The Hunted: Liminality, #0.5

THE HUNTED

The Liminality Series

M.R. Graham

THE HUNTED

Previously published as In the Shadow of the Mountains

Copyright © 2012 M.R. Graham

All Rights Reserved

http://quiestinliteris.com

Cover by OliviaProDesign

This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or are used in a purely fictional manner.

This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form, without written permission from the author.

Also by M.R. Graham

The Liminality Series

The Medium

The Mora

The Mage

The Martyr (coming soon)

The Hunted

The Wailing

The Van Helsing Legacy

We Shall Not Sleep

Dark & Hungry Graves (coming soon)

The Adventures of Morrigan Holmes

No Cage for a Crow

The Death of a Swan (coming soon)

Stand-Alones

The Siren

Poetry

Versos

Papalotes

Strange Matters

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Liminality:

Liminality: (From the Latin līmen, a threshold) The intermediate point of transition between two states or classes. An object or individual in the liminal state may be considered to belong to both classes simultaneously, or to neither. A prolonged liminal state may result in disorientation, alienation, and later inability to integrate into another state or class.

Betweenness.

Chapter One

The sky grew dark, gestating a winter monster nourished by a cold northerly gale. The first stinging flakes, tiny needles of ice driven horizontally by the bitter blasts, whisked across the cracked asphalt and clung to the clumps of parched grass that lined the lonely road.

The clouds, pregnant and writhing, bulged downward and in a great final heave gave birth to a howling whiteout.

Far below, a tiny convoy struggled north against the wind, racing the growth of the snow banks that soon would strand it. In the lead, a decades-old, green Lincoln Continental ploughed stoically onward, its windshield wipers battling furiously against the snow. It was followed by an eighteen-wheeler, its trailer marked Anderson and Sons Logistics: Texas’ Best Movers!

Together, the two plodded on up the road toward the dearly-desired terminus of their interminable journey, the end of a seventeen-hour drive.

A stile loomed up suddenly in the road, forcing the sedan to brake hard and then swerve to avoid being butted by the truck. A hard squint through the swirling white revealed a frozen pond to the left, and so the Continental turned right, exchanging the frozen asphalt for a vast expanse of loose gravel, pocked with slush-filled craters but at least free of the treachery of black ice. The car lurched and bumped, swaying from side to side along the pitted path, more cattle trail than road by now, until it came to another stretch of tarmac beyond which rose the first few buildings, snow-encrusted outliers of the hidden town beyond:

CITY LIMIT

BURNS CITY

Pop. 2,315

Beneath the city limit sign was another, hand-made of plywood and peeling around the edges, which cheerfully proclaimed a welcome from the local chapter of the Future Farmers of America.

The convoy turned and turned again, circling the sad yellow brick courthouse that squatted toad-like in the center block of the quaint town square, guarded by a platoon of bare, skeletal oak trees and a small copse of squad cars, huddled together against the cold in the tiny parking lot.

They passed Phelps’ Grocer, which stood beside Phelps’ Deli, which stood beside Phelps’ Electronics. They passed Einstein’s Salon, which had been named after its first owner a good ten years before the mussed mathematician became famous, its windows darkened but its sign highly visible, sporting a caricature of Albert himself in hair curlers. They passed Barrett’s Consignment and the Magpie’s Nest, an antiques and curiosity shop that boasted the entire Beanie Babies collection in the front window, arranged artistically on a broken rocking chair, a scuffed-up armoire, and a rusted Radio Flyer wagon.

Of all the buildings on the square, only Miz Leanne’s Ribs ‘n’ Burgers was open, a neon-lit bastion of humanity in the midst of nature’s onslaught. The Continental and big rig continued on past, turning from Dooley onto Van Winkle, unnoticed by Miz Leanne’s shivering patrons. The two vehicles proceeded past the high school, the elementary and the junior high, and into the residential area. They ploughed down Macgregor and turned onto Cypress, then onto Mulberry and down to the cul-de-sac. The eighteen-wheeler stopped on the street, the scream of its brake lost in the wind’s deafening fury, and the Continental rolled on up the driveway and into the garage of the empty two-story house at the end.

