Sickle

Lets just say you have to go to hell and back twice. Twenty-two-year-old Jack Wilson has always been a troubled person who has overcome a lot of hardships. Having a neglectful father, being a social pariah, and struggling with depression, he lives day by day. But Jack has a secret, a level of hatred that is unimaginably demented. When someone or rather something, finds out his secret, he is given the tools to make his darkest dreams reality. But there is a catch to his gifts. As Ocean City, Maryland, becomes the host to a series of disappearances and bizarre murders, it is up to Detective Hudson to catch the psychopath. So the question is now raised. Will the detective catch the elusive killer, or will Jack completely lose his humanity to whats hiding inside him?

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SICKLEBy ROB WILGUSTrafford PublishingCopyright © 2012 Rob WilgusAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4669-3905-9Chapter One "Are you on dope?" Jack Wilson rolled his blue eyes at his father's insulting question. "Don't you roll your eyes at me," his father ordered. Jack didn't respond. As much as he hated the insult, he was use to his father's cruel words. The insults were even more frequent when they worked together. Comments like stupid, pussy, and fuckin' dumbass were the norm. The newest project was rebuilding the deck at their beach house. A project that would be simple for someone with a carpentry background, like Mr. Albert Wilson. A big task for a business major like Jack. Going to his own job at 2:00pm 6 days a week didn't help much either, nor did his occasional insomnia. Now you might say, "Why didn't Albert teach Jack?" And for a good while he did. But, he found it easier to belittle instead of teach. So for no apparent reason Albert would blame Jack because he thought every little thing they did was common sense. To his father, Jack was just a lazy good for nothing and to an extent he was right. Jack didn't work, with his dad. Why work with a stubborn ass who insults you the whole time? There was no pay, just the satisfaction of his father. For the next two hours he would grit his teeth and bear. But mostly he would fantasize about killing his father. It made the time go by faster. If he held a wrench or shovel, he'd think of hitting him over the head with it. He especially enjoyed the idea of using the shovel. A rare smile formed on his face, as he envisioned the shovel making the movie style clunk sound across the back of Albert's head. But his favorite patricidal thought was The Persuader. A nickname his father gave to a sledgehammer. It did just what its name stated, it persuaded. Persuaded wood to fit in a tight spot, persuaded metal to bend, and maybe one day, persuade Albert's head to flatten like a pancake. But not before his back was broken, his fingers were smashed, and his genitals were forced back inside him. Jack was well aware of how messed up that sounds. But it was the only way he could cope with the emotional abuse. When he was done working with Asshole, as he calls him, Jack would go work at Sunny's, a local restaurant. Unfortunately, work would be the highlight of his day. Jack has always been a bit of a loner, although not by choice. The people who liked him have not known him long. Always good with first impressions, his manners and good looks helped him to build relationships. But that's about where most positive comments about him end. For a long time he could never figure out why this was. Being a good listener, he would hear the rumors that made him a social pariah. Quiet, an almost evil sense of humor, a supposed sex addict, bad with bad situations, an opportunist, and a fearsome fighter were just some of the adjectives others have used to describe him. Not the most well like characteristics for a person. Ironically though, people always have said he is generally a nice person. Jack knows he is different and would like to change, but when he does try, nothing happens. Overtime, he would give up. On the outside he still tries to be nice. But on the inside, emptiness and resentment has allowed his heart to become cold. Recently, Jack's life has been pretty harsh. Not too long ago, his mother passed away. She always thought of him as an annoying trouble maker, but gave him the maternal passion that came natural. There unique sort of bond made living with Albert a little bit easier for Jack. The afternoon she passed, she called him at work saying she needed to go to the hospital. When he arrived, Albert was starting to work on their deck, taking out the bolts that held in rotting beams. Albert knew of his wife's pain, Jack's mom asked him to take her first. While Jack ran up the stairs his dad showed no sign of worry. He told his wife Susan that the pain would go away. Well, he was right. As soon Susan was brought into the emergency room the pain went away. She collapsed and died there on the hospital floor. Tests would show she had a heart attack. Till this day, Jack believes the wrong parent died that day. Later on in early June, he went to a local bar to drown his woes. On the way home he blacked out and crashed his truck into the garage of a nearby home. Strangely, no one had seen the accident and the residents weren't home. Drunk and disoriented, he hobbled 8 miles back to his house, where he would call 911. He passed out again in the yard against a pine tree. When he awoke, he had been taken to the hospital. On a nearby chair were his clothes and a white piece of paper. He grabbed the paper, it was the court summons. His charges were suspicion of driving under the influence, reckless driving, destruction of private property, and leaving the scene of an accident. Due to the possibility of being seriously injured he was not taken into custody. After he was released, Albert got the opportunity to yell at Jack the whole ride home. He was more worried about the truck then his son's safety. With no