Dread and Breakfast Read online

  Praise for Stuart R. West’s

  Dread and Breakfast!

  “Like Stephen King and Joe Lansdale had a freaky, hyperactive baby and it wrote this book!”

  –Somer Canon, author of Vicki Beautiful

  “A fast-paced, uncanny, and hugely entertaining

  horror novel!”

  –Vanessa Morgan, screenwriter and author of

  Drowned Sorrow

  “A suspenseful, twisty ride! Heart-pounding horror!”

  –L.X. Cain, author of Bloodwalker and Soul Cutter

  Stuart R. West

  A

  Grinning Skull Press

  Publication

  Dread and Breakfast

  Copyright © 2016 Stuart R. West

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

  The Skull logo with stylized lettering was created for Grinning Skull Press by Dan Moran, http://dan-moran-art.com/.

  Cover designed by Jeffrey Kosh, http://jeffreykosh.wix.com/jeffreykoshgraphics.

  Published by Grinning Skull Press, P.O. Box 67, Bridgewater, MA 02324

  ISBN: 0-9984055-1-5 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9984055-1-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9984055-2-0 (ebook)

  DEDICATION

  As always, I’d like to dedicate this book to my lovely wife, Cydney, and my beautiful daughter, Sarah. They’re my rock(s). Couldn’t do it without them.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big shout-out to the wonderfully weird and twisted state of Kansas. Endlessly fascinating and creepy place to live, lots of fodder for creepy story-telling. Probably why I still live there.

  Chapter One

  “Why are you doing this?” The chains binding her wrists drew taut as she lurched forward. Her chin cracked down onto cement, triggering her bladder. Urine warmed her legs. Dignity didn’t matter, not anymore. Nothing made sense. As she dragged her locked hands toward her, she pushed up on her knees. Pleading, her last hope. “Please don’t do this, oh God, please don’t hurt me. Just … tell me why.”

  Two figures stepped in front of the floodlight. Joined at the hip, hands entwined like lovers on a stroll.

  A dry voice, crisper than crackers, said, “Why? Because it’s date night.”

  The hatchet swung down, delivering date night’s goodnight kiss.

  *

  Snow swirled in the wind, dropping like feathers. Rebecca knew a storm had been forecast, hardly good driving weather. But she wasn’t about to let up. Not ‘til she put Hollington far behind her and then some. Dangerous? Absolutely. But navigating through a snowstorm sure as hell felt a lot safer than what she’d left behind.

  The wipers beat the windshield, struggling to clear it. Snow piled on the hood. Rebecca brushed a hand through the condensation and hunkered down to peer out the narrow opening. She cursed herself for not getting the Chevy’s defrost fixed; it never had worked worth a damn. Of course, she also didn’t think she’d be fleeing for her life during what one weatherman had gleefully called “the Storm of the Century.” Maybe she should’ve thought this out better. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve; the old game she’d been playing a lot lately.

  She glanced at Kyra, sound asleep. The seatbelt looked tight, confining her daughter’s small frame. Kyra’s stuffed dog rode with her, the safety belt covering its mouth, its eyes: say nothing, see nothing. The way Rebecca had lived the past ten years of her life.

  But enough.

  Rebecca had thought — if not accepted, exactly — she understood Brad’s violent streak. It didn’t happen often, but when he hit her, it hurt. Not so much physically; she’d developed a surprising tolerance to the pain. Emotionally, though, it pummeled her worse than fists. Yet she accepted it, justified it as the norm. After all, her daddy treated her mother the same way. And, as Brad often told her, his job weighed heavily on him, the stress too much. “Being a police detective is a load-and-a-half for any good man,” he’d said before punctuating his insight with a blow to her cheek. Now Rebecca thought it nothing more than a load of shit.

  Was Brad a good man? At one time she’d thought so. But when he hit their daughter last night, her perception, her entire world, changed.

  Enough.

  Kyra had sought safety in Rebecca’s arms, crying, asking why Daddy hated her. The breaking point. And Rebecca hated herself for not having made the decision long ago. She knew then, absolutely knew, she and Kyra would leave in the morning. After Brad went to work.