Two men, heavily muffled in scarves and wool hats, got out of the truck and began unloading through the snow. First out was an upright piano wrapped in plastic, then a bookcase, then a big wooden desk in pieces. Four hours later, they packed up and disappeared back into the storm. Within twenty minutes, there was no trace of their tracks.

Mrs. Moncrieff pulled her head back from the window and called Mrs. Simmons, who in turn called Ms. Greer, Mrs. Lyle, and Mrs. O’Toole. By eight o’clock that night, half of Burns City knew that there was a stranger in town. By eight o’clock the next night, rumor had transformed the new person into a whole spectrum of characters, from an evangelical preacher to a professional photographer, but by the end of the week, when the stranger had failed to appear even once, the stories began to die.

Chapter Two

November 19, 2003

Wednesday

So, I know I haven’t been keeping a journal recently. I know I said I would, and I did try for a while, but it gets sort of dull when the same thing happens every week. And then summer vacation wasn’t particularly interesting.

But hey, I’m a senior now. Cool beans, huh? I guess I’d better start applying to colleges. Mom wants me to go in Denver and live with her sister. I guess it would be cheaper than living in a dorm, or going out of state, even though I could probably go live with Grandpa... but that’s Vermont. Grandpa would probably make me eat his cooking anyway, so I might not even survive four years.

I’m getting off track, here. I wanted to talk about my birthday, and about the new guy. It probably makes me sound like a real small-town hick, but it’s really something when someone new comes to town around here. I love Tri-City, but it really is sort of out in the boondocks.

Anyway, birthday first. It was a little thing. It would have just been me and Chris, except that Mom made me invite that Margolis kid. Aaron. He’s okay, I guess. He’s pretty nice, and really smart. It’s just sort of weird having a kid tagging around who really ought to still be in middle school. So we all sat around and watched really cheesy old sci-fi movies all day. It was fun. Then we took our bikes along the crick for a ways, came back and had some dinner, and then the boys both went home. I sort of forgot to tell Chris that Aaron would be there, and he was a little bit ticked off. Aaron probably didn’t say more than three words the whole time, though, so that was okay. Although, I think he might have realized that he was only there because my mom felt sorry for him. That’s gotta bite. Poor kid.

But about the new guy. That’s a bit of a mystery. People never move into the Tri-City area. Ever. But apparently someone has moved in at the end of Mulberry, just a couple of houses down from the Margolis family. The rumors are getting ridiculous, so I’ve been ignoring them, but it’s still fun to speculate. All I know for sure is that they’ve been there since Friday, so they had to move in during the blizzard. And apparently nobody around town has seen them since then. Color me curious.

Liz Foelker snapped her journal shut and balanced her pen atop her ear upon realizing that someone was peering over her shoulder. She tipped her head back, staring upside-down into the face of her best friend, Chris Doyle, the self-proclaimed Tri-City High King of Comedy, who at that precise moment was exhibiting his royal status in the form of a pair of undercooked French fries, one stuffed up each nostril.

Are you five years old or what? Liz demanded, though she could not quite manage a stern tone to go with her expression. She righted herself and twisted to look at him, tucking her brown hair out of her face as she readjusted her headband, though the wind whipped it out again as soon as she was done.

Take me to your leader! Chris replied in a nasal monotone, and plunked down a pair of white paper bags, dripping with grease. Mom’s famous fries, he announced with a grin. I thought you’d want some.

Liz made a face, wrinkling her nose, and shoved her journal into the backpack she had wedged between her feet. I dunno, Snoticus, she said. You’ve kind of ruined my appetite. And your mom’s fries aren’t so much famous as infamous.

Chris shrugged and sat down beside her on the steps, pulling the potatoes out of his nose and flicking them into the bushes that lined the school’s front walk. The breeze blew his scarf up and into his friend’s face, and he quickly tucked it inside his jacket, laughing.

