Chapter Stories

                                                                                                                   Chapter 1
                                                                                                                   The Terror


Andrea moved to her favorite chair, setting her coffee nearby and pulling a warm blanket around her. She had just received the newest book by her favorite author, Donald Kingsley, and she was excited to start reading it. She took a sip of the bitter coffee and wished that she had put some sugar in, but now it was too late. She maintained a specific ritual whenever she read his newest books, and (though she knew that it wasn't true) in her mind this helped his book sales.
First, she would buy the book and a box of her favorite cookies. When she got home, copy in hand, she would put on a pot of coffee and her thermal nightgown. Living in Wrightwood, a small town in the San Bernardino mountains of California made it necessary to dress warmly most of the time. When she was dressed, she would wash her hands and put the cookies on a tray that had a miniature santa painted on the front. She would put a box of tissues on the table next to the chair along with the coffee cup and sit down. She never got up, for any reason, until she had finished the first chapter. She could still remember the time when a tree had fallen on her car in a large storm, but still she had finished the first chapter of ‘The Killer in the Moonlight' before getting up to turn off the alarm.
Oh well, she would just have to deal with bitter coffee for now. She picked up the book, looking at the cover as she always did before she began to read. The cover showed a dark, snow-covered road. A man ran down the middle of it, arms flung out, and a look of terror in his eyes. Behind him, headlights shining, was a shadowy car coming toward him. The snowy tracks seem to swerve away behind the tires, showing the obvious chase. The title, Cold Terror was written across the top in red and somewhat runny text, as though the ink were blood.
She opened the book, running a hand respectfully over the dust cover, faithfully reading the praise that took up most of the flap until she finally reached the description.

Jack o'Connell is a normal man, with normal dreams who never expected to find himself being stalked by a shadowy figure that is anything but normal.
Jack o'Connell is a man running for his life from a killer that no one can see. He tries to tell the police, his friends, his family, but they don't believe him.
Jack o'Connell finds himself running to the snowy hills, running from the cold and turbid terror that follows.
Will he survive? Read on and discover for yourself.

After rereading this once as she did every time, she opened the novel. She dutifully read every page, including the copyright and publishing information.
When she had read her first Donald Kingsley novel, ten years before, this was what she had done. She had repeated her ritual ever since and had never disliked any novel that he had written. She never would have admitted the strange superstitions that she lived by to friends or family, (they probably would have had her committed) but she followed them just the same. She knocked on wood, she never walked under a ladder and when she played poker, she would silently say ‘This one will be a good hand' as she picked up her cards. They were silly little superstitions and habits, but after nearly twenty-seven years they were hers, like them or not.
She reached the prologue and read the history of a good-natured man in his early thirties, with a small brown dog and a blooming career in real estate. She instantly liked the man, who gave to charities and helped little old ladies cross the street. He was a little too sugary to be real, but it was still a nice concept. She bit into a cookie, carefully wiping her hand on a tissue before turning to chapter one, The Terror.


