Scribbler Tales
Volume Three
Hidden Lies
A camouflaged figure moved stealthy across the gated compound, heading towards the administrative building while avoiding strategically placed security cameras. The moonless sky aided the anonymity, making detection difficult unless one was wearing night vision eyewear.
Hugging the wall while approaching the loading dock, the intruder reached the security panel, punched in the code and entered the shipping area undetected. Taking the stairs, the person reached the first floor and within minutes, was inside Quentin Swanson’s office.
Sitting before the computer, the intruder typed in the password and copied the files onto a flash drive. Logging off, the trespasser heard footsteps in the hallway as the security guard made his rounds. The officer checked the locked doorknob and walked away, repeating the exercise for all the offices along the corridor.
Once again there was stillness, and that was when the camouflaged figure returned safely to the nearby woods and the waiting car.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
Turning on the ignition, but leaving the lights off, the vehicle drove silently along the dirt road until it reached the highway and sped away.
Nightmare
1994
Melanie’s screams awakened the entire household, the piercing sounds echoing in the stillness. Her mother ran into the room, held her daughter in her arms while whispering words of comfort as Melanie’s father flipped on the light switch.
“He was standing there,” Melanie said, pointing to the foot of the bed. “He called my name. They’re waiting for me! We have to leave this place.”
“Nonsense,” Gavin Bennett replied perhaps too sternly as he sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring his wife’s warning look. “There is no one here. You were imagining things like you always do.”
“Mother, you do believe me, don’t you? I am not lying! He was here, honest!”
“Hush, my child,” Lydia Bennett murmured. “It was just a bad dream. Hush.”
Gavin frowned at his daughter, losing patience with her frequent outbursts that seemed to be increasing since their return from the Scottish Highlands. He had warned Lydia not to take the child to the reenactments, especially the Druid pagan rituals. The amateur actors immerse themselves into their role playing, breathing life into characters from another time; pure fantasy to take or leave as one saw fit unless one was an impressionable ten-year-old child who was easily frightened.
Shaking his head, Gavin stood up, looked beneath the bed, peered into the closet, opened and shut the drapes and checked the bathroom while his daughter watched.
“No one is hiding anywhere. You were dreaming. We can leave the light on for tonight.”
“I want to sleep in your bed. Don’t leave me,” Melanie said.
“I will stay with you until you fall asleep,” Lydia told her daughter, “and we will leave the lights on.”
Once Melanie had dozed off, Lydia returned to the master bedroom, closing the door softly so as not to awaken her husband. But Gavin was wide awake, sipping a drink as he sat near the fireplace, glancing at the dancing flames.
“If this keeps up, we’ll have to return to London,” Lydia said as she poured herself a double scotch. “It’s a shame, really. The countryside is so beautiful, the air breathable, and lower crime rates...”
“You assume there are lower crime rates,” Gavin interrupted. “The estate has seen better days, and the house needs work. We should see if the Trust would be interested in its restoration and opening it to the public.”
“Surely, you jest! Queen Victoria endowed these lands to my...”
“Which is why they should be preserved,” Gavin interjected as he poured himself another drink. “If truth be told, there is a haunting atmosphere, especially during stormy nights. Melanie should live in London instead of wasting away in this mausoleum!”
“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?”
“And upset my pregnant wife? You were so passionate about having our child grow up where you did; I could not, and still cannot, deny you anything, my love. I did not mind the traveling. Your happiness is all that matters,” Gavin said, embracing his wife.
“I think Melanie needs a change,” Lydia told her husband. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”
Within a fortnight, Melanie found herself checking her bedroom one final time, making sure the movers had packed everything and nothing was left behind. While shutting the door, Melanie paled upon hearing footsteps walking towards her, his voice a mere whisper when he said, “I will be awaiting your return.”
Running down the stairs, Melanie dashed out the door, falling to the ground when she bumped into her mother.
“Melanie, are you alright?” Lydia asked as she helped her daughter to her feet. “Whatever is the matter?”
“I never want to come back here, don’t make me, please,” Melanie said as she tightened her hold around her mother’s legs.
“What is wrong now?” Gavin asked his wife as he ushered his family into the waiting car.
“Nothing is wrong,” Lydia replied while buckling Melanie’s seat belt.
A fleeting cold breeze shrouded Melanie just as her mother shut the car door. The terror the child’s eyes depicted was readily seen by the person looking out of the second-story window just before closing the drapes and walking away.
Payback
Daniel Portman, photographer for BETV news, aimed the camera at reporter Clare Kilton, making sure images of arriving squad cars remained in the frame while covering a breaking story, an exclusive report since they were the first to arrive on the scene.
