, but it kept coming up, threatening to overflow from her eyes. She pressed her hands against the side of her face and tried to concentrate on anything else but this.
As the priest continued to speak, two men lowered her mother’s casket into the cold black hole.
Delia hiccupped silent little sobs. She tried to muffle the sound because she didn’t want them to think her weak. She wanted them to see her as strong. Nevertheless, the tears came and she could do nothing to restrain them. Hurt and abandoned by the parents she loved, Delia’s heart overflowed with grief. Her breathing became ragged and she took great heaving gasps. Even then, she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs.
An arm settled around her, and the rich smell of leather soothed her. She looked up and Uncle Don peered down at her, with his meaty arm holding her next to him. Even for a tall girl she barely came up past his large stomach
He turned Delia in to face him, and held her close to his body.
Delia buried her face against him.
He spoke softly. “There, no one can see your tears now.”
The tears poured. After a few moments, a large circle of Delia’s tears grew on Don’s plaid button-down shirt.
Embarrassed, Delia couldn’t stop the flow, her chest heaving and hitching with effort.
As the grave men pulled up the ropes from her mother’s lowered casket, he held her. Soon, her father would make his way down into the ground as well.
Delia eventually regained control of her breathing, and the tears stopped coming. She wiped the back of her hand over her face and turned away from Don.
Her father’s casket began its descent.
She felt great anger towards him, but more than that—confusion. Why would everything have been so bad without the farm, anyway? Her mother had always said, “Home is where the heart is.” They could have gone anywhere as long as they were together. But her father had to go and ruin it.
Images from that night overwhelmed her: her mother on the living room floor; her gray, lifeless face; and the puddle of blood surrounding her.
The emotions rose again. More tears formed.
Then a warm hand took hers. The new hand was soft and little.
Uncle Don still stood on one side of her with his arm around her back.
Her cousin Lilly, Uncle Don and Aunt Deb’s daughter, stood at her side.
They’d be more like sisters now. Lilly—only five years old—quietly looked up at Delia with sparkling blue eyes and smiled.
Delia returned the smile. She stood like that, just looking at Lilly’s small, perfect face, while they finished lowering her father into the ground. She would not go look over the edge of the grave. She would not throw a shovelful of dirt. Instead, as the pastor closed his Bible and dismissed the mourners, Delia walked hand in hand with Lilly back to the truck. They did not speak, but a connection formed between Delia and the small girl.
They sat together in the bed of the old pickup as Don drove them home. When they returned to the house, Aunt Deb pulled her aside. “There are going to be some people coming over, all right? We’ll have lunch, and then you can be dismissed if you’d like.”
Delia nodded her understanding.
“They’re all going to want to talk to you, ya know. It would be nice if you could speak to them.”
Delia said nothing in response. She went up to her shared bedroom to put on a more comfortable dress. She had squeezed into the same black one from her grandmother’s wake and funeral last year, but her body just wasn't the same now.
She pulled a simple cloth dress over her pale flesh and sat in the room to wait until her aunt called her downstairs. The room seemed small for two girls, but she felt safer than she would have alone. Every night since her parents' death she'd woken up with nightmares.
She brushed her fingernails back and forth against the smooth wood of the bedroom floor.
Steps on the porch outside and voices from beyond the window echoed up to her.
She looked out the bedroom window and saw a small procession of people approaching.
She sighed deeply and cinched the cloth belt around her waist. Then she made her way through the house to where people she had met at one time or another but barely knew waited to see her.
They all wanted to look at the girl whose father tried to kill her. Whispers followed Delia through the house. She tried several times to stand still, but their eyes kept turning toward her, some with pity, some with disdain, and so she shuffled silently from room to room.
Unable to hide or to stand another minute of the quiet assault, she wandered out into the yard where Lilly swung herself on the swing set.
Delia sat next to Lilly on a swing.
Lilly held out her hand again for Delia.
Delia smiled at her and took the offered hand.
Then Lilly spoke to her. “You’re going to be my best friend now, Delia.” Then she released Delia’s hand and went back to pushing her little feet to move the swing.
Everything changed after that. Delia was the same, but different. She didn’t feel things the way she used to. Playing with other children was no longer fun. Sad things didn’t bring her sorrow. Her father had flipped a switch within Delia and somehow turned part of her off, like when one of her body parts fell asleep. She could still feel, but in a muffled way.
***
The weekend of mourning ended and Delia returned to school, but not for long. Three school days passed with her sitting silently, refusing to speak to her teachers, before they deemed her “excused” for the year. They only had two weeks left anyway. The school principal did have some opinions on Delia that he shared with Aunt Deb.
“Sure, she’s been through hell,” he said, “but the girl needs to be disciplined. Give her a good tanning and she’ll snap right out of this.”
Delia sat in the corner of the room while this conversation took place. She heard everything, of course, but then she thought she heard something else.
A far-off whisper grew closer to her.
