Dark Water Sacrifice Read online

  Dark Water Sacrifice

  Zach Lamb

  Copyright © 2021 by Zach Lamb

  Artwork: Adobe Stock: © Brilliant Eye

  Design: Services for Authors

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2021

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  something nice will happen.

  For Greenlee.

  I only wish I could better show you the depths of your father’s love.

  Acknowledgements

  Every author gets asked where they get their ideas, whether it’s from fans, interviewers or worried mothers after they read a story about a serial killer. The truth is, we get them from everywhere. Small conversations had or overheard and observations of perceived strange occurrences have inspired many stories. The trick is you don’t have to see things the way they actually are to be inspired by them.

  This book doesn’t happen without Greenlee. Or I should say it’s a far different book without her in my life. Without her, it’s a typical ghost story. She gives the story heart and is my heart and the reason for any choices I make. For those who know her story, I beg that you not try to draw too many connecting lines. You probably won’t find them and will end up wandering down the wrong dark path if you look too hard.

  I’d like to thank my family and friends for their continued support since the last acknowledgements page.

  Thank you to everybody at darkstroke for allowing me the opportunity for this second novel. It was a foregone conclusion that I could write a novel, at least to me it was. But my dream was to be published and to be prolific. The Suicide Killer was the first step and with this release, you have helped me on my way to finding the second, and for that, I am grateful.

  This novel was my MFA thesis project and the following writers/professors helped me immensely along the way: Bobbi Miller, Cindy Skaggs, Shana Chartier, Melissa Hart, Rachel Carter, Jennifer Brissett, Diana Francis, Gabino Iglesias, and Angie Smibert. Thank you all.

  There is one writer who I did not put in the above list, but she was not forgotten. No, I wanted to give her her own paragraph. A special thank you to my thesis advisor, Patricia Lillie. Her guidance and advice throughout the entire process were invaluable to this book and me as a writer.

  I can’t speak about my MFA experience without thanking everybody in our MFA Whinery group. I’m not sure if we kept each other sane or each of us went a little crazier during the process, but I do know that we helped each other along the way. Much love.

  And finally, I would like to thank the readers who have taken the time to read this story. Extra thanks to those who read my first book and came back.

  About the Author

  Zach Lamb is a fictionist who creates thriller, horror and dark fiction stories. He is the author of The Suicide Killer and Dark Water Sacrifice. Zach has an MFA in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University. He lives with his wife and kids in the non-fictional town of Ellerslie, Georgia, named after the fictional character Captain Ellerslie from the Waverley Novels.

  Dark Water Sacrifice

  Chapter One

  Something malevolent hid beneath the churning black water. The entire family knew to be cautious of the large lake that sat on the back of their property. His son blamed him and left town the same way he left them on that bank. It was as much his son’s fault as anybody else’s. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her.

  The water looked alive as it splashed and gurgled toward the falls. It wasn’t his fault. Everything happened fast. One second she was asking him what kind of fish she saw, and the next, he was running down the bank trying to find her in the inky black water.

  He woke with these images every morning and went to be with them every night like a lover he was ashamed of being seen with. She knew not to get too close to the water.

  But she loved the water.

  Any chance the little girl had she’d spend in the swimming pool behind the house. She was only six, but a strong swimmer. Every day after working on the family farm, Phil Blackwell sat and watched his granddaughter jump off the diving board and swim laps around the pool. He’d rest with a well-deserved ice-cold beer in his hand and laugh as Grace Ann played. She told him stories while she swam. Each resting point for her was another chapter in her book. Grace Ann loved to tell her Grandpa stories. They were all about monsters and bad guys. Except her stories always had a happy ending. Evil never triumphed over good like it did, sometimes, in her daddy’s books.

  At random intervals she’d stop and act out her stories as she told them. She’d swim up to Phil and tell him to ‘freeze,’ or to ‘put your hands up or I’ll shoot,’ and like any good-Grandpa-bad-guy would do, he put his hands high above his head. A devious smile crossed her young face as she pulled the trigger of her water gun, soaking Phil. As she swam off giggling, he’d jump up from his squeaking lawn chair and act like he was about to jump in after her. She kicked harder and splashed Phil, drenching him even more. When she reached the other side of the pool, she started a new chapter of her story about her great escape from the big chair monster. Phil laughed and fell back into his chair. The worn woven straps pulled against each other and sounded like a dry rotted knot being pulled taut. Each time he plopped down he told himself one day he’d end up on his ass if he didn’t replace the old chair.

  He looked out over ‘God’s country’ as he called it, known as the 4B Ranch to everybody in town, and exclaim he was the luckiest man in the whole state because he had his farm and his family with him instead of scattered across the country by the four winds, like many of his friends from town.

