Chapter One
Present…
Leif
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The bass from my speakers I’d installed myself pounds with the beat of the music that just so happens to match that of my heart. Music is my life. It’s a part of me, and my soul rejoices any time I hear the strum of a guitar or a tap of the drums. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what my dad thinks about it either. I’m finally running my own life and it isn’t under Dad’s thumb.
I’m free.
And my brain buzzes with a vivacity that never before existed.
Grinning at my newfound freedom, I turn up the old Mother Love Bone jam and pick up my speed as I weave down the dark, deserted highway. The drive from Seattle to LA is a long one, but I’m not in a hurry. I don’t adhere to schedules and rules anymore. Now, I make my own rules and do whatever I goddamn please.
A year at the University of Washington, attempting to please my impossible father, had been torturous. I was never cut out to be a businessman or the recipient of his legacy. He is one of Seattle’s wealthiest and most admired engineers. His company, Hyde Engineering Systems Inc. or HESI, is a Fortune 500 company and provides thousands of jobs around the globe.
I was to take over one day.
Run a multibillion dollar corporation with an iron fist like good ol’ Daddy.
But instead, I’m a fuck-up. A loser. The black sheep in a flock of fucking white stallions. Even my sixteen-year-old brother, Camden, has his shit together and is already taking college courses while in high school. We all know Cam is the one that should take over—to continue on with our birthright and run things as they should be handled.
Yet, Dad had other plans. Plans that involved turning me into a mindless, unhappy robot that would travel the world and do as I was told. An inheritance that would solidify my future as a wealthy man and lay out a path that would follow in his footsteps.
Well screw the fucking money and screw him.
Everyone that’s poor wishes they had money—that life would suddenly be grand and they’d all be happy as hell driving around in their Bentley’s eating caviar and shit. What they don’t understand is that with money comes corruption, lies, cheating, scandals, and the loss of one’s soul.
My dad hides his inner demons under the guise of being a solid, Christian man—a pillar of the religious community. A fucking saint.
But I know better. The first time he hit me as a child, I’d suffered a mild concussion but it awoke something in my mind. A haze of bullshit that surrounded my dad dissipated and I could see the man he was behind the façade. He may have been one of the wealthiest men in Washington, but he was nothing more than a piece of shit, abusive asshole. I’d seen him get that way with Mom a time or two, but I was his favorite for some reason. The oldest that was never good enough—his beloved punching bag.
Blood boils and bubbles in my chest thinking of my dad. He wonders why I turned out the way I did—why I chose solace in music and sex and any mind-altering substance I could get my hands on. Grant Hyde, the master of deception, had pushed me that way every time he laid a heavy hand on me. With each crack of his knuckles on my cheekbone and bruises to my belly, I’d retreated further and further from his ridiculous money and promise of power.
Power and money, in my eyes, equaled being a haughty, evil prick.
When in his world, I was small and insignificant. Abused and looked down upon.
But in my world?
In my world, I soar.
I thrive and excel.
I’m a fucking god.
My fingers clench the steering wheel and I have the urge to pull over, open my guitar case from the backseat, and pluck the strings of my baby. The Black Beauty Gibson acoustic I’d purchased at sixteen is my happiness. With each note I play on the instrument, I release parts of my tortured soul. I free bits of myself that Dad has attempted to beat into submission. It’s when I truly am who I’m destined to be.
Not some CEO of HESI.
Not some puppet in Dad’s big production.
But a soulful, creative musician who is free to do whatever it is he pleases.
Last week, when visiting my family for fall break in my second year of college, I finally severed the last choking hold Dad had on me. He was bitching about a tattoo I’d gotten—how I’d ruined any hope of holding down a professional job in life—and had slung his glass of bourbon at me.
Apparently the words, FUCK on my left four fingers and LIFE on my right four fingers, were frowned upon in Dad’s precious world.
The liquid had run down my forehead, stinging my eyes, and my head throbbed from the force of which he’d hit me with the glass. But something in me snapped. I was tired of his hold on me. So fucking tired.
Rage, which always glowed and fulminated beneath the surface, exploded from me. I charged the man who was supposed to love me and shoved his ass into his lavish glass liquor cabinet. The second his back slammed against the doors of the cabinet, the glass shattered. Expensive bottles of gin, scotch, and Cristal, were ruined.
I, however, was not.
For the first time, I was empowered.
