Sundown Rising Read online



  SUNDOWN RISING

  T. A. BRADLEY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any semblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by T. A. Bradley

  Weeping Willow Copyright © 2009 by T. A. Bradley

  The Progeny Copyright © 2011 by T. A. Bradley

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address T. A. Bradley, 3804 Taylor Ave, Drexel Hill, PA 19026

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Author's Note

  Weeping Willow has been previously published in Horror In Words magazine and also as a reprint in The Vampire Megapack. The Progeny is an original unpublished sequel.

  Table of Contents

  Section 1

  Section 2

  Section 3

  Section 4

  Section 5

  Section 6

  Section 7

  Section 8

  Section 9

  Section 10

  Section 11

  Section 12

  Section 13

  Section 14

  Section 15

  Section 16

  Section 17

  Section 18

  Section 19

  Section 20

  Section 21

  Section 22

  Section 23

  Section 24

  Section 25

  About the Author

  Other Works by

  PART I

  WEEPING WILLOW

  1

  I wasn't entirely sure that I was doing the right thing, as I signed the last of the pages in front of me. Something about it still felt very wrong. After all, it was my wife, Ronnie, who had wanted the house so badly. Nothing I said could dissuade her. As I slid the completed forms across the table to the realtor and handed her my closing check, I wished that Ronnie could be here. I wished with all my heart that Christopher Randolph had not been drunk. I wished that he had not been fiddling with his CD player. I wished that he had not jumped the curb and run into the telephone pole that stood in front of our house. And most of all, I wished that that stupid splinter of wood that he'd sent flying hadn't ripped into my wife's femoral artery.

  "Congratulations," said the realtor, extending her hand. "You got yourself a fine fixer-upper. Congratulations!" She was pumping my hand as if she were trying to get an old well restarted. It brought me back from my wishing.

  "Thank you," was all I said. She smiled, then handed me the keys. Her face was literally aglow with the thoughts of the commission on this one. A tidy sum, I suspected, for a house that just sold for four hundred and twenty-seven thousand.

  "Now, if there's anything else you need...anything we at Carlton's Realty can do to help you get settled, you just call." She handed me a folder of papers and brochures. "Here's the startup package. Your electric, phone, cable, trash...all taken care of and up and running." She shot me another salesman smile. "Everything you need to settle in has already been done. O'course, you can always change things whenever you want...but you're all set."

  It took about twenty five minutes to get to the house, five of which was negotiating the long winding driveway. The house sat on twelve acres of wooded land, one of the things that Ronnie had loved about it. There was also a lot of work to be done to the house and the property. Another thing Ronnie loved. She was the handyman, not I. I was more the call-in-the-pros type.

  The lawn was totally overgrown. Patches of grass and weeds stood two to three feet high in places. A gnarled tree limb stretched across the driveway just short of the front porch. It laid there like an oversized snake, its mottled bark flaked away in places. Shelf fungus was starting to take over and the large white discs scattered along its length stood out like skin cancer. Had it come down another three feet to the left it would have taken out the whole corner of the house. I rolled up to it, my old CJ7 skidding to a stop on the thinned out gravel.

  The first thing I noticed when I climbed out of the jeep was the sweet smell of the flowering trees. A stark contrast to the death and decay that surrounded the property. The house was in no better shape than the lawn. Probably a lot worse. The roof had definitely seen better days. Here and there, shingles had fallen away, giving the house a balding look. The paint was puckered and flaking and the glass was missing or broken from most of the windows.

  It was a large house and was going to take quite an investment in time and money to get it back to where it should be. But standing there in the driveway, I couldn't help but see what Ronnie had seen in it. I tried to imagine what it used to look like two hundred and ten years ago when it had been built. Sprawling and majestic. The stone foundation perfectly pointed; the wood siding clean and blemish free and the gables flawlessly peaked above the surrounding trees.

  I jingled the keys in my hand as I clattered up the wooden steps to the front door. A light breeze whirled across the porch sending dry leaves skittering in front of me. Turning the tarnished brass handle and pushing lightly, I stepped inside. The musty odor of disuse assaulted me immediately.

  "Well, Richard Anthony Millay, here we are. Here you are," I said. "What do you think, Ronnie? Are you happy? It's what you wanted." I moved into the room, the naked floorboards creaking and groaning in protest. "You do know, of course, my dear, that it's going to take a professional cleaning crew just to get all the dust outta here, don't you?" I looked around, then smiled to myself. "I'd be willing to bet that you don't even care."

  I slowly made my way around the house, taking mental notes about what I thought needed to be done first, just to make it livable. I considered moving into one of those short term rental places, like the Ambassador Suites or something similar, while the place was being worked on, but I decided that that would probably make Ronnie very unhappy. So I made the best of what was.