John O'Leary had just moved into a beautiful two bedroom house in a small town near Big Bear. He had found this home while working and snatched it up as quickly as he could. He was a loner most of the time, so the remote location didn't bother him, and he loved the view. He looked out of the large kitchen window where his mother had placed several potted plants and a box of those sticks that would feed them for you for a month. He was glad that she had given him the sticks or the plants would be brown and shriveled by now. He looked past the bay window, and out toward the valley below. It was a wonderful sight. Lights twinkled from the houses and cars below like Christmas lights in late December. He loved the view from the bay window. It was definitely his favorite.
He called to Buster, his terrier mix as he filled the food bowl with his evening meal. Buster skidded around the corner at light speed and the food was gone in about three bites. He patted Buster on the head and moved to the lounge chair that stood in front of his television set. He sat down and changed the channel to a sport station. This struck him as odd, he had never liked sports, but he had no desire to change the channel, so he watched the recap of the football game. He felt an overwhelming happiness when the television sports anchor informed him that the Raiders had won.
"Oh Yea! Did you hear that Buster? The Raiders won!"
In truth, John didn't even know who the Raiders were, only that they were a football team. Did they play for his state? Or was it by city? Oh well, they had won and that was all that mattered. He got up and went to the fridge, pulling out the fixings for a turkey sandwich and began to scoop out mounds of mayonnaise onto the bread. This was weird, he didn't really like mayonnaise, and he had a sudden craving for a beer too. His uncle had been a big beer drinking football fan, but this had never rubbed of on John's father, Mike, nor John himself. John had never even drunk a beer before in his life, but he wanted one all the same. He vaguely recalled reading about how women during pregnancy can crave things that they had never considered eating, even dirt. He wondered as he took a large bite of the sandwich if there was anything that would cause this to happen in a man. He moved back to the chair, but stopped before he reached it. A loud crash came from outside the door and Buster was barking his ‘big dog' bark, the one that told John danger (at least in Buster's eyes) was near. It was probably a racoon getting into the trash again.
"Silent!"
Busters quieted at the command and moved to John's left side, where he would remain until John gave the command that would allow him to relax. He moved to the large coat closet near the front door and opened it, grabbing the Glock off the shelf and cocking it. He left the safety on, he was well trained and could remove it and fire simultaneously if he needed to. Just in case, he thought. Opening the front door, they moved along the small porch to the front of the house. Both were silent and watchful as they searched for the source of the loud crash. John's eyes went immediately to the large metal cans that held his garbage. They lay toppled, the lids that were meant to keep critters out were laying next to the overturned cans. Rolling his eyes, he turned to Buster.
"Release!" Buster remained by his side, whining slightly.
"It's ok, just those stupid racoons again."
He turned to go into the house, Buster pacing him, and returned the gun to its hiding spot. He was going to write a letter to the company that made those trash cans. The darn racoons were the reasons that he had bought them and if they couldn't keep the raccoons out, what good were they?
He walked back to where the cans stood, Buster at his side alternately whining and growling.
"Buster, release!" He repeated as he bent to pick up the bags and stuff them back into the cans. This was when he noticed the lids. Long jagged puncture marks covered the trash can lids. He understood now why Buster was acting this way. A bear was on his property. He moved back from the cans. Bears were very territorial about food, and he didn't want to piss this one off over a little garbage. He glanced around, hoping that it wouldn't be close. The shadows seemed to close in around him and Buster's whining became more insistent. John swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in his throat. Why was he so nervous? He had seen bears many times in his life. They didn't scare him, nor did they scare Buster, who was usually quite friendly to all beasts. So why were they reacting like a couple of puppies not yet weaned? He caught a glint of something to his right. When he turned his head, his heart stopped for a moment. A huge, dark figure appearing to be twelve feet tall lurked in the shadows, seemed to be made of the shadows. Two glowing eyes seemed focused on him, but not eyes exactly. They seemed more like dark holes, sucking all light into their void. He was frozen to the spot for a moment, even Buster had ceased his loud whining and stood silently at his side.
For what seemed like an eternity within a moment he stared transfixed, unable even to breathe. He heard a long sniffing noise that came from the direction of the shadow. Suddenly he was a six-year-old boy again, afraid of the boogeyman who had, without a doubt, come to eat him. He turned and ran into the house so fast that the door closed behind him before he even had a chance to realize that he had moved. Sweat covered his forehead and his palms, and his heart beat so fast that he was sure that it would break out of his chest, and fall to the floor, still beating.
He shook his head to clear it, suddenly feeling foolish. Had he truly been running from the boogeyman, from shadows and his own imagination? He hadn't done that in a very long time and he was a little ashamed of himself for his weakness. He locked the door and went into the bathroom to take a shower. He needed to clean the lingering sweat and fear from his skin. He noticed as he shut the bathroom door that Buster still sat by the front door as if keeping vigil against the shadows outside.

Andrea closed the book and shook her head. This would be an interesting novel to say the least. She stood and stretched. She wanted to keep reading but that was not a part of the ritual. She always stopped the new book after the first chapter. She would let it sink in until the next evening when she would continue the story. She cleaned up the small mess with care and went to bed.


Chapter 2