Sorry about that, he said in response to Liz’s expression. But yeah, it’s a pretty average batch of fries. You’re probably wise for staying away from them. Nevertheless, he opened one of the sacks and dug in with zeal, continuing with his mouth full. So how far are you on that essay for Malone?

This was a fairly usual conversation for the two. It was informal, bantering, and did not address what either of them was actually thinking. Liz was dreading the idea of going off to college without her friend by her side, which was seeming more and more inevitable since Chris had announced his plan to attend a technical school. Chris was wishing he could muster the courage to ask whether the two of them might go to the winter formal together this year, as something more than just friends. Neither subject would ever be broached aloud, in part because it would produce a strain on their friendship, and in part because, on some level, each already knew what was on the other’s mind.

The banter continued, circulating through the subject of English class and on to popular television, then to their plans for Saturday. Eventually, the bell rang, and the two went back inside, surrounded by a flock of upperclassmen, to endure the rest of the school day.

AROUND THE SAME TIME, Aaron Margolis was the first one in Burns City to see the stranger emerge from the house at the end of Mulberry Street. He was home sick, watching the street from the window of his upper-story room rather than completing the pile of homework his mother had picked up for him. He was fourteen, and the work was senior-level, but that made it neither interesting nor challenging.

He was searching for a pencil sharpener when noticed movement from the end of the street. Craning his neck for a better view, he watched a male figure emerge from the house, make a single circuit of the property, and vanish back inside. A few minutes later, the man emerged again, this time from the garage, and carried a folding ladder around the back of the house.

He reached over to his desk and grabbed his walkie-talkie from beneath a pile of books, which cascaded to the floor. Target acquired, he muttered into the microphone. Send in the Fat Boy. Static crackled though from the other end for several seconds, before his mother’s voice answered.

My tuna casserole isn’t that bad, she grumped. Over and out.

A moment later, Aaron was able to watch her cross their front lawn with a large dish in hand and disappear behind the neighbors’ house. He lay back and fell asleep on top of his calculus.

LIZ WAS AWAKENED THE next morning not by the strident beeping of her alarm clock, but by the sudden violent contact of the floor against her shoulder. She thrashed about for several seconds, trying with limited success to disentangle herself from the bed sheets, and finally got one arm free to silence the clock. Working slowly and methodically, she eventually got herself out of the tangle, threw on some jeans and an ancient holey sweat shirt, and trudged out into the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast.

Her younger brother, Luke, was already up and dressed and waiting by the door with his arms crossed. His khakis and blazer created a stark contrast to his sister’s super-casual choice of clothes. It was a phase, she thought. He would grow out of it. Their mother was just glad that Luke’s idea of rebellion was dressing like a banker. So help me Liz, if you make me late... he threatened.

Liz muttered something unintelligible at him and bolted down a bowl of toasted oats. Luke watched without amusement as she threw her bowl into the sink and stuffed a pile of papers into her book satchel. His polished foot tapped impatiently until she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out to the Jeep. It took three cranks of the key to start the old thing. They rolled down the drive and out onto Sykes Street.

The drive from the Foelker residence to the middle school took just under ten minutes, but only because the speed limit in town had recently been lowered to 30 miles-per-hour as a result of an accident involving a pickup truck and a deer. The high school was only two blocks further down the street, separated from the middle school by a patch of grass enclosed in chain-link fence, which served as the soccer and football field for both schools. Tri-City High, as indicated by the name, had to accommodate not only the teenagers of Burns City but also those of its sister cities, Delphi and MacIlhenny. Even then, the total number of students rose only to six-hundred and eight. That year’s senior class numbered just over one hundred, and there was serious question as to whether the gymnasium would accommodate all of them and their families for graduation; there was the looming possibility that the ceremony would have to be moved out-of-doors, and the last weekend of May was notorious for its inclement weather.

The elder Foelker deposited the younger at the front steps of the middle school and remained waiting at the curb until he had vanished inside, ensuring that he did not merely duck behind the bushes and run off to do who-knows-what once she had gone. Only when certain that he would remain inside did Liz continue on to leave the Jeep in the tiny parking lot outside the high school and rushed to her first class, that essay for Malone still uncompleted. In her hurry, she nearly collided with Mina Hobbs, instructor of freshman biology and advanced chemistry, who handed her a detention slip for running in the halls. And so it was that Liz slid into her English class five minutes late, receiving another detention slip for her third tardy entrance that semester. The day was not off to a good start.

