STRANGE DAYS, A Free Sample
A New Novel by Author Fred Wiehe
Copyright © 2005 by Fred Wiehe. All Rights Reserved.
Supernatural Thriller ISBN: 0-9760919-9-2 Trade Paperback 332 pages $12.95
Foreboding clouds blanketed the sky in black shades of malevolence, holding hostage the sun and its life-giving rays. Litter and garbage swirled into the air like man-made tornadoes of destruction. Palm trees slashed about as if under attack from an invisible enemy. The wind whipping around the old Victorian house and whistling through the eaves sounded strangely musical. The gate to the white, picket fence continuously swung open and slammed shut, keeping time with the eerie melody of the wind, like a bass drum: thud, thud, thud. Lightning ripped the sky in two, and thunder boomed in the distance, a crescendo to the evil cacophony of sound that raged outside Edna Gear’s window.
Inside the house, the hardwood floor creaked to its own scary tune.
Worry and panic haunted Edna as she lay in bed, awaiting the birth of her son. No one else was in the house—she knew that—but still, she had the uneasy feeling of not being alone. The raging storm outside and the strange house noises inside did little to ease her mind. The ongoing labor pains only served to heighten her fear, and still she managed to stifle screaming. The increasing intensity and frequency of stabbing pain, however, made it more and more difficult to hold back.
Lightning sliced the sky. Thunder rumbled. The most intense labor pain yet slashed her, as if the storm inside her belly corresponded with the one brewing within Mother Nature. Her fingernails dug into the mattress. She screamed, no longer able to subdue her raging beast from crying out. Labor for her was already almost two hours old, and still no baby came forth. How long must she suffer? As long as it takes Mother Nature to bring forth rain? Will the birth of her child come with the first patter of drops?
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Another pain cut her deep. She arched her back and howled. When the knife pulled free and the pain subsided, she gasped for air.
The baby would come soon.
She reached down and pulled her nightgown up around her hips.
The baby will come with the rain, she told herself.
Spreading her legs, she waited.
***
A malevolent entity moved about the room, unseen. The monster came from the shadows, closer to the bed. In the dimension it now existed, it wasn’t able to camouflage its evil, as it could when it had lived in three-dimensional time. In this unearthly dimension, its face ballooned to twice the size of its body. Large eyes popped from their sockets, yellow and bloodshot, with elliptical, red pupils that glowed wickedly. Its nose was long and hooked. Its ears were pointed and hairy. A serpent’s tongue slithered in and out of yellow fangs, while green ooze exuded steadily from its mouth. Its long and hairy hands had a yellow claw on the end of each finger. A stench of decay and death hung in the air all around it.
It hovered over Edna Gear as she writhed in pain and waited for the birth of her baby. It too waited. It waited for the right moment to enter the child and begin a new life in three-dimensional existence, as it had so many times before. It knew this woman would be the perfect mother, serving its purpose well. She would be just abusive enough to help form the malicious personality it needed. In its new physical shell, with a little mother’s help, it would be able to perform many wicked deeds.
Within the dimension it now existed, its knowledge of the past was all knowing and its vision of what was to come—or at least what could be—was formidable. Not perfect. It didn’t know everything. Nevertheless, it had learned to trust its instincts, and it was seldom disappointed. It had picked other lives and then entered three-dimensional time to find an enrichment of violence and destruction. It knew instinctively that it would live many more.
Hovering over its mother’s bed, waiting for its new life, it remembered the past lives that not only held special memories, but also had contributed heavily to its growing power.
Christian Wirth was a Nazi in Hitler’s army and camp commandant at Belzec Village. Belzec was a wonderful place. He loved the sight of misery and the stench of death. This day, like most days, he walked the one hundred and fifty meters of open corridor that led to the death-chambers. A sign hung on the outside wall. It read: Heckenholt Foundation. The Star of David hung above the sign. This amused him very much.
August 19, 1942, a train from Lemberg arrived. There were forty-five cars with more than six thousand people crammed into them. He watched as his Ukrainian soldiers flung open the doors and drove the Jews out with leather whips. The sound of leather cracking against human flesh always brought a smile to his face. Waiting with eager anticipation, he listened to the loudspeaker give instructions. The Jews were to strip off all of their clothes. They were to take off artificial limbs and glasses as well. Then, the Nazis ordered them to hand in everything they owned at the “valuables” window.