“This is Clare Kilton, reporting live at Brookside Towers, where the body of Mitchell Bergen, a prominent attorney in the DA’s office, was found in the residents’ swimming pool. It is unclear whether the death was accidental or the result of foul play. Bergen was best known for his successful prosecution of gang boss, John “Spyder” Melon, earlier this year. We will bring you updates as they become available. For BETV news, Clare Kilton with photographer Daniel Portman at Brookside Towers.”
“Newport just arrived,” Daniel told Clare as he shut off the camera. “I’ll wait by the van.”
“It’s going to be a long night, how about getting us some coffee?” Clare said, walking quickly to intercept the Detective. “Jake ... Detective Newport. What can you tell me?”
“I just got here. Don’t worry, you’ll get your story when the Commissioner arrives,” Jake said, leaving her behind the yellow tape as he entered the crime scene.
Never one to be deterred, Clare walked the length of the taped-off area, stopping when she saw the victim being lifted onto the gurney.
“Daniel, get your camera, they’re moving the body,” Clare said, running towards the vehicle.
Clare Kilton’s live reports would interrupt scheduled programming while she remained on the scene.
The Night Stalker
Pamela stood before the closed window, staring into the darkened night while a gentle rain hit the glass. Headlights from passing cars cast eerie shadows along the deserted street, creating indefinable shapes, frightful figures shifting with the wind.
Where are you? I know you are out there. Why are you doing this?
Pamela pulled the drapes together after making sure the latch was secure. It was part of the ritual, checking the lock before covering the windows in the turn-of-the century two-story house. A locksmith recently installed dead bolts on both the front and back doors even though the house had been wired with an alarm system that included outside surveillance cameras and motion lights.
Once the house was deemed safe, Pamela went into the basement and confirmed the standby generator was set on automatic. She glanced about the empty spacious room before walking up the stairs. There was no place to hide and no entry point to the cellar other than the one door.
Satisfied, Pamela entered the living room, turned on the TV, cruising channels with the remote, hoping to find a cheerful program when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
Silence.
“Who is this?”
More silence.
“Stop doing this!” she screamed as she ended the call.
Shaking and near tears, Pamela went to her desk and documented the latest threat to her sanity. That was when she heard the knocking. Someone was outside. Reaching for the baseball bat she kept in the corner, Pamela approached the door cautiously.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Hurry up, it’s coming down in buckets.”
“Thank God,” Pamela replied, opening the door.
Scott stepped inside, but was unsettled by Pamela’s appearance.
“What’s wrong?”
“Another call, just now. I can’t take this anymore. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“I believe you,” Scott whispered. “Sleep at my place tonight.”
“I can’t, but would you stay for awhile? If he is watching, he’ll know you are here, and he’ll leave me alone.”
“For an hour, then.”
“For an hour.”
Turning Point
The fire raged out of control, necessitating additional firefighters from the surrounding counties. Brandi sat in front of the TV, watching the chaos while searching for her husband amongst the men. Wayne had always wanted to be a fireman because of his father and grandfather. There were no other careers to consider, family tradition playing a pivotal role when Wayne chose his profession and entered the Firefighter Academy, graduating in the top percentile. He had been assigned to Firehouse 18 after completing his training, working under his father’s command until Frank Barrett retired last year.
Even though Brandi never expressed her concerns about the dangerous occupation, she vowed that none of their children would follow in their father’s footsteps. Wayne had been brainwashed, in her opinion, and she was concerned about his younger brother, Jesse, who seemed destined to pick up the baton whether he wanted to or not.
Resisting the urge to change the channel, Brandi listened to the news commentator with her eyes closed, knowing her husband would be in the thick of it all. The knot in her stomach worsened with every mention of heroic deeds as desperate attempts were made to rescue people trapped within the burning building.
Just as the last person was carried out the front door, the top floor exploded, raining shards of stone and glass upon the street. Brandi ran to the TV, searching for her husband amongst the crowd through tearful eyes.
Once the reporter stated that everyone had been rescued, and the fire appeared to be under control, Brandi went to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a double scotch even though it was early morning.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Brandi thought, sipping the smooth blend. No wonder Evelyn’s hair is gray!
It did cross Brandi’s mind to ask her mother-in-law how she managed to cope throughout the years, but she hesitated asking Evelyn for advice. Brandi had difficulty accepting the risks, coming from a family of white-collar professionals. Her father was a professor, and her mother was an accountant, and she was a pharmacist. If Brandi had been raised in an environment where one’s life was threatened every day, her reaction probably wouldn’t be so extreme, or so she believed.
Taking a deep breath, Brandi dressed for work and was out the door as Engine 45 wrapped things up at the scene.
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