October Dark

October Dark

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 Ron Terranova

v2.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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I’m lost. How did I get here? Where am I? I have no map or compass. But, just then, I see it. It’s clouded by mist, but still I see it.

I’m back in October. October, a place and time of wonderful things - and horrible things. I’ve come home. My true home, October. Darker than before, but still, the only time, the only place, where I’ve ever truly belonged.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

BETTER THAN DEATH

THE GLEANER

2:00 PM

BASKET HEAD

THE UNRAVELING

SQUEEZE

THE LAST VICTIM

COMING DOWN HARD

STATIC CLING

EARLY BIRD

SWEET TOMMY

AS SHADOWS LOOM

THAT MAGIC TOUCH

SHOT GUN SATURDAY

CALLS IN THE NIGHT

CLOSE TO PERFECT

BLOODLINES

WHO’S A GOOD BOY?

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to acknowledge Vivi Goenawan, Noreen Lace and Dan Felton for their encouragement and endless patience in the creation of this book.

BETTER THAN DEATH

No one knew what it was, where it came from or what to call it.

There were only brief glimpses. It was large, perhaps ten feet tall, and broad. At least that much the people of the farming community of Oakdale could agree upon. It moved with such speed that further descriptions were varied. It could have been a large animal, and yet it had a human quality. Some thought it was indeed a man; a demonic man who was sent to them because of a curse made by an unknown enemy. But why would they be cursed? They were a god fearing little village, populated by hard working and righteous farmers, folks who lived and respected their land and their lord.

It started in the summer. That blur of a dark hideous shape, darting out from the nearby woods, followed by the piercing screams of their animals. Cows, hogs and sheep were, before daylight, dragged or carried to the edge of the woods. Within yards of the village outskirts the woods became a forest, thick and dark, even in daylight. Even before the arrival of the dread thing, the people tread with caution and trepidation when venturing into that forest where wild things lurked and children became lost.

The children. That’s when they knew they needed help. When the nights started filling with the screams of children, some snatched from their own beds. The horror. The innocent children, found severed vertically down the middle, halved and gutted by the loathsome thing.

The men formed patrols. Farmers all, brave strong men who had brought down moose and elk with their deer rifles - from a distance. But nothing close that could turn and kill them. That’s why we were enlisted. Word went out with life or death urgency.

There were three of us. We all refused the paltry money we were offered. These poor people needed it more than we did. Our motives came from elsewhere.

My name is Jack Oswald. I am the veteran of many wars, only one of which involved my own country. Most people would never understand. The addiction. The addiction to war. The cruel irony that I have never felt so alive as when surrounded by death and destruction. War. The smell and sound of it. I learned early that with survival in war luck can only get you so far. All the men I’ve known and observed who believed Lady Luck was their mistress experienced a horrific revelation when they awoke in a hospital with their limbs blown off. I’ve never felt so lucky in my life. Lady Luck is a bitch and so are the Fates. I survived because I’m smart, understand the odds and have the soul of a killer. Early on I learned that being one step ahead of the enemy was one step on an I.E.D. You must look beyond the next step and several steps after.

After years of mercenary service most of us develop specialties. Mine was close quarters combat. I had an uncanny knack of drawing the enemy into foolish and dangerous spaces - spaces where I would be lying in wait and they would be caught off guard. It only took a second of being off guard to be dead. Close spaces - very close. Small arms, side arms, my preferred piece being a 357 magnum; and my indispensable sawed off shotguns - I always had two with me. Not an officially issued weapon, but mercenaries aren’t exactly fixated on rules and regulations.

I arrived in Oakdale first, followed up the next day by Gilbert Thorson and Thomas Stoneraven.

Gilbert Thorson and Thomas Stoneraven were old friends and associates. Uncannily, all three of us were of similar look and stature: over six feet tall; sinewy; large, strong, weather worn hands and dark hair. In a photograph we would be presumed brothers.

Thorson had become a kind of cult figure among big game hunters, and Thomas Stoneraven was part of a dying breed - a professional tracker. He was one quarter Apache, and three quarters Scotch/Irish. His garb bore hints of his lineage. He could pass as a British gentleman hunter, but his hat was feathered, he wore moccasins, and a 45 colt revolver was strapped to his waist. Along with the revolver, on the opposite side of his waist was sheathed a Bowie knife that looked like a broadsword. Both gun and knife had turquoise handles. He had been a brilliant young man, and was awarded study at Oxford, where he earned degrees in history and literature. He was now in his early forties, as was Thorson. I was a few years younger. After we were settled in the village reverend’s home, we made our introductions.