He slapped the leather strap he always carried against his thigh with excitement as the march to the Heckenholt Foundation began. He almost laughed out loud when, on his orders, the Jews were told that they would not be hurt…to just breathe deep and it would strengthen their lungs, that this was all just a way to prevent contagious disease. A good disinfectant! He could hardly contain himself as he watched them voluntarily march and push their way to their own deaths.
Suddenly a Jewish woman broke from the ranks, cursing and spitting at him. He took great satisfaction in whipping her half to death, then pushing her into the gas chamber behind the rest of the Jews. There were now seven to eight hundred of them crowded into ninety-three square meters of death. When the doors closed, he ordered Heckenholt—whose name hung on the chamber—to start his diesel. For it was Heckenholt's exhaust, that would kill the Jews.
Then a wonderful thing happened. Heckenholt's engine wouldn't start.
Colonel Wirth—secretly delighted by this turn of events—ranted and raved as the lunatic he was so proud of being. He whipped Heckenholt and the Ukrainian that was helping him. His leather strap smacked against the men as he cursed them for being idiots. Everyone in camp thought that he was furious and out of control, but he secretly enjoyed everything that transpired. The moans and weeping from inside the chamber grew to a fevered pitch as the Jews waited to die. For two hours and fifty-nine minutes, he reveled in their fear.
Then the engine started and all were dead within thirty-two minutes.
Edna’s painful howls stirred the monster from its daydream. It gazed wickedly upon the woman in bed. It delighted at the sight of the baby’s head, just beginning to peek out from between his mother's legs.
“Soon it will be time,” it whispered, clicking one yellow claw against another.
It waited patiently, reveling again in old memories.
Sir Glatisant, the Black Knight, lived in old England of the twelfth century. He wore armor the color of midnight and rode a great steed the same pitch black. On a fateful day, he and his warriors rode into the tiny village of Gramarye. That day, he had gotten his first taste of ending a life before it was ever born. He had killed infants before, and that was very good—their life's blood always made him very strong. However, killing an unborn child was the ultimate achievement.
They began by setting fire to the village. Once Gramarye was ablaze, they waited for the villagers to begin running from their homes. When they did, the warriors rode upon them and smacked them with mighty swords. Heads rolled and decapitated bodies ran for another ten yards before dropping to the ground.
As the slaughter continued, the Black Knight caught sight of a young, pregnant woman running from her home, the bottom of her skirt just beginning to catch fire. She screamed and her eyes shone bright with terror. He circled, riding up behind her, the hooves of his black horse pounding into her as she rolled in the dirt. When he thought her dead, he pulled back on the reins, bringing his mighty horse three steps backwards. The horse turned in circles, its hooves prancing against the ground in an eagerness to finish the job.
The woman lay perfectly still.
Nevertheless, he watched patiently, hand gripping his sword. All the while, he prayed to the demons of Hell that she still was alive, that she had an ounce of breath in her to expel. As if in answer to his prayers, she moved, just slightly at first. Soon, however, she pushed herself into a sitting position. She gasped and gulped for air, and a sound, as if something were broken inside her, escaped from deep within her lungs. He looked down upon her. He smiled devilishly. He relished the moment, dismounting his horse and standing over her. She sat perfectly still as he raised his sword and then sent it crashing against her skull.
Although the woman lay dead, he thrust his sword into her abdomen, pushing it as far as it would go, twisting it inside of her until it made a gaping hole. He pulled the sword from her, looking on with an evil glee as her insides spilled onto the ground. With those human organs came the unborn fetus.
He stabbed the fetus, drawing power from the life that never would be, drawing that power into his own being.
Angelique Drapeau lived in the late 1700’s, a French immigrant from the poorest section of Paris. For years, she lived among the rat-infested ghettos of that beautiful city. She existed close enough to see the splendid carriages and the magnificent horses as they taxied the gentry to and fro. But never close enough to touch, feel, or be even a small part of that splendor.
Through the selling of her body, she was able to scrape the money together that she needed for passage to America. After months of living at sea with rats and drunken sailors, she finally set foot in the New World. Once on American soil she vowed that never again would she live among the squalor she had endured the first twenty years of her life.
