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  Dead Wrong

  Chronicles of the Dead Red Girl

  H L Goodnight

  Copyright © 2018 by H L Goodnight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  for my Mother, who believed in dreams

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Special Offer

  About the Author

  Also by H L Goodnight

  Chapter One

  Ham, the homeless man, hung out inside the enclosed hallway between the door leaving the building and entering the parking garage wasn’t there. Where he normally sat held his usual basket of red roses and indigo wildflowers. I grabbed a blue bud that had started to open, and put a five under the basket, tucking it into the wicker weave. My breath left puffs in the air.

  Fort Augustine was a city with mountains to the west, and a river running through its center. This time of year, our altitude turned fall to winter. I grew up learning all the words for the different types of snow. It was nice to see any color other than the grays of the season. I twirled the bud around before putting it into my jacket pocket.

  Opening the door to the parking garage, a sketchy-looking man held at a teenage boy by his coat collar. The boy couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He stank of designer everything, definitely an uptown kid. The ganger holding him by his fancy leather and fur coat shouted nonsensical words in his face.

  Both heard the heavy door shut behind me. The man let go of the kid, who immediately ran for the elevators. He faced me, and his head twitched in jerks to the side.

  Doing a quick scan, I saw a few cars in the lot, but no people. My high heels clicked as I walked towards the man. His curly dark hair had a streak of green dye in it. The scars on his hands, his face, his crooked and missing teeth, along with his broken nose that had never been set, all told the tale of being raised poor, spending time in prison, and ending up homeless. A constant tremor shook his body.

  He pointed at me, while his body continued to tremble. He spoke, but it was inaudible. The kind of nonsense babies and toddlers first speak.

  "What are you doing," I demanded.

  His eyes cleared for a moment and he said, “Have to.” His body jerked before he charged at me.

  I easily dodged his telegraphed move. Years of martial arts training came in handy during situations like this. I crouched and heard the ripping of the tight skirt.

  As he rushed towards me, I kicked him twice. Once in the hip, and once in the ankle. His ankle made a crunching noise as he fell to the ground.

  The teenager screamed into his cellphone to an emergency dispatcher. His voice echoed in the parking lot. He repeatedly smashed the button for the elevator.

  “Take the stairs kid!”

  The man held his side and pulled out a knife from his bag. It was big and looked odd. He stood up, his ankle at an odd angle. His foot was under his weight but to the side.

  He started to turn, moving towards the kid. Moving two swift steps, I kicked him in his ribs. It made a slight cracking noise. As I moved back, he jerked a bit, trying to breathe. He lunged forward with the dagger. It slashed through my jacket's sleeve and the shirt underneath and left a shallow cut.

  He swung the blade wildly.

  Deftly dodging, the sharpened edge tore my jacket. My attacker trembled as he continued to mumble unintelligibly to himself. His widened pupils almost eclipsed his irises. Whatever new manufactured evil the organized crime pushed on the streets, pumped through this guy's veins.

  The dagger looked like it belonged in a movie, with a Celtic style design on its hilt. The blade seemed very shiny, almost like chrome. He swung again, I moved out of the way without getting nicked.

  He stopped and grunted. His tremors continued.

  Our breaths left puffy clouds as we exhaled the cold air, a reminder that the holidays were upon us.

  The teen's screams into the phone were loud.

  I tried to keep the attacker's focus on me, but his eyes drifted to the kid. He mumbled and started towards the elevator.

  "Over here," I said.

  He shuddered and returned looking my way. He continued to limp in a way reminiscent of zombies in horror movies.

  He stopped to cough out laughter. Whatever he found amusing had interrupted his mad ramblings, but the laughter came out in high pitched bark and slightly screechy.

  The man slashed the knife back and forth. He kept coming, still shaking and speaking nonsense.

  The elevator doors banged shut, and the boy's voice faded.

  When the man approached within reach, I unleashed part of my strength. My left leg shot out, hitting his abdomen. Crunching and cracking sounds came from the impact. The dagger clattered to the ground, sliding away.

  I briefly glanced down at my skirt. The force of the kick finished ripping the seams up to the waist on both sides. What was the point of fashion? It certainly was not function.

  The man lied on the ground; his breathing labored. He tried to get up. Whatever he was flying on made him resistant to pain. Blood dripped from the sides of his mouth and nose.

  He needed to receive medical aid soon. A black shirt underneath peeked out from his worn leather jacket. The shirt had some kind of white, tattooed stylized design on the front. It was hard to make out since his jacket was halfway zipped up.

  "What's going on," I asked.

  "Gotta." He mumbled. "Gotta. Only way." He shook his head back and forth, "The wings. Black wings." Whatever he had imbibed made the rest of his words unintelligible.

  Who tries to rob people with a weapon that looks like a bad movie prop? Why wouldn't you use a gun? