Night as a Catalyst: A Horror Anthology Read online

  Night as a Catalyst

  a horror anthology written by Chad Lutzke

  eBook edition

  Copyright © 2015 Chad Lutzke

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Cover painted by Toeken (www.atoekeneffort.weebly.com)

  To join Chad Lutzke's reader group for a free book and giveaway announcements, visit

  www.chadlutzke.weebly.com

  The Gossip Surrounding Chad Lutzke

  "Chad Lutzke is an excitingly fresh emerging voice in the horror scene. His writing pulls you in, and his stories are chilling and stay with you well after a thoroughly satisfying read!"

  ~ Nicholas Grabowsky, Black Bed Sheet Books & author of Halloween IV

  _______

  “Chad Lutzke has an awesome grasp of descriptive writing...Brilliant malevolence! He is a true master at his craft”

  ~Blaze McRob, Bram Stoker Award nominee

  _______

  " Lutzke is a student of the horror genre with a rich voice that needs to be heard.”

  ~ author, Terry M. West

  _______

  "Lutzke's writing is personal, detailed and often heart breaking in a terrifying way."

  ~ Matt Molgaard, Horror Novel Reviews

  ________

  "Chad Lutzke is an emerging and exciting dark author with a firm grasp on the genre. His shadows have drastically different heartbeats, unique souls, but are unified by their dark charm and bleak shrouds."

  ~ Zachary Walters, The Mouths of Madness Podcast

  _______

  "Lutzke has a way with words that merges horror and compassion in a single sentence. Reminiscent of Robert McCammon."

  ~Joe Mynhardt, Crystal Lake Publishing

  _______

  "Unique and enveloping. At times playful and alternately existential, though always invoking empathy for the protagonist's predicament. Chad Lutzke's writing is doubtlessly bleak, yet with an odd sense of hope."

  ~ author, James Ferace

  _______

  "Chad’s writing is a trip to the buffet of horror. No stone left unturned."

  ~ Blaine Cook, vocalist for The Accused, Toe Tag, & The Fartz

  Dedication & Gratitude

  This book is dedicated to my biological father, Richard Charles Johnson, whom without I may have never read, let alone write.

  I believe in gratitude. That being said, thank you: My wife, Mary, who provides a tremendous amount of encouragement and allows me to bounce ideas off from her and she’ll bounce back, who lets me know when something stinks and when something is good—my biggest fan. My children, who I force to stop what they’re doing to act as reading guinea pigs. My mother, who doesn’t care for horror yet is my second biggest fan and showers me with praise and encouragement. My Dad, Fred, who has read everything I've given him when I didn’t expect it; thank you. God and His Son for the talent and life experience to draw from. Dan Padavona for the foreword and encouragement. Terry M. West for great reads and encouragement. Joe Mynhardt from Crystal Lake Publishing for his friendliness, generosity, and time (I'll get in one of those books eventually). Toe for his beautiful painting for the cover. Ian Bush, who inspired me to start writing again. Shawna Platt for her helpful advice. Matt Molgaard from Horror Novel Reviews for his willingness to help and encouragement. Scott Webb for his supportive feedback. Dave Dewey for the trucker research for "Deprivation." The Cult of Me blog for Michael Brookes’ monthly contest that motivated me to write from picture prompts. Nicholas Grabowsky, Blaze McRob, James Ferace, Lord Zippy Blaine Cook, and Zachary Walters from The Mouths of Madness Podcast for taking the time to read my stories and give such kind praise in the form of blurbs. Rebecca Boucher, Gabe Fontes, Lennon Sundance, Candace Steele, Tim Borgman, The Phoenix Writers, J. Thorn, my mother-in-law Julia, Jodine Thurston. Joe Lansdale, Robert McCammon, and Stephen King for inspiration. The Gaming on Weeks Ave friends who have purchased anything I’ve written—especially Anthony, a nonreader, who read One for the Road not once but twice. Anyone who has ever taken the time to read anything I’ve written, left Amazon or Goodreads rating/feedback, read my blog and acknowledged my entries with comments, or helped spread the word by sharing stuff on Facebook. And a big thank you to you if you're reading this, because that means you've helped support my work by purchasing this book.

  *Please take note that after each story in this book I took the liberty of offering a look inside the creation of each. These author notes often contain spoilers, so I'd save those nuggets until after you've read the story it pertains to.

  Table of Contents

  The Gossip Surrounding Chad Lutzke

  Dedication & Gratitude

  Foreword

  One Up a Tree

  Collecting Cats

  Mama’s Wooden Babies

  Moving Made Easy

  Coming Undone

  Birthday Suit

  A Hand With the Harvest

  Apple Sauce

  Discerning the Adversary

  One for the Road

  Peepshow

  Chow

  Quilted

  Deprivation

  Feeling Blue

  Quitters Never Win

  Torn

  Self-Immolation

  The Haunting of the Squirrel

  About the Author

  Foreword

  I first encountered Chad Lutzke through the magical channels of social media. Chad was writing excellent articles for Horror Novel Reviews, and he probably gave my debut novel a chance because he was a lifelong fan of my father, the late Ronnie James Dio.