girlfriend or mother, he had no one to tell him it would get better; which it wouldn't, at least not yet. Work at Sunny's was generally boring and today was no different. Jack would come home today to see his father awake and waiting for him. All Jack could think of is what now? Albert was sitting at the kitchen table just eyeing his son down. Jack noticed the tattoo magazine he had bought earlier resting under his father's hand. Under his breath he whispered, "Here we go." "Did you get another one?" his father asked sternly. Jack was cranky from working all afternoon. He didn't even think about what he'd say, he just said it. "Yes, if you paid any attention to something other than your work maybe you'd notice the bottle that says tattoo aftercare in the bathroom." Albert's face turned a little red. It was true, he hadn't seen the bottle. But he didn't let that distract him. Albert brought his face close to Jack's, he widened his eyes as he spoke. "Well aren't you the fucking smartass," Albert said angrily but not yelling, "You're just trash aren't you?" Jack looked away as some spit flew out from his dad's ranting mouth. This was a tactic his father always used on him, even when he was a child. The way Albert looked at him and spoke. It was a stern serious look, but the eyes are what scared the hell out of him. His blood shot eyes just looked at him menacingly. It was the same thing like watching a candle burn below a window curtain. Just waiting for that one inevitable spark, which will burn down the house. Jack use to remain quiet and was too timid to breathe. Fearful, of what might happen. Now older, it was actually kind of funny. Ignoring the racist comment, he took a quick relaxing breathe to recollect his thoughts. He was madder about being called trash. "You know what? Your right, you're always right, you can't be wrong," Jack said sarcastically in a calm tone. Albert was caught off guard as he found his scare tactic to be ineffective. "You don't talk to me like that, I'm your father," Albert yelled. Even though this was true, Jack absolutely hated being related to his father. For the longest time he assumed he was adopted or his mom had him out of wed lock. That was until high school, where he learned about hereditary traits. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, Jack had the same blue eyes and relatively big nose Albert had. Jack smirked at the comment and then it dropped to a straight face. "Barely," emphasizing his opinion by sarcasm, "whip-ed-d-do you feed me and gave me a house to live at. That's about where your parental responsibility ends. Not like I want to be here!" He wanted those words to hurt and they did. "Then leave you ungrateful bastard," he ordered. Jack did just that. Not because he was told, but because he wanted to murder his father. It just wasn't the right time, at least not yet. In Jack's mind, to kill out of anger is to kill for relief. That is not what he wants. Sure, he'd like to be free from his dad's insults and poor parenting. What he seeks isn't relief but pleasure. A calm demeanor, but with just enough adrenaline surging, it could create a state of euphoria, allowing him to enjoy every swing of The Persuader. Unfortunately, today is not that day. So Jack storms off, grabbing the keys to his mothers old Tahoe, patiently waiting for the right time. Not even a passing glance was shared between them as Jack proceeded out the door and into the vehicle. As Jack spead out the driveway he could feel his father's fiery eyes glaring at him from a nearby window. He didn't even need to look back towards the house to know it. Those eyes, those damn blue eyes, never let up. They were like the sun's rays after being sunburned. He could cover himself with a towel but the rays would still be there, waiting. Jack was patient, driving down the long stretch of highway. His mind was busy; he didn't need another criminal charge right now. It wasn't long before he reached his destination, his grandfather's old house. The now unoccupied house used to be rented out. That was until some jackass thought he could hook up a gas stove, covered the whole house in a light grey soot. Jack and Albert took what seemed like an eternity to clean it up. Now the house sits, like a haunted mansion. The grass was calf high and the white paint was chipping off. The gloomy look of the place scared away any curious children or thieves. A part from the summer heat which made the house an oven, he enjoyed the house. The 1950s styled furniture and decor put him at ease. It was like he was living in a simpler time. The SUV slowed as he pulled into the almost hidden driveway. The tires flattened the wild, untamed grass as the vehicle went behind the grass. Jack opened the car door and turned, hanging his legs out. A deep sigh exhaled from his lungs a hand through his sweaty, short hair. Exhausted and still frustrated, Jack head for the door; shuffling through the keys on his key ring to find the right one to unlock the door. He opened the screen door and then the main door, feeling a little more at ease as he entered. Most would say it was dirty and more specifically, creepy as hell. The once white walls were covered with bits of faded grey showing where the soot had been scrubbed. Everything was covered with years of dust and cobwebs; a sight that would give some people depression. The house was a faded memory of what it once was. Jack didn't see that. Jack saw the house it was ten years ago. Slowly walking into the next room, he remembered how big it use to look when he was a child. Once he came to kitchen he went to towards the refrigerator. The giant wall of white had been left running just in case. Jack opened it up and was pleasantly surprised to find some beer. Leftover from one of Albert's break away from reality binges, no doubt. That was the only thing Jack liked about his father, a good taste in beer. Now, Jack could start to relax. Jack did make a mistake with