  Scarsville, pronounced Scarsvul, by Phil and most locals, was a one-traffic light town in rural Georgia. Most of the children in Scarsville dreamed of a better life away from the small town that swallowed up their parents’ lives. They couldn’t wait to graduate high school and load up their cars and leave. Some found the shock of big city life and others the shock of big city jobs and bills. More than a few found their way back home after flunking out of college because they partied too much, or because city living didn’t end up being the great escape they thought it’d be. But not Phil’s boys. They stayed home and had no aspirations of leaving their hometown. His youngest son Brian was like his father. He woke before the sun came up, worked all day and came home for dinner. Sometimes he’d have a date in town with one of the girls he graduated with, but it mostly consisted of dinner at Mama’s Diner, or whatever they were calling it now days, followed by a few rounds at Sharky’s Pool Hall.

  Phil’s oldest son, Adam, stayed home, but not because he didn’t want to leave town. He was a writer and said he could live anywhere. It didn’t matter to him. Adam married his high school sweetheart, and it mattered to her where they lived. Mandy went to college an hour away from home, but she wouldn’t stay in the dorms. She didn’t want any part of the city. She made the drive back and forth until she finished her degree in Early Childhood Education. It took her five years and two cars, but she graduated and stayed at home to teach at the county school with no plans of going back to the city for more than a visit. Phil was as proud of her as if she were one of his own children.

  Adam woke up well after the crack of dawn, and stumbled out into the bright su
nlight with his hands shading his eyes from the sun overhead and exclaim ‘bright light, bright light.’ It was a movie reference, but Phil never knew which one. He’d track Phil down and ask him if there was anything he needed to do before he started writing. Adam wasn’t like Brian. Brian woke up and knew what to do, but Adam had to be told what to do.

  The farm life never agreed with him. His head was always somewhere else, lost in whatever new story he was writing. He had a few tastes of success with short stories and a well-received first novel. It was the first novel he published, but the second one he’d written. He hid his first novel in an old wooden box their mother bought in the antique store in the town square. Adam told him he never wanted to publish the book, or for anybody else ever to read it. He called it his trunk novel, but Phil didn’t know why he’d want to write something and hold on to it. Phil asked if it was because he didn’t think it was any good. A strange expression crept across Adam’s face and he said it felt too real, almost prophetic. Adam looked sad, but Phil didn’t push him to explain any further. He knew his son didn’t like anybody to push him to talk about something he didn’t want to discuss.

  After Adam worked half of day with a break to eat and do a little writing, he spent time with the family and headed upstairs to his old room to write until the early hours of the next day. These unsolidified schedules didn’t bother anybody. It made Phil happy to have his family together under the same roof.

  But that was all before Grace Ann died.

  The guilt made him see things. The first time he saw Grace Ann after her death, she was looking through the living room window. Phil sat passed out in front of the TV where he’d been watching the news through drunken eyes, swimming in cheap whiskey. He fell asleep as the talking heads argued about the horrible state of the country and its leaders. A loud static burst from the TV woke him. The sudden change to white noise, and the volume, startled him. He jumped to his feet and tripped over the recliner footrest. The world went sideways as he fell and landed hard on his left hip. Sharp pain ran through his leg and halfway up his back. Gritting his teeth, he lay on the floor trying to decide if he broke his hip, or if he could walk it off.

  Snowy static raced across the screen. He didn’t know TVs still did that. It had been years since he remembered seeing it happen. Black and white hyphenated lines jumped around the screen. It was like staring at one of those 3D pictures that were popular when the boys were young. He always had trouble seeing the image in the frame. No matter how long he stared, he ended up with strained and crossed eyes.

  Then he saw her. Not in the snow on the TV, but through the window when he looked past the lines on the screen. The porch light reflected golden highlights off her brown hair. She giggled and moved one of her hands to her mouth. The laughter sounded like Grace, but it was farther away than where she stood. It had a hollow, echoey quality to it, like she was standing at the bottom of a well. Phil smiled at the little girl. She always laughed when Phil hurt himself, mainly because he used potty-words, and her mother told her ladies did not use that type of language.

  He lifted an arm out to her, hoping she’d come in and help him up off the floor. Grace put both of her hands back on the windowsill. A blue flash ripped through her green eyes. Phil noticed the spark, but continued to smile. It was awfully good to see her again, even if it was a trick of his sloshed brain. Her eyes were two blue burning orbs. They reminded him of the stars he and Grace Ann saw through her telescope on clear nights.

  A chill ran through his aching body, and his mind cleared. She can’t be here. The hair on his arms stood on end. What he saw terrified him, but he needed to get outside and talk to her. She’d come home from wherever she’d been. If he got her to stay, maybe her parents would come back home too. He put both hands flat on the floor and pushed himself up. It’d been a while since he’d done any pushups, but he managed to get himself to the coffee table and fight the rest of the way up. His hip ached, and new pain sensations flowed down his leg. The hip didn’t break, but he’d hurt like hell in the morning. Head spinning, he stumbled around the living room. Grace continued her sweetly haunted cave giggle.

