Creature: Hayton County Supernatural Series - Book 1 Read online

  Hayton County Supernatural Series

  CREATURE

  Book 1

  by

  Margaret Lackey Marr

  Copyright 2020 by Margaret Marr

  All Rights Reserved

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Back to Top

  CHAPTER ONE

  A cross between a human and alien crouched in a clearing deep in the Western North Carolina mountains. Skinny – like a half-starved POW in some long-forgotten war – pale-skinned and bald, with white eyes that protruded from its emaciated face. The creepy-looking creature stared up at sixteen-year-old Mandy Jensen from her phone’s small screen, white eyes glowing, body coiled and ready to spring on whatever crossed its path.

  A chill skittered up her spine. Jesus, what is that thing?

  As she continued to study the picture, totally engrossed by the mystery, students rushed past her in a muted blur. Most banged into her or slipped around with a light brush against her arm, as they hurried to the cafeteria for some mediocre grub.

  A football player bumped her shoulder on purpose and knocked her forward a couple of steps. “Get your nose outta that phone and outta the way, dumbass.”

  “Hey!” She let out a loud sigh. “Not even an apology,” she mumbled. No one wanted to stand in line, since a long wait would only give them two minutes, if that, to gobble down their food before the next class bell rang. Not terribly great on the digestive system. Or clothes if they happened to be as klutzy as Mandy.

  Bradford Phillips – captain of the Mighty Hayton’s football team – whizzed by and grabbed the phone out of her hand. Freakishly tall and thin to the point of anorexia, he looked as if he should be playing basketball instead of football. In fact, she believed he played both. More time away from his meth-addicted father, she supposed. At least Bradford appeared not to be doing drugs.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  “Give it back, Bradford.” Mandy held out her hand and wiggled all four fingers.

  He laughed and tossed it to his buddy. “Take it.”

  Bradford’s buddy, George Larson – at least that’s what she thought his name was; she had no interest in the high-and-mighty-my-poop-don’t-stink jocks – tossed it to another football player.

  “Give it back before you break it, you morons!” Several students turned in their direction and stared with frank, amused curiosity. No one lifted a finger to help her. They never did.

  Typical. At least where she was concerned.

  When her phone sailed through the air again, Bradford snatched it and wiggled it under her nose as a taunt. “Or what? You gonna call your drunk-assed daddy to come haul me off to jail?”

  Someone in line snickered.

  Mandy sent them a scowl that would give the devil pause.

  They faced forward in a hurry like a soldier obeying orders. Some thought she might be a witch who could turn them into toads with just a single glance, which was totally ridiculous – you needed a spell for that.

  “Careful, he might get a DUI on the way to the station,” George said. “Or is that DWI? Which acronym are they using now?”

  Wow, a football player who knows the meaning of acronym. That’s unkind. Not all football players are dumb. But she wasn’t feeling particularly kind right now.

  “At least my daddy’s not a meth-head.” She shot Bradford a glare, then shame washed over her. And that’s not very kind, either! Especially since her daddy spent most of his waking hours with a beer bottle or a fifth of Jack Daniel’s fused to his hand.

  Anger replaced the glee on Bradford’s face, and he drew back his arm, hand balled into a fist, and swung.

  A dark hand flew out of nowhere and stopped the punch cold. The smack against his palm resonated throughout the cafeteria, and everyone froze into silence, except for a gasp here and there.

  “I suggest you rethink that,” her savior said in a low voice, causing the entire line to lean forward to hear him.

  “Bradford, what’re you doing?” George asked, no longer laughing. “Drunk-ass or not, you hit her, and her daddy will throw you through the jailhouse wall.”

  Mandy shrank back against the brick barrier that ran the length of the hall to the lunchroom, heart hammering as fear adrenaline-raced through her blood. Had Bradford really been about to punch her in the face? Surely, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be that stupid.

  Her rescuer bent Bradford’s wrist back until bones popped but didn’t break. “Try that again, and I’ll snap your wrist in two.”

  “Let go of me you over-zealous body-building baboon.” Bradford yanked his arm out of the big boy’s grip and snarled at Mandy as he tossed her the phone. “Take it. I don’t want you anyway.”

  She juggled the phone a time or two but managed to get a grip on it before it could bounce across the floor and land in several pieces. Her father had repeatedly told her he would not replace her Smart Phone if she broke it. She breathed a sigh of relief and held it against her chest, then frowned at what Bradford had said. Want you? What did he mean by that? Or had he just misspoken, or maybe he was so angry he didn’t know what the heck he was saying.

  Mandy stared after him, feeling somewhat sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy living with what he’s had to live with over the past few months.

  Bradford headed for the lunch line and cut in amid protests, but no one challenged him. He was a jock, after all, who was the best at just about every sport he played, and the student body worshipped jocks like they were Jesus the Savior come to take them to football heaven.