  It took three months of solid work and I can't begin to tell you how many contractors, but the place was finally shaping up. The lawn was green and living at an acceptable height. The weeds were pulled or sprayed; all the windows and shingles had been replaced and the floors refinished. Nine of the eleven rooms were totally complete. The other two, one on the third floor and a small sitting room off the kitchen still needed some plaster and paint.

  One of the first things I did was to get my office in shape. I was a copywriter, which meant being able to work comfortably from home. I chose a large room on the second floor which overlooked the back of the house. There was a weeping willow that stood some thirty yards from the house that was visible through my office window. I had always liked the look of those trees, which is why I chose that room.

  A small stream meandered across the property. It wound its way past the small cemetery plot that held the ground to the left of the house. The original owners were living there. In a sense, I guess they never really gave up the property. There were four marked graves inside a broken and rusting wrought iron fence. I wasn't sure whether I was going to have it repaired or not. It was something I'd have to think about. The little graveyard, itself, was not a concern. Actually, it was another one of those quirky things that Ronnie had found so charming about the place.

  When I'd...we'd... first shown interest in the house, the realtor asked if it was going to be a problem. She told us that we could have the bodies mo
ved over to Summit Lawn if we wanted to; there was no existing family to object. Ronnie said she thought it added to the property and that it would be fine right where it was. She was a big believer in ghosts and things of that nature and she liked the "spookiness", as she called it, that it imparted on the house. So we let it stay; I let it stay.

  The house was really too big for one person – too big for me. It took me several months to adjust to its creaking and settling, especially at night. There were many times in the beginning, when I'd thought I'd heard footsteps coming and going up and down the hall and stairs. But each time proved to be just the house doing its own kind of breathing. A few times I'd been certain that I'd heard a door slam downstairs or a window open and then close. I kept telling myself that it was Ronnie who was the ghost believer, not me. But that would change.

  2

  It was a warm July night, not too many days from the start of August. I don't remember the date exactly, but I do remember that evening – that night. I had been in my office working on a particularly difficult White Paper for a company in Philadelphia. I must have rewritten it eight times. There was a little round brass clock that sat on my desk that chimed on each hour. Cha-ling, cha-ling, cha-ling, cha-ling. Seven o'clock. Time to give it a rest. I walked over to the window and stood there admiring my willow, hands in my pockets. I'm not sure how long I stood there looking at it. Probably five minutes or so, when I noticed a reflection in the glass. I remember that it startled me so much I actually let out a little gaspy whimper. When I turned around, there was nothing behind me. But when I turned back again to look at the window, there it was.

  A tall, dark haired woman appeared to be standing behind me, looking directly at me. She was standing perfectly still and seemed to be looking past me – through me, out the window. I turned to look again, but I was still the only one in the room. A shiver ran up my spine and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck actually rising.

  Not being the ghost aficionado, I wasn't quite sure what to do. Actually, I was pretty much convinced that I'd just been working too hard and that I probably needed a drink and a good night's sleep. Thinking it pretty silly, but doing it anyway, I raised my hand and waved. The reflection didn't move. I thought about saying something to it but dismissed that idea. No need to punctuate crazy. So I just stood there looking at it through the glass until it faded.

  "Ok, Richard," I said. "Just because it's your name doesn't mean you have to be one. There are no such things as ghosts and you know it. You're a copywriter, not a horror writer." I kept staring into the glass as I said this, as if the image might reappear just to prove me wrong. It didn't.

  I was almost to the door when I heard the voice. It was a soft whispery sound and it was edged with sadness and despair.

  "Richard. Richard, you've come," was all it said. At least, that's what I heard. I turned around. The room was empty and there were no reflections, save my own, in any of the windows. I walked back over to the window. The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, turning the sky that pinkish-purple color. An intermittent breeze was blowing and the long hanging branches of the willow would sweep to one side and then fall back again. It reminded me of how Ronnie's hair looked whenever we had the top of the jeep down.

  I waited, ten; fifteen; twenty minutes. There was no repeat voice or any visions or reflections. Finally convincing myself that I hadn't seen or heard anything, I went downstairs.

  The rest of that night was uneventful. I watched some TV, read a little and then went to bed. There were no strange dreams; no disembodied voices; no unexplained sounds. In fact, I can't remember ever having had a better night's sleep.

  Feeling pretty good, I made myself a full breakfast (something I rarely ever did). Toast, coffee, two eggs over easy, some Potatoes O'Brian and bacon. I figured it was going to be a good day…if I could just get a handle on that White Paper. It was due in two days, so I didn't have a lot of time. I stacked all the breakfast ware in the sink and headed up to my office.

  Halfway up the steps I felt something bump into me. It was a substantial feeling that pushed me back a step, forcing me to grab the handrail. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I watched in amazement and fear as a line of frost formed on the banister at the top of the steps and swept down the handrail. At the bottom it condensed into itself and disappeared. I stood there numb for quite some time, trying to regain what little sanity I thought I had left.

