The Nelson Files: Episode #1 (2 page)

2

Ridgefield, Connecticut

September 4, 2015

Noon

The sun tried its best to move from behind the mixture of white puff clouds and the more overpopulated gray clouds. It had been a long and dreadful summer, the majority of it being ninety degrees and up, each and every week. Rain hadn't fallen either, but today it looked like it could rain any moment. Possibly even downpour.

Zack Cassel, a young man around twenty-three years-old drove his red Ram pick-up truck down the stretch of road that went far beyond the horizon.
A never-ending road
, he thought to himself. The window was down, and he had his left arm dangling out the window, the sleeves on his button-up rolled up to his elbow, country music playing at the volume of twenty-five. His thumb tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

Two years had passed since he last stepped foot into his hometown. Never again did he plan to come back. Not since his grandmother's death. Her death at the hands of that...that thing, almost causing Zack to plummet into his own downward spiral, one of which he'd never return from. Even now, until this very day, two years later, he still had nightmares, waking up in the midst of the night in cold sweats with his heart palpitating. Still saw hallucinations of the thing that killed her. The anger inside him never went dormant. It remained a boiling, bubbling rage within his veins.

Zack gripped firmly on the steering wheel as the memories rekindled in his mind.

He arrived in Ridgefield within the next twenty minutes, having to take a pit stop to refill on gas (figuring he'd do it now and get it over with rather than having to do it in town and spend more time there than he wanted to). As he drove down the main street, more memories washed over him. Both the good and the bad. From his childhood years, walking down the street with his grandparents who raised him after his parents were killed in a plane crash when he was eight years old, to his high school years when him and his troublesome friends would spend most of their nights hanging out.

Zack pulled up to his former home, the one his grandmother died in. He parked across the street, just one house down on the opposite side of the road. He took off his sunglasses and watched on as a young mother was playing tag with her three-year-old daughter on the freshly mowed lawn. A smile swept across his face, and a powerful urge struck him. For him to walk up to the house and ask the young mother if he could take a look around the old place, just one last time.

Declining his urge, Zack put his sunglasses back on, pulled the gear into drive and drove down to Stew's Deli for lunch. Inside, Stew stood behind the counter and immediately had a rush of joy to see Zack back in town. The conversation didn't last long, as Zack quickly took his order and left, not wanting to run into much of the people he used to know, let alone anyone he really knew, for that matter. He just wanted to visit his grandmother's grave and return to life on the road.

Zack exited Stew's Deli, with his head down at his phone, and accidentally bumped in to a red-headed girl around his age, accompanied by her Golden Retriever.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Zack apologized. Then an enormous smile came across his face once he got a better glimpse of her face, and the dog. Both very familiar to him, one time again. "Heather? Heather, hey!"

Heather has been a longtime friend of Zack's from way back when they first met in middle school during gym class. Zack accidentally bumped into her during a game of basketball and had apologized to her for days since she had fallen and banged her knee pretty badly against the hard flooring. Not long after, they developed a strong brother-sister-type of bond.

"Zack?" she said in happy surprise. Her dog barked and wagged its tail, red tongue dangling. "Is that you? Oh my God. It's been far too long."

"I know, I know. Come here. Give me a hug."

"Wow. I don't know what to say." Heather gave Zack a lengthy hug.

"Me neither." Zack bent down, patting her dog on the head. "Hey, Lucky! Long time no see, huh?"

Lucky barked and jumped up and down.

"Where've you been? How've you been?" Heather said.

Zack didn't reply right away. Instead, he thought long and hard about what to say. To him it felt like an hour went by before he spoke. "I...I've been around. Good, but around."

"Where though?" Heather asked. "It's been two years since we spoke or even seen each other. Ever since..." She stopped herself, not wanting to ruin the moment by bringing up a sore subject. "Well...you know." She waited a moment. "Sorry."

"No, no, no. Heather, it's okay. Really. It's just after my grandmother passed I needed some time away. Just to escape, y'know?"

"Yeah, it's understandable. You were in pretty bad shape last time I saw you. You look better now, though."

"Thanks. Time away is all I needed."

"Time away helps." Heather looked deeply into Zack's hazel eyes. Being friends for so long gave her the ability to see right through him, whenever he was hiding something. "Where've you been, Zack? Seriously."

"Traveling," Zack said just before she finished her sentence, being only half truthful with her.

"Traveling?" Heather raised a brow. "Two years of just traveling? Did you stop anywhere? Do anything?"

Zack scratched the back of his head. "No. Not really. I just drove around the country. It was really relieving."

Zack didn't like lying to Heather at all. But he didn't want her knowing what he’d really been doing.

"What brings you back to Ridgefield? Back home?" Heather smiled, trying to break the mood.

"I just stopped in to visit my grandmother. Since her death I haven't actually been back to visit her."