  We instantly connected due to our similar tastes in horror, prose, and yeah, rock-n-roll, baby, and it was pretty darn obvious from the first short story of Chad's that I read that he knew the world of horror inside and out. He knows what scares people, and he creates dark scenes and situations that will stick in your head long after you turn the lights off and try to sleep.

  But what I find most striking about Chad's writing is its brutal honesty. He dug deep into his emotional reservoir for his short story, Self-Immolation. Anyone who has lost someone close to them will recognize the anguish of Chad's story. He can tell you a frightening story and tie a nice bow of a life lesson around it - something which most authors do not attempt because it is so difficult.

  Now Chad brings us his first anthology of stories, and I couldn't be happier for him. In these pages, you will encounter nightmares that will make you think, feel, and cringe. Go forward, brave traveler. But be forewarned. Here, there be dragons.

  ~Dan Padavona

  author of Dark Vanishings and son of the late, great Ronnie James Dio

  One Up a Tree

  The two had been lost in the unfamiliar woods at least through lunch, maybe longer. They were no veterans when it came to camping, fishing or anything country related, outside of watching stars through drunken eyes. The rod and reels in their sweaty fists grew heavy, while blisters and mosquitoes wreaked havoc on their city skin.

  "See the tops of the trees over there and how you can't see any more trees behind them? That means there's a body of water on the other side of that line. We could follow the water around until it eventually leads to our camp." Greg had a look of relief as he spoke.

  "I thought you said there were like three lakes out here." Allen's statement killed Greg's newfound relief. He was right. There was more than one lake. He had forgotten, and if they followed the wrong one, they would end up lost all the more.

  "Two lakes,” Greg admitted. “I hadn't thought of that. Let's head over in that direction anyway. We should be able to tell if it's the one we're looking for."

  Greg's initial plan was that of a re-bonding experience
between the two childhood friends. Over the last ten years they had slowly grown apart, or rather Greg had grown while Allen remained idle with no ambition to be anything more than what he already was: 28 going on 16. The growing differences between them led to several years of nothing but an occasional phone call and the obligatory Christmas card. With a weekend away from everything but a fire, some fishing, and words to trade, Greg anticipated sessions of "remember when" stories in hopes of resurrecting the bond.

  "How's the wife?" Allen asked as he stared at the forest ground watching each step he took.

  "Suz is great, man. Thanks. Actually she just finished up school and got her degree."

  "Nice, nice." The words sounded forced. "English, right?"

  "Psychology."

  "Nice. That'll come in handy." Allen forced again.

  Greg sensed sarcasm but wasn’t sure. "And how's your better half?"

  "Great, man. She's just great."

  Greg could tell by his tone and lack of elaboration that Allen and his wife were not doing well. If correct, it would mirror every relationship Allen ever had, all ending poorly. Greg had hoped to knock some adult sense into Allen during their trip. One and a half failed marriages and ten jobs later, one would think Allen would take self inventory and discover perhaps there are some gears in there that need a good oiling. Yet judging by conversation during the car trip, and now the two plus hour hike in the woods, apparently he was perfectly content with his burgers, beer, and broads. So far the trip did nothing more than confirm they were two different people in two different worlds.

  "Let me hit your canteen, bro," Allen said.

  "Hit your own, man."

  "Can't," Allen pointed his thumb behind him to his backpack. "Got 'er in there."

  Greg handed him the canteen. Allen grabbed it and chugged half of the contents, then poured another third over his head, soaking the T-shirt tightly wrapped around it. Without looking, Allen could tell Greg wasn't pleased with his overuse of the water. The heat, and being lost, made the perfect recipe for agitation.

  "You said there's a lake on the other side of that tree line, right?" Allen said as he handed back the nearly empty canteen. Greg could tell what Allen was getting at; they could easily fill it back up once they got there. Greg silently agreed by polishing off the rest of the contents.

  Ten more minutes of walking revealed Greg was right; the tree line did act as a border for a body of water. But the small size of it, in comparison to the lake they hoped for, made it obvious this would not be leading them back to their campsite.

  They stared silently at the water, both fighting the urge to let loose a string of obscenities and wondering how two grown men got lost in the woods. Allen picked up a rock and chucked it at the water, skipping it several times. Hypnotizing ripples eased their way back to the shore. Greg took out his cell phone to check for a signal—something that had become a bit of an obsession the past hour and a half.

  "Still nothing?" Allen asked.

  "Nope, not a thing."

  "Yeah, same here," Allen said while slipping his own phone into the side of his backpack. The cell phones contrasted heavily with their surroundings. Being this much out of their element—and normally cell phone dependent—made them feel vulnerable and clumsy, stupid even.

  “Al!” Greg startled Allen out of the water-induced trance. “Look! It's a boat!" Greg pointed to the other side of the lake where a canoe lay resting on the shore.

