Nine weeks ago.
Timothy sprinted
through the thick underbrush. Prickers clawed at his clothes and skin, tearing
both. Wet mud from a passing shower kicked up from his soiled sneakers onto his
calves and white socks. The sun's rays had not yet baked the earth into solid
clay, blocked out by tall pines and shady willows.
Timothy's eyes
darted from tree to tree as he overcame them. He frantically searched for a
place to hide. She'd be coming for him soon, and he knew it. She was probably
already gaining on him, not far behind at all. He needed cover fast.
He spotted a
felled tree, a remnant of a hurricane whose passing had been forgotten. He ran
to it. The dense, fat base of the dead oak would veil him from her view. For
now, he could rest, but he'd need to move again soon.
Her voice grew
nearer. Its soft, seeking tone and her impetuous laughter traveled as if on
fallen angel wings to his uninhibited ears. She hunted him, seeming to prey
upon her own excitement.
Timothy crouched
into the orange, red and yellow leaves of fall's beginnings. The leaf pile was
high, an unusual accumulation for so early in the season. He thought to bury
himself in them. Surely the pile was big enough for it. But the smears of blood
painting his legs and the droplets still running down them would act as an
adhesive, accumulating plant life. His flight would be harrowed by the
crinkling of dead leaves rubbing together and crumbling as they fell from his
body. There was so much blood that it startled him. He paused to check his
wounds. Blood stained the leaves around him. But he felt no pain and could only
find superficial cuts, no cause for alarm. At the moment, he had more pressing
concerns.
His breath came
out more and more slowly as he regained his stamina. It formed into a layer of
condensation, melting in the air like steam from the mouth of a dragon. He
closed his eyes and waited for the right moment to move.
The above
selection is Chapter 2 of my debut novel, What
Hides Within. Readers may wonder why I chose to add this chapter, barely
more than a page long. In truth, I wanted to start the book with it, but since
Timothy and his pursuer aren’t primary characters, it didn’t seem appropriate. However,
the chapter sets up the first of many felonies, none of which are as simple as
they may appear.
Still, this
chapter was immensely fun to write, offering me a chance to mislead the reader
into seeing something dark and dangerous in an ordinary childhood pastime. Did
it work? You tell me. At the least, the chapter seems to gel with the overall
tone of What Hides Within--dark,
mischievous, and sometimes brooding. Plus, there’s blood. Who doesn’t like
blood?
Her many legs
pitter-pattered across the hardwood floor. She moved with purpose, surveying
each obstacle in her path. Each stride was light but deliberate, inaudible to
the human ear, her eventual target.
Outside the
bedroom door, a tabby cat lay twitching, not quite dead. Chester used a minimal
dose of her liquid death on the feline, conserving the bulk of it for her much
larger target. Dispatching the kitty wasn’t necessary. She probably could have
avoided the cat’s detection with ease. But she hadn’t lived as long as she did
by taking unnecessary risks. With most of her kind dead and gone, she felt it
her obligation to survive and carry on what they had started so many years ago.
She would do so at all costs.
Her venomous
glands were nearly full again, pumping poison toward the hollowed tips of her
fangs. She felt them gush with energy as she trotted toward the leg of Derek’s
bed. Like a surge of adrenalin, the venom made her feel alive.
What I like
about the above moment in What Hides
Within is that it’s the first time I allowed myself to become Chester, my
malevolent widow spider. I give insight into her motives and hints at her true
nature. Plus, it’s kind of fun to be a spider, if but for a chapter or two.
I enjoy writing
from the point of view of the deviant-minded or the criminally insane. Even my
most moral of heroes are always somewhat less than perfect. But my villains,
well, they’re the most fun. Morality is for the lemmings.
Gone are the
days of Hulk Hogan telling us to drink our milk and take our vitamins. The
anti-hero is the new hero, so the new villain has to be downright dastardly. Admit
it! Sometimes you can’t help but route for the villain. Perhaps there is a
little Chester in all of us . . . not literally, I hope.
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