"How long do you plan on staying?" Heather asked, biting her lips, her cheeks flushed red.

"Maybe a few days. I'm not too sure, actually."

Heather's hopes crumbled. "If you ever need a place to stay–"

Zack cut her off, "Oh, it's all right, Heather, don't worry about me. I'll be okay. Trust me."

"Okay.” She tried to smile again. ”Maybe we can get a drink sometime to catch up," Heather attempted.

"Sure." Zack nodded. "A drink sounds good."

"How about tonight? At Harold's Pub?"

"Sounds like a plan."

With nothing more to say, Heather leaned in for one more hug. "Welcome home, Zack" she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Zack didn't want to stay. It brought back too many bad memories for him. In the same respect, he was clearly homesick and wanted to stay.

He saw that, for him, a long road was ahead.

———

Cemetery

1:13 p.m.

Rain lightly began falling from the sky in a drizzle. But sooner rather than later it would pick up and become heavier. Leaves raced each other along the grass, down the path and all the way to the wrought iron gate. Zack stood in front of his late grandmother's grave, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Focused. Not blinking, nor affected by the wind shoving rain into his face.

He takes off the dog tag necklace that once belonged to his grandfather. He’d given it to Zack when he passed away. Zack knelt down, and using his pocket knife, dug a small hole next to the tombstone. He placed the dog tags inside and covered it up.

"This might sound cheesy," Zack said, still kneeling, "but Grandpa said when it was your time to join him in Heaven along with all the other angels, to uh, to bury these with you." He looked beyond the grave, spaced out. "You know, now that I think about it, it’s not really too cheesy." Zack chuckled, "Kinda more sweet than cheesy, if you ask me."

Zack gritted his teeth. "For the past two years I felt completely empty. Dead inside. I felt hatred towards everything and everyone. You probably know this already since you're looking down watching me, right? Each day I tell myself to stay strong for you. I tell myself that one day I'll find the thing that did this to you, and when that day comes, it'll feel fulfilling. Kind of like a weight would be lifted off my shoulders."

Zack looked back at the headstone. His eyes became glossy. "This thing is going to pay." He brushed fingers through his short, and now wet, hair. "Even if it takes me out in the process." He stood to his feet, clutching his fists at his sides. "I miss you."

He headed down the path, looking over his shoulder once more at the grave. As he turned his head straight, he did a double take, halting. Down, far at the end of the cemetery, he took notice of one of the statues. An angel statue, holding out its hands as if to be cradling body–only, it's holding air. Something strange about the statue struck Zack's interest. But he didn't know what it was.

Shaking off the oddball feeling, Zack exited the cemetery and got back into his pick-up truck, parked along the curb. Once more (probably the last time, he thought), he glanced over at the Ridgefield Cemetery before driving off.

3

Ridgefield, Connecticut

Lomax Manor

10:49 p.m.

The rain came down hard that night, pitter-pattering against Roseanne's–Rose, as she preferred to be called–apartment window. She was seated by the window and heater with her red curtains shut, in her favorite rocking chair next to the fire. She wore a blanket that covered from her waist down below her feet. Rose enjoyed nights like these, where she could sit by the cozy heater while reading one of her favorite horror-mystery novels written by her favorite writer–best-selling horror author, Kurt Nelson.

Rose finished her current chapter, then placed a white bookmark in the page before closing it and setting it aside on the table. She picked up her steamy hot green tea and took a tiny sip, so she wouldn't burn her lips or tongue.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rose, tea halfway from her mouth, turned to her apartment door. Those tapping sounds... The same ones she has been hearing for the past few nights now. The same tapping sounds no other resident within the senior living facility had heard.

And that
odor
… The invisible trail of burning ember whiffed under her nostrils. It grew stronger, overpowering.

All the seniors would gossip and whisper to one another that Roseanne was the next one on Death Row, or simply going crazy. That she was getting too old. She hadn’t only heard tapping noises, but actually seen an animal walking around on the fourth floor.

Her floor.

Rose placed her tea cup on the saucer, and shuffled to her door, opening it just enough to peek out. She looked to her left; just two other apartment doors, adjacent from each other, and the corridor leading down the other end of the hall. Then she turned to her right. The sight before her, at the way end of the hall, froze up her body.

It was back. Again.

Her eyes became misty. Her throat dried up, unable to create a sound.

It was evil. It was the size of a hound. It had extremely thick black fur that never shed, red glowing eyes with gigantic teeth, and talon-like nails.

It snarled at Rose, foaming at the mouth. Its moist snout sniffed at the air. Sniffing out her.

Its prey.

Tap. Tap.

It took two steps forward.

Rose leaped back into her apartment and slammed the door shut, locking it. She rushed over to her phone that lay on the kitchen counter, dialing the front desk. The security guard there answered, and was greeted by an unexpected cry for help.