  “Why’d you call his father a meth-head?”

  Mandy took her attention from Bradford and stared at a wiry-muscled African American teenager with Denzel Washington eyes. After a moment, she dragged herself out of the depths of his irises and shrugged. “Because, he is a meth-head, just like my daddy’s a drunk.”

  “But your father is the sheriff.”

  “So long as he’s competent in his job, he’ll be just fine.” She tossed him a smirk. “Besides, he’s very good at pretending to be sober.” She poked the screen on her phone and drew up the picture again. “However, his chances of getting re-
elected might suck.” She moved to join the line, which had backed up beside her.

  The guy fell in behind her as she reversed directions to the tail end, preferring not to be a jerk like Bradford and break in front of someone.

  “I miss New York already,” her rescuer mumbled.

  Mandy stuffed her phone in the case clipped to her jeans. She used to stick it the back pocket of her jeans but dialing strange numbers with her ass a few times put a stop to that. She was pretty sure she’d gotten cussed out in Arabic once, though she didn’t think Arabic people cussed.

  “Ah, so you’re new here,” she asked. As if there had ever been any question on the point. “Why do you miss New York – besides, it being your last home? Or perhaps your only home ‘til now?”

  “No one knew anything about me there.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “For me it is.”

  “Well, since you pretty much saved me from a broken nose, or at the very least a bloody nose – thank you, by the way – do I get to know your name?”

  “Abraham Lincoln Abernathy.”

  Mandy laughed before she could stop herself. “Seriously? Your parents named you after the sixteenth president?”

  “Well, he was against slavery.”

  Mandy held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Abraham Lincoln Abernathy; my name’s Amanda Kate Jensen, but most people call me Mandy.”

  He slid his calloused hand into hers and gave it a firm squeeze.

  A city boy? His calloused-covered hands said something different. Maybe he ain’t afraid of hard work. She liked that. A lot.

  “Since I’m most likely your only friend right now, Abraham, you wanna sit with me for lunch?” Mandy asked.

  He hesitated a moment, and she thought he might walk away, but then he smiled and said, “Sure, and you can call me Abe.”

  They grabbed a tray, snagged a plate holding a cheeseburger and shoestring fries, and headed toward a corner table near the back as far away from the raucous football players as they could get, which didn’t put that much distance between them since she could still spot Bradford’s glare as if he stood right in front of her.

  “What were you looking at so intently on your phone a few minutes ago?” Abe bit off half the cheeseburger in one bite. “I thought for sure one of those bozos was going to flatten you a time a two, trying to get to their daily allotment of greasy, over-fried food.”

  “Just this weird picture.”

  “Can I see it?” he asked, his voice muffled by half a burger churning in his mouth.

  Jeez, he must really be bored with this place if he wants to see weird pictures on my phone. Mandy pulled the phone from her back-jean’s pocket and brought up the photo.

  He studied it a few seconds. “Creepy.” He shoved the rest of the burger in his mouth. “Real?” He said around a mouthful of masticated cow and real fake cheese.

  “Not sure. Thinking about going out tonight where it was taken and see if I can prove it a hoax.” She swished several skinny, fries through a lake of ketchup and stuffed them in her mouth. Wasn’t school food supposed to be healthier than this?

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. Something to do, mostly.”

  “Not a good idea – especially all by yourself.” Abe swallowed, took the camera from her, and studied the picture. “Looks like it’s a hell of a ways back up in the woods.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She wasn’t too sure she’d have the guts to venture out of her yard at night, even with a full moon. Not since her mother had disappeared in broad daylight. No telling what might happen in the dead of night. And what if she ran into that thing creeping around in the dark? She shuddered at the thought of coming face-to-face with it.

  An open carton of chocolate milk sailed through the air and landed on the table between them, sloshing brown liquid across the Formica and splashing the front of her white T-shirt.

  Mandy jerked back then looked toward Bradford and a table full of laughing football players. “Oh, now, that’s real mature.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped at the mess on her shirt, which didn’t help a whole hell of a lot. With a sigh, she gave up and tossed the soiled napkin aside in disgust. “I forgot what a great football arm, Bradford has.” She brushed at the brown mess on her shirt and grimaced.

  Surprisingly, Abe laughed. “I think he likes you.”

  “Oh, gee, how could you tell?”

  “Yeah, well, he better not try to hit you again.”

  * * * *

  As Abe unpacked the last of the boxes in his bedroom, he cursed himself a hundred times over. You weren’t supposed to make a friend. No, he was supposed to keep his head down, keep his mouth shut, so that maybe, just maybe, he and his mother might be able to stay in one location for more than six months – hell, they had had to leave New York only after two months. Because he couldn’t keep his big dumb self to himself. No matter how much people acted like idiots, turned on the stupid, or just plain got on your nerves, in the end they always need each other.

