Witching Hour (Witching Hour Series Book 1) Read online

  Witching Hour

  Written by A. I. Nasser

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved.

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  Welcome,

  A.I. Nasser

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: 1982

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue: 1982

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  Prologue: 1982

  The worst thing about the half hour before Ashley McLane’s death was the screaming.

  And the blood.

  But mostly the screaming.

  Doctor Charles Kimnot barged into the delivery room – half-asleep and still a little tipsy – and instantly flinched at the shrill sound escaping from the seventeen-year-old in labor. One leg was strapped in a stirrup, but she had somehow found a way to break loose from the other. A nurse hung on her free leg, arms wrapped around Ashley’s thigh and under her knee as she tried to prevent the girl from closing her legs.

  "What the hell happened?" Charles shouted at the nurse helping him into his sheet. My God! The blood!

  "The epidural isn’t working!" the nurse shouted back, her voice muffled by her mask and barely audible over the constant screaming.

  Charles’s eyes fell on the streams of blood staining the inside of Ashley’s thighs and pooling on the floor under the bed. It was a miracle she was still putting up this much of a fight. He watched in horror as her loose leg threatened to break free of the nurse’s grasp, and she threw her head back in another agonizing wail that sent shivers down his spine.

  "BP is dropping!" a second nurse shouted over the screams.

  Charles rushed to the bed, avoiding the blood and standing to the girl’s right as his mind raced with what to do. "Ashley, it’s Doctor Kimnot."

  Ashley didn’t register his presence, thrashing in the bed as her hand reached out and grasped his arm, her nails digging in and clasping tight. A searing pain burst through Charles’s limb, and he fought the urge to pull back, knowing he would rip the nails off her fingers if he made any sudden movements. He winced visibly and gestured to the nurse just as Ashley screamed again.

  “Get the anesthetist in here and prep the OR, now!” Charles yelled.

  “No!”

  Charles flinched at the guttural scream that came from Ashley, and stared into blazing eyes that met his gaze menacingly. Her teeth were clenched tight, and her nails dug deeper into his arm. “No!” she screamed at him again, her voice a hoarse rumble unlike anything he had ever heard before.

  The world around him seemed to stop for a brief second, as if he had been drawn into a vacuum of time and space where only he and Ashley remained. He stared into her deep green eyes, the whites slowly turning a bright red as vessels burst inside them. The soft blonde hair he had been accustomed to seeing on her regular visits was now disheveled and in tangles. Sweat beads raced down her narrow brow, matting strands of her hair to the sides of her face. Her lips were drawn back tightly against her gums, and her teeth looked like they would tear the flesh from his neck if he didn’t do exactly what she wanted.

  “No anesthesia,” she said, her voice hoarse from the screaming, yet strong. He could see the conviction on her face, the same strength she had always shown since the first day she had walked into his practice, alone, with no support from family or friends. Definitely none from the jock who had knocked her up and had let her fend for herself. He had admired her will, the desire to keep the baby, and had made a promise to himself to make her pregnancy as comfortable as possible.

  Yeah, great going. She’s really having a moment of rainbows and purple butterflies right now!

  “No anesthesia,” she repeated, and when he nodded, the vacuum that had been enveloping them began to disperse. The muffled sounds of the beeping machines around them became clearer, and somewhere in the distance a nurse was shouting his name over and over again.

  Ashley let go of his arm, threw her head back and screamed just as the world became clear again, and he could feel the urgent pull on his free arm.

  “The head’s crowning!” the nurse screamed at him.

  Charles shook his head, regaining his composure, and rushed to the end of the bed where the blood had begun to flow. He could see the baby’s head clearly, a full mat of hair pushing out from between Ashley’s legs. He quickly took position, looked up at the screaming girl and met her gaze.

  “Push,” he croaked, and then the real pandemonium began.

  Blood spurted out and splattered across Charles’s face, momentarily blinding him. Ashley’s screams only intensified, and for a moment, he felt her voice ringing inside his head, pushing against his mind and sending jolts of pain coursing across his skull. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his scrubs, a mistake he couldn’t avoid just as Ashley’s foot came slamming into his face. His nose cracked and his head spun out of control as his body slammed down on the cold floor.

  Charles gazed up at the fluorescents, blinking his eyes repeatedly as his mind screamed at him to get up. His face throbbed, and the pain from his broken nose was agonizing. He coughed as a set of feet raced past his head, and as he turned onto his side, he could see the nurses wrestling with Ashley’s free leg, trying to hold it back before she crushed the baby’s head.

  The baby!

  Charles pushed himself onto his knees and struggled back to the table, the baby’s head now halfway out. He tried to tell Ashley to push again, but all he could manage were a few wheezes and spittle of blood, his hands shaking as he held them below the head protruding from her. His eyes watered, and his vision blurred, his head dangerously swaying as he fought to maintain his composure. The fluorescents above his head flickered for a moment, and one burst into shards that rained down over him.