  Phil tripped his way to the door but stopped short of opening it to steady himself. It didn’t work. There was no way to tell if it was still the whiskey or excitement that caused his hands to tremble as he grasped the knob and pulled the door open. Grace turned from the window and stared at him as he stepped outside.

  Her hair no longer shined like before. It was dull and matted. It didn’t reflect the porch light anymore. Now it seemed to absorb all the surrounding light, making everything around her faded and washed out. She wore the navy-blue dress she had on the last time he saw her. She loved that dress. Every time she wore it, she’d ask Phil to sit and watch as she twirled, making the pleated ends spin like a pinwheel. The water-drenched dress was darker, and pale blue light escaped through rips in the pleats. A large puddle of water had formed at her feet and spread out across the wooden porch. The edges of the puddle reached out like jagged fingers toward Phil’s feet and caused him to take a step back. This couldn’t be real. Grace Ann had been dead for two years. He must have hit his head when he fell. The best thing for him to do would be to go inside and lay down. But you shouldn’t to go to sleep if you had a concussion, right?

  He took a step toward the door, and she pointed her small finger at Phil. The shredded ends of her fingernail split down the middle and ran to the blackened cuticle.

  “It’s your fault.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Gracie. I only wanted you to enjoy yourself.”

  The light in the house extinguished, enveloping the living room in darkness. The change caught Phil off guard and when he turned to look, the little girl ran down the stairs into the damp grass. Missing her left shoe didn’t seem to bother or slow her down. Phil ran into the front yard after her. She slipped through the barbed wire fence and continued into the pasture. Phil tried to shake the fuzz from his head. Did she run through the barbed wire? He hadn’t seen her duck under the sharp barbs. He ran to the pasture, but it was a slow and meandering course. His head swam with the liquor he drank earlier.

  He made it to the gate and yelled, “Grace Ann, come back … please,” and doubled over.

  The gate held him as he caught his breath until he could stand up straight. The horizon glowed blue. All his years living here, he had never seen the sky glow like that. It was too late to be sunset. His eyes traced the winding trail of the radiant blue. It wasn’t coming from the sky. It was coming from the lake. He opened the gate and walked toward the glowing water. That’s where she was headed. Back to her new home.

  ***

  Phil woke up in his bed. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 2:02. The sun was out, so it had to be in the afternoon. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept this late. If he ever had. He also couldn’t remember ever going to sleep. That wasn’t as big of a surprise. There were many nights Phil didn’t remember going to bed, but even on those nights, he still woke with the sun. What he did remember was Grace Ann standing at his window and blaming him for what happened to her. He should probably call somebody, but what would he say? They wouldn’t believe him anyway, especially not Adam. He’d try to have him committed, but he wouldn’t care enough to do that. He wouldn’t even answer the phone.

  Still sleepy, Phil walked down the stairs and outside. Clouds covered the sun, but did nothing for the heat. He sat down in his rocking chair, waiting for Grace Ann to return as much as trying to figure out what happened to him the night before.

  It didn’t feel like it, but he must have sat in the same spot for hours because Brian returned from the fields after working all day. The sun was setting behind the lake. Brian looked pissed. Phil didn’t blame him. He had left Brian to do all the work while he slept until after lunch and sat in this chair for the rest of the day. Brian walked up the steps with heavy feet.

  “Hey, son. I wanted to say—”

  “Save it. I don’t want to hea
r what you have to say. I found you passed out in the middle of the pasture. I had to carry your drunk ass back to the house and get you in bed.”

  “I’m sorry you had to do that. You shouldn’t have to see me like this, and I shouldn’t’ve left you with all the work to do yourself.”

  “Hell, Daddy, I’m not mad about that. I’m used to doing most of this myself,” Brian said, pointing a finger toward the barn. “What I’m pissed about is you left the damn gate open when you decided to go for a walk last night.”

  Phil hung his head to his chest.

  “I spent the whole morning tracking down the cows that got out.”

  Phil looked up at his son. Brian loomed over him like a domineering father disciplining his unruly child. Maybe that’s how Phil was acting.

  “Did they all get out?”

  Brian turned and spit a wad of chew off the side of the porch. Black juice ran down his face, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

  “No, but the ones that did made it three miles down the highway to the Martin’s house. Mr. Martin called this morning and said they were at his house and had made Mrs. Martin’s begonias their breakfast.”

  Phil smirked a little.

  “It’s not funny. Now, I have to go back over there and replace them all while that old woman stands over me yelling how I’m doing it wrong.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Looks like you fell off the Waterwheel again. I’m going to town,” Brian said and went inside.

  Phil stayed on the porch long after Brian left. Sometime after two in the morning, Phil decided he hadn’t seen Grace Ann. It had all been a drunken hallucination, and there was no need to tell anybody about it and look like a fool. He continued to rationalize everything until he saw her again.