  If I’d just stop making friends, no one else would have to die around us.

  But he couldn’t just stand by and let some a-hole jock hit a girl. She’d been so nice, too, and those big blue eyes made it hard to resist her invitation to lunch – even if it was just for bottom-of-the-barrel cafeteria food. He was one of the idiots.

  You have rot for brains.

  He placed a picture of him and his last friend on the nightstand. A friend that had died because of the crap Abe’s life had become. He knew he shouldn’t keep the reminder, but he needed it to stay vigilant.

  Stay safe.

  Stay alone.

  Stay alive.

  He snorted. Yeah, right. Now he’d brought another potential victim to the devil’s party. Crap!

  “Abe!” his mother shrieked from the kitchen.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, he hadn’t smelled the smoke drifting through the house. What the hell had his mother set on fire?

  * * * *

  Bradford Phillips roared into the driveway where he lived with his parents – he never could quite think of it as home – and jammed his foot down on the brake just in time to keep from rear-ending his daddy, Jasper’s, precious fully loaded Silverado truck obtained through the illegal sell of drugs – methamphetamine, to be exact – or meth for short.

  From what he knew of meth, it stimulated the central nervous system and caused a rush of pleasure, or a prolonged sense of euphoria – an attractive high that his father could never resist. Use it for too long and the body loses the ability to experience pleasure on its own. Use it even longer and the body begins to break down.

  He glared at the fancy vehicle in front of him. He wanted to see that backend crumple like an accordion so badly that the rage poured through him with excessive force.

  Fuck, I hate my life.

  He sat behind the wheel for several long seconds to try and calm his anger. If he didn’t, bad things would happen. With an irritated yell, he smacked the steering wheel. He couldn’t believe he’d almost punched Mandy Jensen in the face.

  What’s wrong with you, dude? The state of your life is not her fault. And George was right. Her daddy would shoot him dead. You did not get between a man and his daughter. Ever.

  Mandy was so pretty and sweet. He’d wanted to ask her out on a date since ninth grade but had never mustered up the nerve. He couldn’t justify bringing someone that pretty and sweet home to Pa. Funny how he didn’t have a problem asking the head cheerleader out. But he didn’t really like her – sweet wasn’t in her vocabulary – so maybe that had something to do with it. She was just an amusing pastime. A pastime he was growing bored with quicker than ice cream melts in hundred-degree weather.

  After fifteen minutes and watching his mother part the curtains and look out for the tenth time, Bradford stepped onto the gravel. He made his way to the front door and let himself in. Home sweet Hell.

  He glanced at his father sprawled on a dog-chewed, green sofa wit
h a can of beer, scratching at his skin as if cockroaches crawled beneath the surface – another symptom of meth abuse. Acne and sores covered his once handsome face, and it was all Bradford could do to keep from sneering at his father and saying something that was sure to get the shit beaten out of him. First, though, he had to fight the urge to hurl.

  At least his father’s addiction hadn’t reached the broken, stained, and rotting teeth stage – yet – but it was only a matter of time before he ended up with meth mouth as well. Then, maybe, death would follow soon. Not soon enough.

  Bradford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He shouldn’t have such awful thoughts about his father, but hell, the man deserved them. Besides, he wasn’t much of a father.

  His mother, Rachel – a pale, lifeless woman with no real will to survive – kneaded the curtain between her fingers as if bracing herself for the next horrible thing to cross her path. She asked, “Can I fix you something to eat, Son?”

  His expression softened when he looked at her, but another glance at his father sent his appetite to the bowels of Mars. He shook his head and raced upstairs to his room.

  He slung his backpack into a corner and hurled his body across his queen-sized bed, which he hadn’t bothered to make in weeks… and apparently his mother had stopped cleaning house as well. He sniffed the sheets, wrinkled his nose, then stood and stripped everything down to the mattress.

  After making his bed with fresh sheets, he lay down and stared at the ceiling with his hands laced behind his head.

  His thoughts wandered to Mandy and forbidden ground. No, he would not go down that path with her, even if she wanted to. He would just have to convince himself he hated her to keep her safe from the thing he’d become because of his father’s addiction.

  * * * *

  After school, Mandy grabbed a frozen orange-sickle from the fridge and retired to her room. Her dad had called earlier to say he’d be home late because he was dealing with one mess after another, then mumbled something about the damn full moon keeping him from an ice-cold beer.

  Instead of diving into her homework like a good little student, she opened the creepy picture on her phone again. It almost seemed to be glaring at her, as if it could see her through remote-viewing and knew what she might be planning on doing if she could get up the nerve.