Gentlemen, my name is Jack Oswald. I’m here for the same purpose as you. The good people of Oakdale have a serious problem – an incredibly nightmarish problem. And we are tasked with eliminating that problem.

My name is Gilbert Thorson, Jack, but my friends, of whom I have few, call me Gil. Thorson stood ramrod straight and exhibited a certain aristocratic bearing. He was wearing jodhpurs, a hunting jacket and smoked a pipe.

Gil and I are very old friends; we met as mere pups when we studied at Oxford. My name is Thomas Stoneraven, and please call me Tom. And this four-legged gentleman standing at my side is my partner-in-crime, Sherlock.

He was referring to his tracking dog, who had been watching me with a wary eye. Be good now, Sherlock. Jack is our friend and compatriot in our mission at hand.

The dog immediately warmed up to me, wagging his tail and sniffing me just to make sure I was indeed a friend.

Sherlock is a very special canine Jack, continued Thomas. Special by both breeding and training. He is indispensable to me. He is a German Shepherd Belgian Malinois mix. He is a tracker, with superior ability to a bloodhound, and he is also a cadaver dog without peer. Both of these skills are imperative to our mission.

Jack, I am aware of your unique skills, primarily through the grapevine, which I find more reliable than documented sources, stated Gill. "You may know a bit about me, but allow me to fill the gaps.

I was a hunter. I don’t consider myself to be one anymore, unless called upon by extraordinary circumstances, as we are dealing with here.

By the time I was eighteen, I had taken down what is commonly known as the big five: lion; leopard; elephant; rhino and the Cape buffalo. These animals are generally considered the deadliest when charging the hunter. I am, without apology, the progeny of great wealth, and by my twenties I had my own hunting lodge, with walls adorned with the racks and heads of these most dangerous creatures. There is a long line of hunters within my lineage. But alas, I became bored by the redundancy of the hunt. It had reached a point where taking down my prey had become as interesting and lacking in challenge as shooting bottles in a gallery at the county fair. Then that fateful day.

I was with a party of hunters in Kenya. We had been tracking a pride of lions, moving closer, when the Alpha male spotted us. He was magnificent in both size and appearance. His mane was thick and exploded from his head like fiery tendrils. He instinctively knew I was his counterpart; the leader of our group. With a massive roar he made his charge.

I took aim, had him clearly in my sights, and pulled the trigger. My rifle jammed, and I saw his eyes, growing huge and hateful as he was nearly upon me. I motioned to a fellow hunter to throw me his rifle. I again took aim. I could smell and feel the lion’s breath, then fired. The lion fell inches from my feet.

It was exhilarating, Jack. And transformative. To be so close to Death, and to one up him. I was seduced by this exhilaration, this sense of power bordering on what others might see as delusion. A gauntlet was thrown in Death’s direction. With each subsequent hunt, I would allow the charging animal to come incrementally closer before I would pull the trigger. My last kill was a leopard who literally fell on top of me after the kill shot. My ribs were broken and it took three men to extricate his body from mine. But I had deprived him - Death - once again and came out on top.

I don’t believe Death is the mere cessation of life, Jack. Death is a palpable entity - a creature or perhaps a man of sorts. Fate and destiny have brought me here to face off with Death in the form of that fiend of whom we are in pursuit."

Gil paused and smiled the smile of the obsessed - of the true believer. I believe, Jack, that I will be the first man to beat Death at his own game. I have the absolute conviction that I am better than Death.

I looked into his eyes, the gleaming eyes of a madman. Perfect for a mission that was madness in its nature. But I couldn’t help but to remember the words of a crusty old mercenary who had taken me under his wing as I entered my first battle. Listen kid. Don’t ever cock tease the Grim Reaper - he’ll want you to go all the way on your very first date.

The reverend Whitlock had provided accommodations in his home, and early the next morning we met with eight farmers who had been patrolling the village and its surrounding environs. It was time to map out our plan. Tom began the discussion.

Gentlemen, before we forge our plan of pursuit, there is an unpleasantness upon which I must insist. My canine partner Sherlock, in addition to being a superb tracker, is also an exceptional cadaver dog. It is critical that before we embark, one of the slain children must be exhumed. Sherlock must be exposed to the monster’s scent.

There were gasps from the farmers. One of them, named Eli, exclaimed, No - not that. It is blasphemy. The dead must be allowed their peace. Especially the children, who slumber in innocence.

"We want to prevent additional