As the principal spoke—his fat red face working out his judgments against her—the whispers became louder in Delia’s ears until it felt like she had a conch shell pressed to her head, listening to the sound of the ocean. Delia looked around the room for the source of the sound, but none presented itself. The sound made concentrating on the principal’s words difficult, but his snide remarks came through nonetheless.
He told Aunt Deb that she needed to figure out something before the next school year or Delia couldn’t return.
Aunt Deb nodded and said, “That’s fine.”
As Deb led her out of the building, the quiet of the countryside replaced the whispering. Deb drove her back to the house in Don’s truck. She didn’t scold Delia, nor did she look angry with her. Her aunt remained silent until they pulled back into the driveway. She shifted the truck out of gear but let the engine idle.
“I saw someone die once,” Aunt Deb said.
Delia looked up at her in surprise.
“It was a boy I knew when I was little, my first boyfriend, I guess. We played in the woods often, just doing as kids will do. One day we went climbing trees. He climbed much farther than I could, much higher than I ever would." She paused to glance at Delia. “A branch broke when he was climbing down. He fell straight through to the ground and landed on his noggin. I remember how his head bent sideways. I remember the sound it made. His neck went purple. Even as a youngin' I knew he was dead.”
She looked over at Delia and shut off the engine.
“It was awful. I had nightmares for days."
"I know you’ll heal from this, and I know it'll be difficult. I don’t know if we can help you, but we’ll try.”
Delia nodded to her.
“Keep up on your chores and help with the cooking and things will be fine, okay?” Deb patted her on the leg.
Delia wandered out away from the house while Lilly napped. She knew the area well, since she grew up just on the other side of the field, but she could still explore further and find new places. She walked up to the edge of the wheat field, letting her outstretched hands brush along the warm stalks as she did. She impulsively ducked into the rows of wheat and disappeared.
Once in the field, she moved more quickly, walking in the direction of her old house. Delia brushed wheat from her face as she trod, then began to run. She ran then ran faster. She remembered that night, running from her father. Now she ran from the emptiness she felt inside. She ran as hard as she could, until her lungs were bursting and tears rolled down her face.
“Father!” she screamed out into the wind. “Father!”
No sooner had she screamed, she tumbled out of the field and into her old yard. She fell onto her knees and let herself cry. The tears came streaming down her face and her breathing hitched in her chest, then giant sobs barked out of her throat. She couldn't stop crying or move away so she lay down on the grass. Her bawling turned to soft sobs that soon stopped altogether. Her weary mind demanded rest, and Delia fell asleep on the lawn.
Her father came to her in a dream.
Delia opened her eyes. The rich smell of grass and the earth beneath it filled her nostrils. She raised her head and saw him walking toward her from the house.
“Dee,” he said, smiling, using his own special name for her.
“Father!” she cried, and rose from the grass to meet him.
He walked toward her as she got up.
Delia ran up as if to throw her arms around him, but stopped.
“Is mother here too?”
“No, dear. Mother is in heaven where she belongs.”
Delia’s face dropped.
“What about you? Where are you?”
Her father smiled sadly. “I’m nowhere. I’m caught in the in-between. I’ll be here for some time.”
“Why, father? Why did you do this to me?” Her face grew warm with an angry flush, tears not far behind. “I’m all alone now!”
John’s ghostly head bowed down in shame. “I’m sorry, Dee. I lost all sense of what I was supposed to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was supposed to be a good husband and a good father, no matter what. I failed. I was weak, Delia. You can never be weak in this life, or it will destroy you.”
“It was those bankers’ fault, wasn’t it, father?” Tears dripped from her face.
Her father wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.
His warm body and the rough skin of his hands on the back of her neck consoled Delia as nothing else could.
After a moment, her father held her at arm’s length and stroked the side of her face. “It was my fault, Delia. You can never be like me. I did all the wrong things. I didn’t use my head. I followed dreams instead of my brain.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I didn’t do what was necessary to take care of my family and I lost everything. Now, I’ve taken everything from you.”
“I don’t know if I understand, father.”
“You can’t always follow your dreams. Sometimes you have to listen to your head more than your heart. Delia, you have to be the best at everything you do. It’s the only way to make it in the world.”
Delia nodded meekly at his words.
Her father released her face and took a step back from her. “I love you, Dee. You have to get out of here. Get away from the farm. Those city folks have it good. Don’t blame the bankers for what happened to us. I should have tried to be more like them all along.”
She was so confused. This didn't sound like what mother had always told her.
“Will you ever come back here?”
“I think I must,” replied her father.
“Then I’ll be able to visit you sometimes?”
“I don’t know that. I have to go for now.”
“But I don’t want you to go, father.
“I’m sorry, Dee, it’s time for you to wake up now.”
She reached out to him and held his calloused hand in hers.
He smiled softly at her, but his pale blue eyes seemed sad and far away.
—-End of Special Sneak Preview—-
GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
A DARK NIGHT THRILLER Series at Evolved Publishing
~~~
END OF FILE. THANK YOU.