  Forcing myself to enter into things I'd rather not and abandon my disbelief in the spirit world, I said (a bit timidly), "Ok, who's there? What do you want?"

  There was no answer. Of course, I really didn't expect one. Then I heard the tapping. It was distant and coming from upstairs, barely audible. It sounded like plastic being knocked together and I recognized it immediately. It was a sound I heard every day. The sound of my computer keyboard being used.

  I raced up the steps, sure I'd find someone in my office, someone who'd gone to a lot of trouble to try and scare me. I stood in the hallway, a few feet from my office door, listening. It was definitely my keyboard. On tip-toe, I crept toward the open door, my back against the wall. When I reached the jam, I leapt into the doorway. The tapping stopped. The room was empty.

  Hesitantly, I walked over to my desk. The monitor was showing my rotating screen saver, personal pictures and cartoons that I'd uploaded or downloaded. I placed my finger on the mouse, not really sure if I wanted to move it – if I wanted to bring my screen to life. I gave in and pushed it forward. What came up on the screen made me back up so suddenly that I lost my balance and nearly went crashing out the second story window.

  On the screen in front of me, printed in Times Roman were the words: GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE. NOW!, written over and over again, all the way down the page. All the same, except for the last line, and I think, more than anything, it was the last line that frightened me the most. It read: GET THE HELL OUT OF M This scared me most because it was evidence that whoever, or whatever, had been using my computer had been interrupted in mid-sentence by my appearance in the doorway. This I couldn't deny, and now I was stuck believing. And that scared the hell out of me.

  I really had no idea what to do. I wanted to sit down but was afraid to even use my own chair. What I wanted most was a rational explanation for all of it. I couldn't find one. Hell, I couldn't even invent one. I was staggered, my sense of reality riddled with holes I couldn't patch up.

  I thought that, under the circumstances, a nice walk outdoors might do me some good. I left my office behind and stepped out onto the front porch. It was already getting warm and it was only 9:05 A. M. I moved down the steps and swung to my right, headed for the back yard. My head cleared a little and my heart had stopped playing the congas in my chest. The sound of the birds singing and the crickets chirping helped restore me.

  As I rounded the far side of the house, I noticed that someone or something had trampled the marigolds I had planted there. Probably a deer or rabbit, I thought. A little further on I began to become concerned. The lilac bush I'd planted in Ronnie's memory (her favorite) was broken completely in two. No rabbit that I ever saw or would want to see could do that.

  Again, that sickening feeling of fear, of the unknown, began to seize me. I stood there like a statue just staring at the broken bush. Then I caught something out of the corner of my eye. There was something underneath the bush, lying up against the foundation. I leaned over and lifted a few of the broken lilac branches. Whatever it was, and I couldn't tell from where I was standing, it was kind of orange in color and fairly large.

  I got down on my hands and knees and crawled in under the bush. It was a dead cat. Leaning as far in as I could get, the branches pushing back against my face, I felt around until I could get a hold of it. When I finally extricated it from under the bushes, I could clearly see that its neck had been broken. Its head swiveled around like it was on ball be
arings.

  "Christ," I muttered, feeling kind of bad for the poor animal. "What happened to you?"

  As soon as I finished the sentence, the thing opened its eyes and gave out a loud hiss. Its claws swiped frantically at me, ripping open my arms. I dropped it and stepped back, but it continued its attack. It leapt for my face, but I was able to swat it away. It crouched on the ground in front of me hissing and yowling. I took a few more steps backward. It crawled forward, its head rolling from side to side. Searching for anything I could use as a weapon, while keeping a wary eye on the cat, I continued to back peddle, one step at a time.

  The contractors had been thorough. There wasn't even a twig lying around that I could use. I thought about rushing it, hoping it might just run off, but that seemed more foolish than wise. For a few minutes we just stared at each other. Then, it stood on its hind legs, something I didn't even think was possible for a cat.

  "Get the hell out of here!" it yelled, then fell over dead...again.

  Warily, I inched toward it. No movement. Standing directly over it, I gave it a good kick. It rolled across the yard like a limp doll. I had to be sure, so I gave it another good kick, this time, lifting into the air. It thudded to the ground, limp and motionless.

  "So much for you," I said, not even realizing that I was now talking to the dead. "A shovel and a trash pail...and you're outta here." The "outta here" part I said as if I were announcing a home run at a ball game.

  When I returned with plastic bag and shovel in hand, the cat was gone. I should have been surprised. I should have been awed. I was neither. At this point, the weird was becoming normal. But that didn't mean I was feeling good about any of it.

  "So much for my walk, too."

  I went back into the house and up to my office. Ghosts or no ghosts, I had work to do. The office was empty and I was able to work undisturbed for the rest of the day, except for the occasional draw I felt to stop and just admire the willow out of my window. There was something very captivating about it.