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    Good Night Evil
    Good Night Evil
    Good Night Evil
    Ebook64 pages1 hour

    Good Night Evil

    By Estela Vazquez Perez

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Good Night Evil is a collection of five short stories that transcends time and genres. Each tale is a unique world of fascinating characters and their unforgettable stories.

    Embraced by the Cemetery: Will the woman who escaped being hanged at the gallows be delivered from evil in the cemetery?

    Amorosa's Garden: Amorosa grows magic in her garden that has the power to plant love in peoples' lives.

    Prince of Light: Saint Michael battles with Satan in a fight to rescue the willing from hell.

    The bell rang 30 times: Will the peals of the great bell lift the veil of death?

    Incorrupt Passion: For eleven years she suffered his death in vain.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEstela Vazquez Perez
    Release dateMay 19, 2018
    ISBN9780463880265
    Good Night Evil
    Author

    Estela Vazquez Perez

    Estela Vazquez Perez is an independent novelist who was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her talent is developing stories that span different genres and are infused with multiple sub-plots. She is an aspiring film maker, art lover, avid reader, traveler, and a lover of knowledge. She lives in San Francisco with her two beautiful children.

    Read more from Estela Vazquez Perez

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      Book preview

      Good Night Evil - Estela Vazquez Perez

      GOOD NIGHT EVIL

      BY

      ESTELA VAZQUEZ PEREZ

      This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons.

      Good Night Evil

      All Rights Reserved.

      Copyright © 2016 Estela Vazquez Perez

      Cover image by 99designs. All rights reserved - used with permission.

      Cover designed by Trif TwinArtDesign

      Embraced by the cemetery

      My fear vanished as I raced through the unlocked archway of the cemetery. The blades of grass cushioned my bare feet as I quickly walked past the rows of tombstones etched with names not familiar to me. Through swollen eyes I saw his alabaster wings, and as I hastened my steps I felt drops of rain fall on my bare arms. I reached the mound where he stood. In his hand he held an open Bible. His other arm was raised, with a finger pointing toward the heavens. Towering seven feet in height, the angel was visible to the hundreds of the dead resting under his perpetual gaze. I covered my battered face with my hands and, as I have done on agonizing nights before, leaned against him next to his raised arm. The rain did not muffle my cries. Streams of rain, blood and tears flowed down between us, drenching the soil of the dead.

      Spent from crying, I pulled away from him and allowed the rain to wash my blood and tears off his white robe. The rain failed to wash away the bloody stains that clung to my white nightgown. From the angel’s mound, I saw the full moon behind gray clouds over the unlocked cemetery archway. In my mind, I thanked the unknown thieves who stole the cemetery’s ornate iron gates that would have locked the cemetery after sunset.

      With the gates gone, the police patrolled the cemetery every other hour to protect the interred from Satanists, pranksters and criminal activity. I know he would not follow me to the patrolled cemetery. I sat down next to his feet under the open Bible and I leaned against him. My swollen eyes glanced at the familiar landscape of tombstones three feet from me. The heaviness in my heart became unbearable and new tears formed. The only living soul in the cemetery, I prayed for sleep, as my cries disturbed the peace. Even though lost in my suffering, I feel accompanied amongst the perished. When the wind rolls over the knolls is when I feel their energy rise. When the wind rustles through the leaves I can imagine them whispering in pity for me. Hidden against the angel, I have nothing to fear. The terror in my life resides among the living, not the dead.

      Before sunrise, hidden by the shadows of the trees, I dashed back to the house, where I knew my tormentor was in a deep sleep.

      After lunch, I watched from my bedroom window as the hands that assaulted me the day before helped an older woman stand back up from her fall. As I watched him help her cross the street, I regret marrying that man who was highly regarded for his brilliant career as a prosecutor and philanthropist. We married after he defended me pro bono when I was wrongly accused of murdering my previous boss. Even though I was exonerated in the courtroom the community still holds doubts about my innocence. Though my boss’s body was never found, rumors persist that I killed my boss in a crime of passion, and that my husband, blinded with love, defended me. No one in town would hire me, and my husband ordered me to stay away from his office so as not to scare away prospective clients. I was thankful for the community’s fear that kept me from ever stepping into my husband’s office building, because the only peace afforded to me was when my husband was at his office. Yes, it is peculiar not to be able to describe my husband’s office, but I have no interest in feigning interest in my husband’s business affairs. All my energy goes into staying alive, as I pray that my late boss will reappear and the world will finally see that I am innocent. Defenseless against the brutality of my husband and the community’s contempt for me, I suffered in silence and alone. My husband’s brutality surfaces when he drinks. With each beating, I would fear death, and I would flee the house to my sanctuary--the cemetery.

      ***

      The assertive knock on the door compelled me to answer before the maid did. As he slowly removed his peaked hat, his eyes examined the fading black eye that my loose bangs failed to conceal.

      What happened to your eye? Officer Mata asked.

      I fell against the planter in the courtyard, I said as I shook my bangs away from my face.

      Officer Mata looked over my shoulder to the huge planter in the courtyard and then he asked, Is your husband home?

      No. You can find him at the bar, the Final Stop. Can I ask you why you are looking for him?

      His office alarm went off again. We cannot continue to investigate false alarms; your husband needs to have the security company replace that alarm.

      I will pass on your message, I said.

      Is your husband beating you, Madame?

      I looked down and my long bangs covered my eye.

      I fell against the planter.

      You need to remove that planter; the next fall against it could kill you.

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