Rose looked over her shoulder, and emerging from the darkness of her bedroom was the hound with the glowing red eyes. How did it get in? How? Rose's body became paralyzed. The hound growled at her once more and before she could let out a scream, it pounced.

———

Paul hated doing the overnight shifts. Mainly because after a certain hour of the night, it got dead. At eight o'clock, the older crowd went up for the night. The “younger” seniors stayed out, but not much longer. Tonight was different. Dead to the point Paul felt he was doing an actual graveyard shift...in a graveyard. The one resident, Peter, who kept Paul occupied by nagging him all night to change the channel on the television in the ground floor lounge, had gone up early the past few nights due to a cold.

Paul leaned back in the black leather chair, hands resting on his bald head, and huffed in boredom. He had one more hour to go before the next guard would come on duty to relieve him. Just like any other job, the last hour dragged.

The buzzer sounded, signaling a resident–or perhaps a visitor–looking to get in. At times, children who lived around the area would play with the buzzers during all hours of the day to continuously piss off whoever worked at the desk. Numerous times in Paul's one year working at Lomax Manor he had to deal with the brats and argue with them. He swore next time one of them messed with the buzzer he'd go to jail.

He made his way down the lobby, to the parking lot entrance. He opened up, allowing a gentlemen wearing a baseball cap in his early seventies into the building. The old man shook off his raincoat and briefcase upon entering. Paul shut the door behind him, making sure it was secure.

"Hey, Paul, how's it going?"

"Just bored out of my mind, Richie," Paul said.

"That always happens the last hour." Paul rolled his eyes in agreement. "Helluva night, huh? This storm just came outta nowhere."

"I know, it's crazy. We weren't supposed to have rain until later this week. The damn storm has been causing the lights to flicker. But everything seems okay...for now."

The two headed back toward the lobby.

"How was the ball meeting?" Paul asked.

"Eh, was okay. I'm just waiting for retirement."

Paul returned back behind the desk once they entered the lobby. Richie stood beside it.

"Hey, Paul? Have you been hearing all the whack-a-doo rumors going around this dump lately?"

Intrigued, Paul leaned in. "No. What rumors?"

Richie looked around and spoke in a lower tone. "Is anyone else around here?"

"No. It's just been me."

"Okay, good." Richie cleared his throat. "Anyway, apparently one of the residents has been hearing these weird tapping noises during the night, in the hallway. Not just hearing things but seeing things, too."

"Seeing things?"

"Yes. She's been going around saying she's seen a black, demon dog walking around the fourth floor halls." Paul squinted. "I've asked around and everyone that I've talked to didn't see or hear anything."

"That's strange."

"Right." Richie broke out in a laugh.

"The only kind of dogs allowed in this building are ones the sizes of cats."

"I'm telling you, Paul, this place is going insane. That's why I just stay in my apartment, keep to myself, say 'hi' and 'bye' to people and do my thing."

"Who's been seeing this?" Paul asked.

"Roseanne."

In shock, "Rose? No way. She's one of the few people in here with all her marbles. It can't be her."

Richie nodded his head in disbelief. "I didn't believe it either until I talked to her the other day." There was a beat of silence before Richie spoke again. He patted his hand on the desk. "Well, this old geezer is off to bed. Will you be on tomorrow night?"

"No, it's my off day. I'll be back Monday, though."

"Okie dokie. Good night, Paul."

"Good night."

Richie took two steps, then turned back to Paul with a grin. "Watch out for those dogs."

Paul forced a smile as Richie slapped his knee and headed for the elevator. Paul took a seat once the elevator got moving. The moment his ass hit the leather, the phone rang, echoing throughout the lobby.

"Lomax Manor, this is Paul, how may I help you?" Paul jumped up off the chair. It rolled on its wheels and smacked into the wall. "Rose?"

———

Paul darted for the elevator, pressing the buttons rapidly as if playing one of those finger tapping games on your smart phone. It was on the seventh floor and gradually making its way down. Before the door could open halfway, Paul jumped inside, madly pressing buttons.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open once it reached the fourth floor. Paul squeezed through the crack in the door when the elevator dinged jumping out, darting to Roseanne's apartment.

Paul yanked and twisted at the locked door.

"Shit!"

Paul fumbled at the keys on his belt, searching through the dozen keys until he found the Master to Apartments key and unlocked her door, tripping as he entered.

Rose's apartment was dark and silent. Her phone was dangling, tapping against the bottom of the counter. A trail of red liquid lead from the phone to the living room. Paul knelt down and ran his fingers through it.

Blood.

He darted into the living room screaming Rose's name. He halted. Paul gulped, then took a step closer.

Rose's body was flat out on top the coffee table. A chunk of flesh was missing from her neck, a pool of blood forming before Paul's eyes. The window was open, and, for a split second, Paul could've sworn he seen a black hound leaping out to the dumpster below.

Paul whipped out his cell phone and punched 911.

"Help! I need help!"