  Right now, he probably just arrived home and found her note. Then flew into a rage. Fine. Let him find a new punching bag.

  As Rebecca tapped the brakes, the car swerved, the back tire edging toward the ditch. Finally, the car shuddered to a stop, Rebecca’s heart threatening to stop as well. With white knuckles over the steering wheel, she blew out a deep breath, staring into the storm. Nothing but endless snow, drifting into dunes along the road. Fear fueled her; not just fear of the storm, but fear of the future, the unknown. Starting over at the age of 32, no college degree, no practical work experience. All very scary. But she still had her life. And Kyra’s. This time she’d make it count.

  Last night, after Brad had struck Kyra, things turned even worse. She knew Brad wouldn’t let her leave, so she suffered in silence one last time. She’d consoled Kyra the best she could, even though she’d lied through her teeth. Hanging a pretty picture on abuse isn’t easy. After Kyra had settled down, Rebecca dragged herself up to the bedroom, dreading what she knew awaited her. Five minutes later, Brad was pawing at her, acting like he hadn’t hit their daughter. As if his abuse had turned him on. Business as usual, Rebecca a sex object purely for Brad’s pleasure.

  It felt like rape, torture of body and mind.

  Enough.

  Once the tears started, she couldn’t stop them. Ten years’ worth of bottled-up sorrow finally spilled. She covered her mouth with an arm, muffling her sobs. A small whimper birthed in her chest, a sad, little thing that matured into a growl.

  That bastard. That miserable bastard. And I took it.

  “Mommy?” Kyra yawned, staring at her. “Why’re you crying?”

  “Shh, honey, it’s okay. Mommy’s just tired, that’s all. Everything’s fine.” Rebecca wiped away the tears and erased all thoughts of Brad. Time to pull it together. Kyra counted on her.

  “Where are we?” Kyra leaned forward, wiping a viewing space through the windshield.

  “I think … the sign said Hilston, Missouri.” A place she’d never been, nor ever heard of before. Not that that was uncommon. Brad never took her out of Hollington, Kansas. Her entire life she’d been trapped in a lousy Kansas City suburb, her prison.

  “Is this where we’re going?”

  “No, honey. We’re going to stay with Aunt Jill and her family for a while. Like we discussed.”

  “And Daddy’s not coming?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  Kyra said nothing, reacted indifferently. But a barely audible sigh escaped from her, one possibly of relief. Of course, Kyra loved her dad, warts and all
. Yet she wasn’t blind. She’d seen Brad at his worst. But he’d never hit Kyra before. It’d been foolish thinking he never would either. Brad was a ticking time bomb more often than not. Hell, she may as well have triggered the bomb herself. She should never have kept Kyra in that situation. Not for six years. Shoulda’, woulda’, coulda’.

  “Mommy, I’m sorry I knocked over Daddy’s beer. It was an accident. I’ll never do it again.” She blinked at Rebecca, sincerity sparkling in her eyes.

  “I know, honey. Accidents happen.” Slowly, Rebecca backed the car up and straightened it out; she noticed the snow was already covering her tracks. Nice and steady, twenty miles per hour. Maddening, like her life, steadily going nowhere. But not any longer.

  “That’s why Daddy hit me, isn’t it?”

  Again, Rebecca felt an emotional punch to the stomach. She couldn’t have Kyra accepting Brad’s abuse as just punishment. Not the way Rebecca had. “Kyra, Daddy’s sick. He doesn’t —”

  “Is he dying?”

  I wish. “No, honey, he’s not sick like that. He … he has something wrong in his head. Something that makes him do bad things. Like hitting you. He can’t help it. It has nothing to do with his feelings for you. He loves you. But he should never have hit you. And I don’t want you blaming yourself. You understand?” Rebecca watched Kyra carefully, ensuring the message took.