the DUI, but he isn't worthy of being labeled an alcoholic. But he was close, as he began to consume more and more with each session. The loud snap of the beer can filled the quiet house. The sweet smell of the alcoholed water soothed the pain. Jack liked almost all types of beer. But he enjoyed the water downed kind the most. He believed he enjoyed the fact it wasn't that strong so he could have large quantities. Ever since he was a child, he called the beer piss water for its golden color. The liquid chilled his throat and numbed him. Chapter Two KKRRRRrrr! Aloud crackle of thunder filled the air. Once again, a rare smiled appeared on his face. Thunderstorms were one of the few things that made Jack happy. The idea of something that didn't belong, but still ruled the sky when it emerged, reminded him of himself. He liked them so much he had one tattooed on his chest three weeks ago. The very same tattoo was what indirectly help fueled the argument between him and his father. Rain soon followed after two more strikes lit up the night's sky. Just in case he unplugged most the appliances that were connected to the outlets in the house. To be safe he went down into the basement to do the same. Along the basement steps was a shelf with a few tools. He grabbed a small plastic flashlight and turned it in. The beam emitted from the small plastic flashlight was dim, but it would have to suffice. There weren't any lights down there. The lack of lighting didn't bother him; he just didn't want to walk into a wall or trip over something. What did bother him was the typical old basement smell. An old mildewed smell that pretty much yells, "I haven't been cleaned this decade." Oh well stuff had to be done. Jack proceeded down the old wooden steps. A steady crack formed with each step under Jack's weight with each step. As the room came into view a quick glance with the flashlight showed only empty electrical outlets. The only things in the basement were cobwebs, dust, and rust. Oh and a door. An old locked wooden door. Jack had always wandered about that door. Supposedly, behind the door was just a sub-pump. Adevice built around a small pool of water. The idea is that when there is flooding or something unsanitary, it would suck it into the cesspool through the small pool. At least, that is what he had always been told. The strange thing was his grandfather, Richard, had only set-up the sub-pump and door eight years ago. He had owned the house for thirty years. The door was also strange because the lock was built into it. No real space for a key, just 3 small holes that formed a triangle. But the strangest thing of all was Richard Wilson had disappeared two years after its creation. The day he went missing the door was open. Albert went inside when he searched the old house for his father. There was nothing other than the sub-pump standing above the water. Albert slammed the door in a hurry as he left, accidentally re-locking it. Thinking of his grandfather, Jack approached the wooden door. He rubbed his hand over the mysterious lock. The cast iron metal was still cool, despite the mid summer heat that filled the basement. Curiously, Jack shook the door handle mildly. Didn't budge an inch. "Didn't think so," he thought to himself. Jack turned around, unfazed and bored; he proceeded back up the stairs. In the corner of his eyes he saw a white shimmer break through the darkness. His flashlight was aimed for the basement door. It must have been the lightning. As he climbed the remaining steps, he didn't realize there was no thunder that followed it. Oh well. For another three hours Jack would enjoy the thunderstorm and four more beers. Quietly he sat in the den, reminiscing past memories at the old house. Shortly after, Jack fell asleep on the couch. About an hour and a half later he started to twist and turn, as well as moan a little. For several months, Jack's mind has been randomly plagued by a recurring nightmare. When it starts he is walking next to a chicken house, nothing special. The ground below him was dry and packed hard. A faded grey rug of dirt that stretched as far as the eye could see, if you will. As he walks calmly and carefree, two twin trails of dirt rise and start to follow him. It was almost like he was being trailed by two giant moles. As Jack starts to feel the ground tremble he turns around. The ground starts to shake violently. Almost instantly, one of the giant creatures emerged from the ground. It stared at Jack with its hungry red eyes. Its thin black pupils aimed at him, oblivious to the rest of the world. Jack stared back as well, both afraid and amazed; he couldn't look away from the monstrosity. The creature was covered in light grey scales, like the dirt it came from. It had short stubby legs with big claws, probably more for swimming through the ground then tearing skin. But it was the beast's face that truly scared him. Those piercing red eyes were awful, but the teeth made Jack shake in fear. Long razor like, serrated teeth covered both jaws. All Jack could think of was those daggers crunching his bones and tearing his flesh. Basically, he was dead. Only a short amount of time before the life or death chase began. A chase he was destined to lose. Jack started to turn his right foot, in a millisecond he'd be running for dear life. As he pivoted his foot and turned around, he saw something he didn't expect. Normally in the nightmare, he would see another alligator-like creature that would attack and mercilessly kill him. This was not the same creature. This creature was a man, not much taller than Jack. The man was covered in the dry dirt; his originally white shirt had turned a faded grey. He was an older man, some grey hair appeared on his head and his skin was wrinkled. (Continues...) Excerpted from SICKLEby ROB WILGUS Copyright © 2012 by Rob Wilgus. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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