  Allen clapped his hand on Greg's shoulder and squeezed. "This is definitely a good thing, man. There's a case of beer back at the camp that's suffering from separation anxiety and Al's gotta save her." With that he squeezed Greg's shoulder again and followed the shoreline toward the canoe. Greg quickly topped the canteen off with lake water and followed Allen's lead. As the canoe came into closer view, the foliage gave way to a small cabin up thirty yards past the canoe's anchoring.

  Allen stopped and looked back at Greg. "It just keeps getting better," he said with a smile.

  The cabin looked handmade but well built and sturdy. Dirty glass windows gave the appearance of abandonment, while a green primer-painted truck parked twenty feet over assured them the cabin was indeed occupied. A rope running between two nearby trees supported several animal skins of varying sizes; most appeared to be deer or elk, with the smaller sizes reminiscent of squirrel and rabbit. A small shack adorned with antlers, various bones and animal skulls nearly butted up against the back of the cabin.

  "Well we've got ourselves a hunter." Allen smarted off.

  "Sure looks that way. This guy probably knows every acre in these woods. No more hiking this weekend, all right? Fishing and fighting mosquitoes is enough adventure for me."

  "Ha! You’re telling that to the sluggard with the bad back?”

  The two approached the back door to the cabin and knocked. The door was thick and solid and soaked up much of the knock. Allen pounded harder with the meat of his fist. Still no answer.

  "Hello?!" They said in unison but off key with one another.

  Allen knocked again, harder.

  "Al, chill!" Greg held his hand up between Allen and the door. "It's a small cabin. If someone's in there, they've heard us by now."

  Allen walked to one of the windows and cupped his hands to see through but could make out nothing.

  "What do you think the chances are there's actually a land line in there?" Allen asked, still trying to make out something inside.

  "Next to nothing," Greg answered. "Not sure how much a phone would be of use to us anyway. You gonna call the local ranger’s office and get some quick directions? 'Um, yes. My friend and I are lost, and we're wondering if you could please give us directions to get from the little lake with the skins and bones cabin to the big lake with the beer.'"

  Allen gave up on the window. "Forget it. I'm going in." He reached for the door's knob, turned it freely and opened the door.

  "We're not doing this, Al," Greg protested.

  "Too late." Allen walked into the cabin.

  Greg looked around to make sure nobody was coming. Here he was in his late 20s and breaking into someone’s home, adding to the reasons the trip with Allen was a bad idea. To the astonishment of both of them, the inside of the cabin was exceptionally well kept and orderly. It had a strong, homey smell from years of burning logs in the fireplace. A long leather couch lay in the middle of the wooden floor. Bookshelves lined each wall between windows. A few deer heads and fish were mounted above, but nothing like you would expect after seeing the exterior of the house. This was no getaway. Someone resided here regularly, and from the looks of it they filled their days with hunting, fishing, and reading.

  "Nice place," Allen praised as he set down his fishing rod. "I'm gonna look for a phone."

  Greg stood inside and nervously played lookout near the door. "Al, how about we just wait outside. Whoever lives here will be home soon, I'm sure. Their truck is sitting right there. They’re probably out hunting or something. Come on, man."

  Allen turned and faced him. "Greg, we've been lost in the woods for hours. This isn't a joke. This isn't a game. This isn't fun. Whoever lives here I'm sure will understand our predicament and would do the same if they were in our shoes."

  Allen had a point, but barging into someone's house wasn't exactly a good way to make new friends. Allen stuck his nose in just about everything he could without opening any drawers or cupboards. After successfully finding nothing, Allen sat on the leather couch, sighed, and leaned into its overstuffed back. Even with his backpack still on, the couch was inviting and cloud-like.

  "No foolin', man. I have got to get one of these." Allen said as he stretched out his arms, grasping the back of the couch. This prompted Greg to watch even more skittishly through the dirty windows for any sign of the home owner.

  Allen patted and caressed the leather of the couch, then stood up to admire it. "I'd give all the beer at the camp for a day of rest on this beauty."

  "I highly doubt that," Greg r
eplied as he watched Allen make himself at home.

  "Ten bucks says that fridge over there is stocked full and nobody would notice if we snatched something." Greg nodded toward the beast of a refrigerator that sat in one corner of the cabin.

  "You're missing that self-awareness part of your brain, aren’t you, Al?"

  Allen stared long and hard at Greg contemplating what was just presented. "No. You know what? You're right. You're absolutely right. This isn't my place. I'm tired. I'm sore, and I'm starving."

  Greg was stunned. It was a legitimate confession, void of any sarcasm.

  "However," Allen added.

  There it is; the catch.

  “This couch is too inviting for this old back,” Allen said as he, once again, plopped down onto the leather sofa.

  Distracted by the obligation to babysit Allen, Greg nearly failed to spot the large man with the dog by his side quickly approaching the cabin. The man’s stride was swift and determined.

  “Uhh, Al! There’s a guy here. Get over here, now!”