Fortune soon smiled on her. She met a gentleman, Nicholas Mandell, who took an instant fancy to her. At first, Nicholas felt sorry for her—she looked so lost, so ragged—but soon her beauty stirred something within his heart. After hearing of her journey, first across the ocean and then her ordeals traveling from New York to Boston, he couldn’t help think what a remarkable woman she was. However, after seeing her clean, with a gorgeous new gown that accentuated every curve and line of her figure, he truly fell in love. As Nicholas looked upon her, he wanted nothing more than to hold her and keep her safe.
On May 10, 1780, Nicholas and she were married at Saint Michael's Church in the heart of Boston. She knew that never again would she have to sell herself for food, and never again would she share that food with the rats of the city.
They soon moved into a spacious mansion that once belonged to Nicholas' grandfather. Nicholas was the last of the Mandells. An only child, with both grandparents and parents deceased; Nicholas wanted nothing more than to lavish his wealth on his new wife.
In a very short time, Angelique became very comfortable in her new surroundings and her new station in life. However, after six months of marriage, she was growing ever more tired of Nicholas, as well as her dependence on him and his charity. She wanted desperately to be free, but she was not willing to give up the benefits of being Mrs. Mandell.
After eight months of marriage, Nicholas returned home one late afternoon to find her waiting for him in bed. Pushing the covers aside, she exposed her naked body. Nipples erect. Legs spread wide. She beckoned him to come to her.
Neither of them spoke as Nicholas undressed and knelt down on the bed between her legs. He gently massaged the inside of her thighs. As she sat up, she reached for the glass of champagne that was waiting for her husband and brought the glass to his lips. He sipped the bubbly liquid and then, taking the glass from her hand, drank the rest, and threw the glass to the floor. Holding her by the shoulders, he pushed her backward with the weight of his own body and thrust himself into her.
The poison began to spread throughout her husband’s body as they made love—bodies intertwined, hearts racing, and blood pumping with passion—making its way to his heart. He gasped for air and his heart felt as if the devil himself squeezed it with mighty claws. She curled her legs around him, pushing him deeper and holding him still as he gasped his final breath. She held his dead body, massaging his back as his cock shrunk and slipped from inside of her. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes wild, lips parted. With Nicholas' dead body on top of her, she never felt more alive or free. His wealth would take her places she had never been. It would help her meet people she could've never hoped to meet. Wealthy men. These wealthy men would leave money to her as they died in the throes of passion.
***
Edna screamed bloody murder. Beads of sweat gleamed on her face. She pushed with all her might. The first splattering drops of rain tapped against the window. She tucked her feet under her butt, and with her knees in the air and legs spread wide, she pushed again.
***
Slowly and reluctantly, the monster freed itself from thoughts of the past. It was difficult, for the memories of past lives were of immense pleasure. It was the culmination of these lives—the pain endured and the violence, destruction, and pain inflicted so unsparingly upon others—that now resulted in its great power, strength, and unearthly appearance.
But now, watching on with evil pleasure as Edna Gear's pain and struggle heightened, it thought of future havoc it could bring upon the world.
“It's time,” the monster croaked, seeing the baby's entire head and part of his shoulders exposed.
It rubbed its hairy hands together with the excited anticipation of once again existing in the physical world. With cat-like swiftness, it flew to the child.
Entering him, the two became one.
***
Edna let loose with one last beastly howl as she pushed with every ounce of resolve she could. The baby finally and miraculously slipped from inside her and rested on the now blood-soaked sheet between her legs. She gasped great breaths of air while listening to the pouring rain lash against the windowpane. Then, the baby’s silence smacked her into action. She quickly pushed herself up, scooped him into her arms, and pinched his bottom. The baby rewarded her with a cry of life, and she breathed easier as the baby’s deathly pallor turned to a lively tomato color. She held the baby gently in her arms as she reached for the scissors on the end table. After snipping the umbilical cord, she put down the scissors and picked up a blanket. Gently, she cleaned her new son. Needles of rain pounded against the windows, as if desperately trying to get to them.
She ignored it and whispered her son’s name, “Louis.”
Continued in
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Praise for Strange Days ...
"Wiehe's punchy prose pounds us with dementia, mis-adventure and enough multi-dimensional mayhem to KO Quinten Tarantino and leave him smiling as he hits the floor." - Weston Ochse, author of SCARECROW GODS and APPALACHIAN GALAPAGOS
"A novel of ageless evil, told with wicked abandon and stylish prose. Fred Wiehe has established himself as an important voice in a new age of horror fiction!" - Nicholas Grabowsky, author of THE EVERBORN and HALLOWEEN IV
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