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    Dreadful Ends
    Dreadful Ends
    Dreadful Ends
    Ebook88 pages1 hour

    Dreadful Ends

    By kingsley kelley

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Just like the spider that traps the fly, evil waits for one misstep.

    Seven grusome stories of ordinary people, who find themselves in terrifying circumstances that lead them all,  to dreadful ends!

    LanguageEnglish
    Publisherkingsley kelley
    Release dateMar 11, 2017
    ISBN9781386236252
    Dreadful Ends

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      Book preview

      Dreadful Ends - kingsley kelley

      Cover Designer

      Matyan90@gmail.com

      Heaven doesn’t want me and Hell’s afraid I’m coming!

      KJ Kelley

      Food Bank"

      ––––––––

      Caution: Road Construction Ahead. That’s what the orange and black sign read.

      Maxwell Little Bow Nation slowed his grimy pick-up to a crawl. Steam bellowed

      from the ancient radiator. A sure sign the old Chevy was breathing it’s last.

      He had to get off the Interstate and find water.

      C’mon you piece of crap! he slammed the steering wheel with a hard fist. Not now!

      Not today! C’mon!" He urged the tired old relic forward. If he was late again, he would go back to the slammer. That’s what his parole officer said. Another three years in that hellhole!

      Amid the clatter of construction equipment and tanned workers in their orange safety vests, he noticed a small exit sign reading: Dark Town:  ¼ mile. He had traveled this road for over a month and had never seen the sign before, much less, ever heard of a briar-patch called Dark Town.

      His face showed hard times, scars over both eyebrows and sun wrinkles cut deeply in his forehead and high cheekbones, making him look older then he was.

      He grew up poor and ran errands for the tribe. They salted gem mines and sold souvenir trinkets to tourist, which supported their booze problem and K-1 kerosene heaters in their trailers and tar-papered shacks.

      Knocking over the ABC liquor store safe seemed like a good idea at the time. Who would have thought it had a silent alarm to the county sheriff’s office!

      Simple burglary netted him three to five in state prison. He got out in eighteen months with three years’ probation for good behavior.

      Finally, he was able to take the Dark Town exit. There were no information or route signs at the end of the ramp. In fact, there was nothing at all. No over-head construction noise. Not even a rustle of a leaf.

      Nothing but dead silence.

      The road ran parallel to him and vanished with the encroachment of thick shrubs and vines, it looked as if it hadn’t been used in the past fifty years.

      Instinctively, he turned right and weaved his way around dead tree limbs and deep pot holes for about two miles.

      A tilted weather-beaten sign reading Wally’s Gas and Produce popped into view, promising signs of life and more importantly, water.

      Two 1930’s Texaco gas pumps with white globes still intact, stood vigil to a rusting corrugated metal building. An old Burpee seed sign hung askew beside a door less front entrance. Veils of spider webbing covered broken windows. Rotting wooden bins were choked by dead weeds.

      He shut off the truck and listened to the angry hiss of the hot radiator.

      Maybe there was a faucet that still worked, somewhere. Old tires and rusty oil cans littered the right side of the building, a worn dirt path swung to the left. He took it and found, hidden by thick bramble, a galvanized faucet.

      It squeaked when he turned it.

      Dry as a bone.

      Perhaps there was an open barrel with rainwater in it, anything open and wet. As he moved closer to the back, he heard the sound of a quick stream. As luck, would have it, he found a rusted and dented bucket and headed for it.

      Thick brush tore at his jeans and Rolling Stones Tee shirt until he eventually broke through to a clearing and animal path. Deer and black bear tracks were fresh. It was late spring and momma bear had a thing about protecting her cubs. Forget playing dead, she would tear you to pieces anyway. It was best to stand your ground and scream your ass off!

      A sudden squawk of a big black crow made him jump. Reminding him of the silence engulfing the dark woods. Its solitary call brought others. The forest erupted with alarmed raucousness, warning all, of his presence.

      Chilly goosebumps caught the back of his neck as he watched a dead oak begin to fill with flapping glossy wings. Dozens of black birds perched on the naked branches and became still. They stared at him.

      A feeling of dread hung in the air as he past them, their eyes bore into the back of his skull.

      C’mon, man, their just birds!  Max told himself as he got closer to the sound of water. A soft thumping of wings sounded in the high canopy. Were they actually following him?

      A thick swarm of chiggers and mosquitoes found his sweaty skin and began to feast. He slapped and swung fitfully until, once again, he met a wall of brush and fallen trees.

      An earthy smell of wet moss filled the air when he finally broke through the clinging and mercifully underbrush and found the stream.

      Brilliant sunlight made the rushing water dance and sparkle. It was about fourteen feet across bordered by an outcrop of mossy granite.

      Small whirlpools spun playfully around the gray rocks and broke over the remnants of waterlogged trees. A cooling breeze followed the stream and mercifully held the swarm of tiny bloodsuckers at bay.

      God’s canvas. That’s what his grandfather use to call scenes like this. He had forgotten the sweet rapture of the mountains and childhood stories of the animal spirits within them.

      He had become hard, ashamed of his heritage and was hell-bent to have everything the whites had. For a moment, he was a laughing brown- skin boy hopping from stone to stone in a stream like this, with his brother, Manford.

      Echoes of yesterday’s laughter filled his head as he watched the sun-drenched stream rush down the mountain.

      Manford died of hypothermia. Hunters found him sitting under a big birch, with an empty bottle of Wild Turkey, lying beside him.

      Something stabbed him above his right ankle! He jerked his leg away and saw the broad wedged-shaped head of a brown, cross-banded snake pull back, still bearing its fangs!

      Copperhead! Oh, my God! It’s a copperhead!

      Max jumped into the stream and pulled his sock down to

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