  Ashley let out another shriek, and the baby slid out and into Charles’s hands. He swayed on his knees, holding his arms to one side, silently begging for one of the nurses to relieve him from the burden he was holding. He heard the doors behind him open and close, and a strong pair of arms wrapped around him while someone lifted the baby from his hands. Charles felt himself being dragged to his feet and helped away from the bed.

  “Get her to the OR, now!” a gruff voiced called out. Charles recognized the voice of his supervising attending, and felt an instant relief. The screaming had stopped, and all that he could hear were the shuffles of feet on the delivery room floor and the beeping of the machines around him. He leaned against the wall he had been propped against and tried to stay on his two feet, the spinning in his head mixing with the excruciating pain radiating from his broken nose.

  He tried to keep his eyes open, willing the world around him to swim back into focus, and he looked to his right. A nurse stood stoically beside him, looking down at the station where Ashley’s baby lay.

  Why isn’t it crying?

  “Doctor?” the nurse mumbled, not looking at Charles, her eyes fixed on the baby.

  Charles staggered to
where she stood and looked down at the baby boy. A sudden cold took over, and he felt his heart stop in his chest.

  “It’s too late,” the attending said from behind them. “Call it.”

  Charles turned and stared at Ashley McLane’s motionless body. Her free leg hung limply over the side of the bed, and her eyes stared into space. The once beaming and glowing face was replaced by an ashen mask of pain and suffering, skin taut as if she were decades older than she really was. The sound of her flat line seemed to be coming from far away.

  The attending turned to Charles and gestured towards the baby. “Is it alive?” he asked.

  Charles nodded, and looked down at the baby. The baby gazed back at him, calm and tranquil, little fingers curling closed and opening again. But it was the eyes that made Charles’s blood freeze. Dark eyes stared at him, completely black, as if covered by a film of thick tar.

  Charles doubled over and threw up.

  Chapter 1

  The world was on fire.

  Kyle Ashfeld watched it all from the top of a small cliff. He could feel the heat pushing against him, a heavy presence that seemed to take on a life of its own as it begged to be acknowledged. As if the flames licking at the skies in front of him weren’t proof enough of the fire’s majestic being.

  Tendrils of black smoke wound their way around Kyle’s legs and arms, the thick scent of ash finding its way into his nostrils, burning his sinuses and making his eyes water. Beside his feet, he could see small blades of grass with minute flames protruding from them, as if he were standing on top of a birthday cake surrounded by millions of candles. The trees behind him cackled. Their branches broke and fell into heaps, sparks of fire bursting out around them like little fireflies in the wind.

  Kyle stood completely still. His feet were planted firmly in place, staring out into the world ablaze before him. From afar, he looked as if he were waiting for the flames to catch up with him, to find their way to the cuff of his pants and begin their singeing ascent to the rest of his body. His hair ruffled in the wind, a strong breeze whisking around him and adding fuel to the surrounding fire.

  The wind picked up, pushing Kyle dangerously to the end of the cliff, and before he knew it, he was stepping off. The wind carried him down, slowly, rushing in winding circles around him as he descended the distance from his perch to the blazing flames below. His feet settled on asphalt; the remaining skeleton of a street that once wound through a concrete jungle of high rises. The buildings around him were alight in a bright mix of red and orange, flames reaching out through broken windows and doors as if waving to passersby, cheering and laughing, singing a song of engulfing fire and smoke.

  And in the midst of it all, Kyle shivered.

  A cold reached down from the nape of his neck and trailed a chilling finger down his spine, goose bumps broke out across his skin as he watched the carnage before him. His fists were clenched tight by his side, in an attempt to stop them from shaking rather than a show of false bravado. His teeth clattered against each other in his mouth, and his eyes flickered right and left as he took in this world of flames and heat.

  Kyle closed his eyes, feeling the invisible push of the heat against his lids, knowing what would come next. The screaming started low, distant, almost as like a gentle whisper before increasing in volume until it was all he could hear. The shrill sound pierced his eyes, resembling tiny fingers digging deep into his head and scratching at it from the inside. Almost as if on cue, a second scream joined the first, and then a third, and then a fourth. Kyle pressed his hands against his ears in a futile attempt to drown out the sound, but it was useless. It was almost as if the screams were coming from inside his head.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaws, his entire body shaking like a leaf despite the heat of the flames surrounding him. He could feel flames licking at his lids, begging him to open them, to look out onto the world of death and fire around him. Kyle fought the urge, but the singeing was soon too much to bear, and his lids flew open just as his mouth opened in a silent scream. He gazed out at the sight before him, his body cringing and his heart pounding against his ribs, trying to break free and escape when he himself could not.

  The street before him seemed to widen, stretching to the left and right. Lining the sides were parallel rows of crucifixes where the streetlights should have been. The screams intensified, and he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the dozens of men and women strapped to each crucifix, engulfed in flames.