With a “Fuck you” to my dad and an apologetic wave to Mom and Cam, I left with my guitar and a duffel bag. At first, I was overwhelmed with the newfound freedom and spent a few nights in town getting wasted and fucking anything with tits and legs. But then, I woke up with a plan.
Destiny called for me.
I was going to play music and find me. The one who’d been battered into something he wasn’t. It was time to climb out of that hole and be the man that thundered from within.
So, I jumped in my truck and headed south, never looking in the rearview mirror.
My phone rings, vibrating in my pocket and interrupts my thoughts. I cringe, assuming it’s Mom or Cam wanting to guilt me into coming back home. After I’d left, they’d both taken turns calling me relentlessly. I eventually spoke to Mom and apologized for leaving her with that bastard, but explained that I was getting the hell out of dodge and never coming back. Once I get on my feet in LA and land some club gigs, I’ll invite her and Cam down to visit. But right now, I just need to get my shit together.
“Yeah?” I answer without checking to see who’s calling.
“Lee, my man. You in LA yet?” Mark questions.
My best friend, Mark Simpson, was the first person I called after my fight with Dad. Having seen firsthand my father’s abuse from sleeping over at our house since we were boys, he’d always attempted to diffuse the situations if he were near. Oftentimes, he’d distract Dad with his curiosity of mechanics. Always asking how things worked and questioned Dad about his company.
Dad, the pompous ass, would always bite and his temper would cool as he lost himself into a narcissistic narrative. Mark and I never spoke about my Dad’s abuse, but he understood it. I think that’s why he’s always wanted to be a cop. Mark’s father wanted him to go into politics—so they compromised; he’d get his college education in political science and then he could join the academy if he were still interested.
“Not yet. I stopped off in Portland last night. Stayed with some chick I met at a club. She sucked cock like a champ,” I laugh. “But I left her naked ass in bed this morning and hit the road. I’m still hungover as hell from last night, but I’m feeling pretty damn good about getting the hell out of Washington.”
He chuckles and the line crackles. “You get more pussy than anyone I know. It’s the whole rock star persona. I wear khakis and polos. Bitches don’t get naked for popped collars, hair gel, and loafers.”
A smile tugs at my lips thinking about my preppy best friend. We may seem as opposite as they come but we’re tighter than brothers.
“Nobody dresses you, you big fucking nerd. You choose to wear that shit and look like Justin Bieber from the suburbs. I’m surprised you don’t drive a minivan, man.”
He huffs into the phone in faux annoyance. “Y—stup—assho—can—hear—me?”
The line cuts out and drops the call. “Fuck,” I grumble and attempt to call him back, but am unsuccessful. Out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, I have zero bars of service now.
Grumbling, I shove my phone back into the pocket of my jeans and grip the steering wheel with both hands. It’s almost ten and I can’t be much further than an hour from the California border. I need to take a piss and am hungry, but I haven’t seen a service station in hours. I’m considering pulling over to pee in the dark-ass woods that line the road when a deer flies out in front of me. My initial reaction is to yank the wheel hard to the right to avoid the damn thing.
I go airborne in my seat as the truck flies off the edge of the road and when it slams back down on all four wheels, my head bounces forcefully against the head rest. My foot is now on the brake, but I can’t stop the steep, downhill rapid descent that the truck is taking. Headlights bounce, and all I can do is yank the wheel back and forth, narrowly missing thick trees. Twice my head cracks against the side window and I’m surprised that it doesn’t break from the force of it.
A scream is lodged in my throat as I put forth my best efforts not to flip the vehicle or slam into any trees. My teeth clash together with each bump down the hill, but the truck seems to be slowing.
The truck is eventually stopped by a thick fir tree with a soft thud.
My heart, which seemed to have stopped, throbs back to life as I consider the fact I’ve managed to survive what could have been catastrophic. Sure, I’ll have one hell of a time getting my truck out and back up to the road, but at least I’m uninjured and breathing.
Small victories.
Pop!
Without warning, my head is snapped back due to the delayed reaction of the airbag that popped me hard enough in the face to cause the dark cab of the truck to glitter with an array of colors and lights.
Blood trickles from my nose, over my lips and down my chin to where it drips on my shirt. The realization of my predicament hits me and I give into the darkness that’s been desperately trying to steal me away.
I’m going to die.
Birds chirping.
Fucking everywhere and loud as hell.
Groaning, I attempt to move and every single cell in my body aches. Memories of my accident come thundering back in unison with a mega migraine.
“Shit,” I hiss out and crack open my eyes.