  Kyra nodded. “Daddy’s sick.” A simple reiteration, but delivered with firm resolve. Relief coursed through Rebecca, a realization that Kyra would survive to live a healthy life. She marveled at her daughter’s resilience, the kind children uncannily possess.

  Rebecca reached over and dropped her hand over her daughters’. “Love you.”

  “Love you … Mommy, look out!”

  She had only taken her hand off the steering wheel for a few seconds. Not that it really mattered. The car took on a life of its own, angrily determined for the ditch. Rebecca tromped on the brakes. The car fishtailed, the back end sliding. In a panic, Rebecca cranked the steering wheel, forgetting to steer opposite in the snow. Kyra screamed. A complete 180 tossed Rebecca’s stomach, then they twisted into a second loop. Closer, closer to the edge of the road. Snow sprayed from the drift they plowed through. The front of the Chevy lowered into the ditch, the back two tires banging down. Trees rushed up. Rebecca flung an arm over Kyra’s chest, an impotent shield. Metal roared as they smashed into the tree. Rebecca flew against the steering wheel, sharp pain jagging into her chest. Glass tinkled, something hissed.

  She held onto the wheel for another few seconds, uncertain their wild ride had ended. Smoke drifted up from beneath the sprung hood.

  “Kyra, you okay?”

  Kyra clutched her stuffed dog to her chest, eyes wide. She nodded, not reassuring enough for Rebecca.

  “Say something, Kyra. You okay?”

  “I think so. Gotta potty.”

  The damage to the Chevy appeared extensive. The front end resembled an accordion, a web-like vein crossed the windshield. A heavy tree limb lay over the hood. No signal on her cell phone. And the snow kept falling, God’s frozen tears.

  Rebecca wanted to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she laughed. Just a little at first, then it swelled, nearing hysteria. Nothing else seemed appropriate. Kyra joined her, a nervous titter.

  Welcome to the first day of my new life.

  *

  Harold really shouldn’t have done it, pretty much a no-brainer. Betraying the Kansas City mob is hardly the smartest career move. But money can be a strong motivator. Over the last several years, Harold had managed (or “mismanaged” might be more apt) Vincent Domenick’s books and financial affairs, skimming a few tips off the top for his hard work. It’s not like Domenick would miss a few bucks; the man had more money than several countries combined. Besides, the money had blood all over it, supposedly the net gains from Domenick’s trucking company. But Harold knew better, knew where the cash really came from. Not exactly stealing from charity.

  Things had heated up, though. Fast. Men wearing dull suits and flashing shiny badges had taken a sudden interest in Mr. Domenick’s affairs, poring over his financial records and asking Harold uncomfortable questions. They had instructed Harold to keep Mr. Domenick blissfully unaware. No problem, he could live with that. But what really sealed Harold’s bold career move was when one of the feds flat out stated that ignorance of Domenick’s crimes wasn’t a valid legal defense. He said it with a shit-eating smirk, as if he enjoyed watching Harold squirm. Harold received the message loud and clear: once Domenick goes down, Harold would be dragged to prison along with him. No thanks.

  After Domenick’s goon dropped off the monthly briefcase of cash that morning, it practically beckoned to Harold, screaming like a wild lover, “Take me, Harold, take me!” He would’ve been a fool to turn a deaf ear on such wanton lust. The time felt right to get out of town, his start-up funds handed to him in an easy-to-take briefcase, perfect for the man on the go. He’d always wanted to visit the Caribbean, never thought he’d live there. Life is sweet.

  By now, Dominick had probably realized his money had vanished. Then again, maybe not. The man never did have an eye for numbers. Still, jumping on the first available plane seemed risky, too easily traced. And Harold swore he had spotted several suits following him over the last week. Pretty damn lousy at their jobs if an accountant could sniff out the feds. On the other hand, it could’ve been his imagination. Seven hundred thousand dollars’ worth of hot can make a guy paranoid. But he hadn’t seen anyone on his tail over the last couple of hours. Hell, in this weather, even the feds must’ve called in for a snow day.