  Kyle wanted to shut his eyes, but couldn’t. It felt like invisible hands were holding his lids open and forcing him to watch the horrors before him. With the scent of burning flesh mixed with the thick black smoke coming from the buildings surrounding him, he couldn’t stop himself from breathing it all in. He coughed frantically, trying to clear his throat. The smoke burned his throat and lungs, and made his eyes water. He fell to his knees, clawing at his chest, trying frantically to find some sort of relief from the hell he was in.

  From between the crucifixes, a shadow moved. A solitary figure that Kyle had never seen before stepped out into the center of the ashen street. It was hunched over, its long arms extending to the ground between its feet, the skin popping and sizzling. It turned its head towards him, eyes blazing bright, and when it opened its mouth, Kyle felt like he would be sucked into the deep void within. The figure pulled up, standing straight, rising to almost the same height as the burning crucifixes around it. From its open mouth came a mix of manic laughter and guttural screams. With its eyes fixated on Kyle, it pointed at him with one taloned finger.

  “The time has come,” it screeched.

  The asphalt around Kyle’s knees broke into small crevices and fire burst up, engulfing him completely.

  Finally, Kyle found his voice and screamed.

  ***

  Kyle sat up with a start.

  Rays of sunlight shot through the narrow openings in the drapes, falling on him in parallel beams, illuminating his small bedroom enough to confirm that he was, actually, no longer in his head. His breathing came in uncontrolled gasps, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and chest. His eyes fought to adjust to the dimness of the room. From the nightstand came the shrill ringing of his alarm.

  Kyle blinked several times. He waited for his vision to clear, his eyes watery, as if the smoke had escaped from his nightmare with him and was still punishing him. A residual burning sensation of his sinuses and ringing in his ears made him doubt his reality, and it took a few extra seconds for the feelings to go away and his head to clear. He rested a hand against the beating in his chest and fell back onto his pillow.

  The alarm continued to ring.

  Kyle looked at it, noted the time, and lazily struck at it. It fell silent, but the digital numbers continued to blink, urging him to get out of bed and start his day. The date read September 8, 2016.

  Sighing, he rolled his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his damp hair. He closed his eyes, and for a few seconds, flashes of images from his nightmare played across the inside of his lids, forcing him to open them quickly.

  A whole week now.

  Kyle stood up slowly and made his way to the bathroom, his feet slapping against the cold floor. He half expected to feel blades of grass where he walked, maybe even the singe of a small solitary flame telling him that he had, in fact, not escaped the hell inside his head. But nothing happened, and when he flicked on the lights in the bathroom, he was greeted by white ceramics instead of burning high rises.

  He leaned against the sink, unable to bring himself to look at his reflection in the mirror, knowing well who would be staring back at him. A shell of the man he had once been. Nothing more. He knew the deep-set eyes with the black crescents underneath, the disheveled hair that was beginning to thin, the stubble that he had been too lazy to shave. He didn't need to be reminded of that.

  Kyle turned on the water, waited for it to warm up, and washed his face.

  "What's wrong, honey?"


  Kyle flinched, but didn't move. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly, his jaw clenched.

  "A bad dream?"

  Kyle shivered, and braced himself against the cold hand that eventually rested on his back.

  "Go away," Kyle whispered.

  "You should really stop watching TV before you go to sleep."

  Kyle's breathing quickened, and without another word, he turned on the shower, stripped and stepped under the streams of warm water.

  "Honey?"

  "Go away!" Kyle screamed, his voice echoing through the bathroom. He didn't turn around, his eyes set on the wall in front of him as he let the water from the shower wash off the night's horrors. When no reply came, he sighed and slid down into a sitting position. He stayed like that for a few minutes, his arms curled around his shoulders, his body shaking uncontrollably. When he could finally bring himself to turn around, the empty bathroom greeted him. He turned off the water, pulled himself to his feet and walked out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of water droplets behind him.

  For an instant, his eyes played tricks on him. The sheets that he had kicked aside began to slither, moving in small undulating waves across the bed. They covered the entirety of the mattress, and then began to bulge on the empty side of his bed, forming the figure of someone sleeping there. They began to shift, and Kyle quickly closed his eyes.

  Watching any of it would give it life. He had made the mistake before. He quickly turned to his closet, opened it, and took a fresh pair of pants and shirt out. With his back to the bed, he dressed, slowly, hands shaking, head throbbing. From behind him he could still hear the ruffling of the sheets as they moved, and he waited patiently until they stopped. He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then turned around. The sheets were in their original place, piled at the foot of the bed where he had left them.

  Kyle walked out of the bedroom, venturing one last look at the unmoving sheets, and made his way into the open kitchen. He turned on the coffee machine, leaned against the marble counter and waited. The apartment he had rented a year before was drenched in sunlight, a welcoming change from the dimness of the bedroom. His nightmares wouldn't follow him here, out where the world still made sense. They would stay in his bedroom, waiting until he came back, when he would close his eyes and they could play their games again.