Patten / Abbott Hell At the Way Station

1. Auflage 2019
ISBN: 978-0-9996588-5-7
Verlag: Laughing Black Vampire Productions LLC
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

Today's Drink Special: A Pint Of Beer With A Demonic Chaser

Autoren/Hrsg.

Patten, Steven Van

Abbott, Marc

Leseproben

Foreword by Linda D. Addison

I met Marc L. Abbot and Steven Van Patten the first time at separate Horror Writer’s Association events. My first impressions of each made me want to hang out with them. Marc’s intelligence and wit was edgy and brilliant, while Steven’s watchful, yet relaxed humor also made me laugh. They both were people who notice everything around them. Nothing was getting by these two.

So when they told me they were doing a book of horror tales together I was beyond intrigued. What would come out of this collaboration? You’re getting ready to find out. The only expectation I had was knowing this was a collection of stories by both. There are no rules for collaborations, so I started reading with an open mind.

The first story takes us to a bar, The Way Station, with Marc and Steven, where they had been invited by a friend’s concern that one of the workers was into some demonic stuff. The bar is mostly empty and their conversation was familiar enough that I could hear their voices. The cutting humor and friendly kidding back and forth made me smile; here’s the Marc and Steven I knew.

The book’s distinct structure is reminiscent of Arabian Nights, flavored with urbanized horror and their personalities. Stories weaving within stories drew me right into their book. As I read I had to go back and look at which author wrote a particular story because their individual styles blended together so well it felt much like one author, keeping me engaged in the journey.

I loved the references to movies like Friday the 13th and their entertaining use of historic horror and popular tropes (ex. Steven Seagal, HBO, Abercrombie and Fitch, DMX, Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle cereal, Lester Holt, etc.).

The last story, written by both as were all the Bar stories, was exciting, dangerous and sprinkled with humor.

When I finished reading this book the song Highway to Hell started blasting in my head, maybe Marc and Steven will put up a play list of their own at some point. Steven does have DJ on his list of abilities and I have no doubt that Marc’s knowledge of music also runs deep, so I would expect the play list to be fascinating and distinctive as they are.

I hope you will enjoy this ride as much as I did. Smile and find chills as their individual tales unfold and the larger tale at The Way Station bar. Perhaps one day I’ll meet them there and we can share a drink! Make mine a gin & tonic!

—Linda D. Addison, award-winning author of “How to Recognize a Demon Has Become Your Friend” and HWA Lifetime Achievement Award winner.

The throaty growl of the Yamaha V-Star’s 1100cc engine lingered several seconds after the ignition was cut. Steven Van Patten dismounted the motorcycle and glanced at the sign swaying in the autumn breeze above the door of The Way Station. Though the bar had only opened five years earlier, the weathered maroon board gave the impression it had been around for decades. To the right, a single glass door leading to the event space -- used by everyone from local musicians to burlesque dancers – looked as if someone was trying to break out. Steven moved closer.

Web-like circular cracks marred the lower half of the glass. They had not breached the outside, so he figured someone inside had kicked it. He placed a finger at the center of the break, then traced the largest crack as it snaked up to the center of the door before making a path to the door handle. Below the handle, the keyhole had melted shut, again, from the inside. A wad of metal protruded from the hole. Only something hot as hell could have caused that; there was definitely sinister work within.

“Whenever I hear the sound of that bike,” came a voice from over his shoulder, “I know all kinds of hell are about to break loose.”

Steven turned slowly. “Says the man who claims to have walked with the devil himself.” He smiled at the newcomer.

“I have.” Marc Abbott adjusted the bookbag on his back. “Trust me, it was no big thrill.”

“My man!”

The men embraced briefly, then stepped back to size one another up.

“You really came here on that old thing?” Marc joked. “The Ghost Rider has upgraded more times than you.”

“Hey, that bad girl has gotten me out of a lot of jams. She’s old but reliable. If we need to get out of here in a pinch, I’d count on her more that ‘87 Chevy Celebrity you’re driving. What you got on that thing? Two hundred and thirty thousand miles?”

“Okay, keep cracking wise on the old battleship. That car is made out of steel and can take a beating. Saved my ass more times than I can count.”

“You think she’ll save us from this?” Steven pointed at the door. “All jokes aside, what does that look like to you?”

Marc studied the crack and lock. “Shit, this isn’t good. It’s definitely demonic.” He leaned in and sniffed. “I smell sulfur.”

“Brimstone?”

“I hope not.”

“What exactly did Andy say when he reached out to you?”

“I have it right here.” Marc pulled out his phone and read the text out loud. “I need you and your friend, SVP, to come by tomorrow. I have reason to believe my new bartender might be involved with some dark stuff. I think it’s affecting the establishment. You two are the only ones I know who can discreetly find out what’s going on. I’ll be there by five, so if you can come in at the top of happy hour that would be great. She’ll be working then. Her name is Laura.”

“Okay, that’s a long, vague-ass message. ‘She’s into something dark’ could mean anything. Coffee. Idris Elba.”

“That’s what worries me. Andy is usually a ‘to the point’ kind of guy. The fact that he’s not saying what dark shit she may be into leads me to believe he either overheard something or witnessed it and is too freaked out to say.”

“That’s all he said?”

“For the most part. There were some other messages, even more vague.”

Steven sneered. “Uh-uh. Read me exactly what he said. I’m not getting my ass jumped without knowing the whole story.”

“Jumped by who?”

“Not who, what. If we’re dealing with a physical manifestation of evil, they tend to sneak up on you and do vile things. Tell me exactly what Andy wrote in the follow-up texts.”

“That was the important one. The rest are just ramblings about a book, and some stuff missing from his basement.”

“What book?”

“He didn’t say. He just said…” Marc looked at the phone, “‘…a book with strange drawings, wrapped in wax paper.’”

“Shit, man! That could be a Necronomicon or some other grimoire. I’ve told you before, I don’t mess with resurrections. Some ignorant fool always manages to conjure up a demon that’s not altogether in the head.”

“Who said anything about resurrections or conjures? For all we know, it’s just a Ouija séance gone wrong. Let’s just check it out first. If it’s nothing, or even a mild something, we can handle it and be gone in an hour.”

“Man, I don’t--”

“Happy Hour is on me.”

Steven’s eyes brightened. “In that case, lead the way. Let’s talk to this bartender. But if things go south, it’s on your head.”

Marc scoffed as he turned and entered the bar. Steven peered at the lock again before following Marc inside.

#

The dimly-lit Way Station had that old bar smell, a combination of spilled alcohol and questionable hygiene. Years of whisky had soaked into the wood of the bar, a welcome home greeting for anyone with a fondness of the drink. The taps were set closest to the door, convenient for the beer drinker who knew what he wanted and could scream out his order on the way to a barstool. Liquor sat prominently displayed on three tiered shelves that ran the length of the bar. Beyond them, a set of stairs led to the basement. Oil paintings depicting Steampunk and the Victorian age adorned the walls. The bathroom, a replica of the TARDIS from “Doctor Who,” stood out from everything else. Steven smiled at the sight, but something caught his attention from the comer of his right eye.

He turned toward the event space, a wide-open area with a stage, a flat screen television overhead, and a small but adequate sound booth. Kneeling beside the sound booth, a muscular man with a crew cut was examining the damaged door, pushing against the cracked glass as though testing for a stress point. He sensed Steven’s presence and turned to face him.

“Everything okay, bro?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.

“We’re all good here, man,” Steven assured him. “Someone messed up your door?”

“Yeah.” The man turned back to the door, mumbling.

Steven turned to Marc. “New guy?” he whispered. The Way Station was more...