As Miss Malone ran on about Shakespeare, Liz and Chris passed notes. Other teachers had by that time learned that separating the two was the only way to be certain that either would pay attention, but Malone was of the opinion that if they wanted to jeopardize their grades, that was their own business, so long as they did it silently. With luck, those two would not be her problem much longer. None of the students would be her problem much longer. She had never wanted to be a teacher, really.

Chris passed a note. I bite my thumb at you! it read. He proceeded to demonstrate in Malone’s direction, crossing his eyes as he did so. Liz snorted and passed one back. Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. it said. What does that even mean? came the reply.

Malone looked back in irritation at the sound of giggles. Would you at least be so kind as to let the other students learn? she demanded. There was silence. Thank you.

The bell rang, and Liz and Chris departed for chemistry, which went without a hitch. Neither of them noticed that Aaron was still absent, his usual seat near the window standing empty. After long discussion of buckminsterfullerenes the two parted ways, Liz for Calculus and Chris for Trigonometry. They met up again for homeroom, and then lunch.

NOVEMBER 20, 2003

Thursday

Yeah, two entries in two days. Imagine that. Savannah thinks Chris and I should start going out. Like, actually going out. Like a couple. I’m a little freaked out. We’re friends. We’ve always been just friends. No way am I risking that for anything.

But seriously, Mom’s been saying that for years, that we’re perfect for each other and junk like that. Dad thinks he’s gay, but that’s neither here nor there. We’re just friends.

But she said nothing.

AARON WAS FEELING BETTER by Thursday evening, but not by much. His fever had gone down to a tolerable 100°F, and he was able to keep down the macaroni and cheese his mother had forced into him. He had even emerged from his room to join his parents in front of the television, albeit reluctantly. Within an hour, at his mother’s urging, he had consumed nearly a liter of orange juice, with devastating effect on his bladder.

Conversation circulated slowly through the television program they were watching, then pop music and inflation, with a brief interlude as Mister Margolis gave voice to a heated monologue about Congress. Eventually it shifted around to the house at the end of the street.

Seemed like such a nice man, Mrs. Margolis said forcefully. Not right that he should be all alone over there.

Her husband shrugged, and her son shuffled off to find antacids.

THE STRANGER RETURNED from his walk in the woods to find a note taped to his back door. He peeled it off curiously, unfolding the little square of paper as he slipped into his kitchen.

Hay, their! it began. He analyzed the large, round writing; the exclamation point had been dotted with what looked like a daisy, or a bizarrely bulbous snowflake. Tried to call, guess you don’t have your phone hooked up yet. We’d like to invite you to dinner tommarrow as a welcome-to-the-neigborhood, around seven if that’s okay. Let me know! –Hannah Margolis There was a phone number below the name, presumably in case he managed to get his service set up some time after the note was left.

The stranger debated, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his aquiline nose with one long middle finger. The wise thing to do would be to extend a polite declination. He had already done all that courtesy demanded by accepting the atrocious casserole (which had backed up his garbage disposal), and there was really no point in getting friendly with the people of this town when he had no idea how long he would be able to stay. On the other hand, it was always smart to know one’s neighbors, and allies might come in handy at a later date, people who would believe him. And truly, though forced into isolation and by then well accustomed to solitude, the stranger was a social creature: he needed people.

An answering note of acceptance, penned in an angular and precise script, appeared on the front door of the Margolis house. It was signed Leland.

LOG, NOV. 20, 2003. 2300

Did nothing important today. Got up, got dressed, went to school. Failed a test. Got hit in the eye with a tennis ball in PE. Punched the moron who threw it. Still a loser. Still a clown. Working on it.

Chris looked over the several pages of nearly identical journal entries and came close to throwing his keyboard across the room. He refrained, with