  He had a plan. As far as winging it goes, a pretty decent plan — catch a flight out from Los Angeles. Dominick’s reach didn’t extend to the west coast. But first Harold had to get there. And the damn snow didn’t make it easy.

  Married to his work, as they say, he had no real goodbyes to make. He could always call his ex-wife from the Caribbean, rub it in her nose a little. She’d always wanted to go there. A smile crossed his lips as he planned what he’d say to her: Eat it, Barb.

  But now he needed sleep. Absconding with mob money wears a man out. He couldn’t get very far in the storm anyway. The sign he’d just passed had read, “Welcome to Hilston, Missouri. A lovely place to antique.”

  Of course, the sentiment made him gag. Pretty twee using “antique” as a verb, not to mention bragging about it. And he really hated “antiquing.” Barb had forced him to join her on some of her expeditions, wasting numerous hours in musty shops full of crap the owners tried to pass off as collectibles. But Hilston was the closest place to stop. Surely he could stomach it for one night.

  He followed a sign pointing toward the downtown district. Downtown amounted to basically one block lined with antique shops. At a stoplight, he stepped out onto the empty street. Snow buried his shoes. Squinting from the blizzard, he looked beyond the one-storied shops, searching for a tall building along the skyline. Nothing. Crummy little town didn’t even have a single hotel. But he knew there’d be a bed and breakfast, possibly several, a mainstay for those foolish people who just can’t get enough “antiquing” done in one day.

  Several blocks over, on a hilly street so narrow only one car could safely drive down it at a time, he spotted his destination. His tires lost traction, plunging him into sickening helplessness. At the bottom of the hill, the car slowed, then popped up on a curb, delivering him in front of the “Dandy Drop Inn.” Even the name nearly made him wretch. Everything in this damned town wanted to be “cute.” “Cute” was about as relevant to him as nipples on men. But the inn promised a bed, and what the hell, breakfast to boot.

  *

  “Got his location, boss.”

  “You gonna give it to me or have I gotta guess?” Winston’s patience had run thin. Not only did he despise driving in the snow, but talking on the phone while driving was something he rarely did. Just not safe; kinda stupid, really. But tonight it couldn’t be helped. He wanted to get
the job done, get out of the storm, get back to Julie and the kids. Tonight, multitasking trumped safety.

  “Sorry. You’re never gonna believe it …” The kid paused, still forcing Winston to play “Twenty Questions.” Yep, patience had about run its course. Still, in Winston’s line of work, patience is a virtue.

  “For Christ’s sake, just tell me, Lenny.”

  “Yeah, uh, sorry, boss. The accountant’s holed up at a bed and breakfast. In some shithole called … let’s see … Hilston, Missouri. Want the address?”

  “No, I’ll just read your mind. Yes, give me the damn address.” He really shouldn’t snap at Lenny; the kid had proven himself time and again with his crazy computer and hacking skills. If he wanted to find anything or anybody, Lenny was his go-to guy. When you’re in the “security consulting” business, assets like him are invaluable. Sometimes he wondered how people in his line of work made do before the advent of computers. Didn’t matter. Lenny’d sussed out the missing accountant’s location in no time at all. The accountant may be a whiz with numbers, but apparently didn’t know jack about technology. The fool didn’t realize his cell phone could be triangulated. Gotta love progress.

  “Okay, got it.” Winston pulled over, then entered the address into his G.P.S. Quickly, he switched the “creepy man’s” voice his kids delighted in to a British woman’s voice. On a night like this, Mr. Creepy made a lousy traveling companion. “Thanks, Lenny. We’ll talk soon.”

  Hilston, Missouri. Crap. Another forty miles or so. Since he’d only been able to travel about fifteen miles over the past hour, he still had a good three-hour trip ahead of him. Long night. Better call home.

  “Hey, Julie, it’s me.”

  She laughed as she always did when he identified himself. Old habits and all. “I know, Win, we have Caller I.D.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. Hey, the storm’s not letting up, and I’m still trying to get home. I’d better find a spot to hole up for the night. It’s coming down like … I dunno, blankets. It’s bad.”