The inside of the cab is no longer dark and purple light begins to alight the sky through the windshield with the promise of a sunrise soon.
I need to get help.
My belly grumbles from hunger and bile rises in my throat. The pain in my head won’t quit and I’m about to puke if I don’t get out of here soon. Each muscle in my body protests as I search for the door handle, and after some fumbling around, I manage to push open the door.
Cool, crisp air rushes in and I gulp in the fresh air that chases away my nausea. Dizziness slows my process, but after some time, I slip out from behind the airbag and out of the vehicle. My gaze follows the path my truck took and I see that the incline was long and high. I’ll never be able to climb that in my lightheaded state, much less get the truck out of here.
My instinct is to call Mom—to have her ask Dad what to do, but then I remember I’ve left them. I can’t call them back at the first sign of trouble. I’ll have to deal with this shit on my own.
Removing my phone from my pocket, I frown to see I’m still without service. All hopes of calling a wrecker have been dashed. I’m going to have to climb that damn hill to try and wave someone down.
The wind picks up, prickling my eyes to the point of tears, but I catch a whiff of something that makes my stomach grumble again.
Food.
Bacon to be precise.
And the heavenly scent is coming from the opposite direction of the gigantic hill I careened down from.
There has to be a home nearby—someone that can let me use their phone to call for assistance. With newfound determination, I retrieve my backpack and guitar. My baby has been my solace for the last three years and there’s no way I’m leaving her in the truck.
The trek toward the bacon scent is laborious and I have to lean against a tree to rest whenever a wave of dizziness washes over me. I refuse, though, to die in these woods.
I’m not sure how long I walk for, but the trees grow thicker, and I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake going in the direction of the bacon, versus attempting to climb the hill up to the road. I convince myself that I do need to turn back when I see a clearing up ahead through the trees.
Pushing forward, I don’t stop until I stumble out onto the grassy cleared encirclement.
A cemetery. Nine gravesites.
The hairs on my neck rise and I freeze. Who puts a fucking cemetery out in the middle of nowhere?
I set my guitar down and walk over to the first post sticking out of the ground. A circle made from weaved vines hangs from a nail on the hunk of wood that stands about two feet tall from the dirt. Fresh picked flowers litter the ground around the homemade headstone and a chill rushes through me, considering someone has recently done this.
Knowing there are people nearby should comfort me, but something deep in my soul isn’t comforted at all—instead, it’s freaked the fuck out.
I kneel on the grass in front of the post and see that it’s been carved crudely into.
Gloria Loutz – 1968-1985
Seventeen.
My heart clenches and I’m reminded of my brother. While he may be perfect in Dad’s eyes, I know better. Like the time he called me when he got drunk for the first time at fifteen and needed a ride home. I’d been there for him then. Just like always. Cam will be seventeen soon and I can’t even imagine the heartache we’d go through to lose him at such an early age.
The cemetery suddenly seems less spooky and instead sad.
I rise to my feet and make my way over to the next grave.
Ellen Harker – 1973-1990
Seventeen.
My brows furrow together. The spine-chilling fear once again creeps its way through my veins. Two seventeen-year olds dead within five years apart.
I can’t read the dates or names on some of the posts, but the next grave I can read sickens me.
Rebecca Harker – 1978-1995
Seventeen.
And another one I can read is the same.
Emily Walker – 1993-2010
Seventeen.
I’m about to bail and head back toward the truck when I hear laughter in the distance. Children. My gut tells me to run the other way, but my need to survive wins out. If I can find someone to help, I can get the fuck out of these bizarre woods and down to LA where I belong. With a decided sigh, I pick up my guitar case and walk in the direction of the laughter.
I’ve only been walking a few minutes when I come to another clearing. All fear leaps out the window of my mind as I take in the scene before me.
A village of sorts.
Children laughing.
Food cooking.
It’s almost inviting.
A huge clearing, probably the size of a football field, houses the diminutive community. Small, wooden homes with smoke puffing from their chimneys line the edges of the woods, all fit with gardens in the front and back yards. Barns with mooing cows and snorting pigs are scattered between the houses. And, in the center of the homes lies a large, handmade stage with benches that surround it.
Where am I?
Emerging from the woods, I decide I’ll head toward the first home to ask for help. I’ve barely made it three steps when the ice cold barrel, of what I believe is a shotgun, pressed against my spine halts me.
“Who the hell are you and why are you on our land?”
And the fear comes crashing back.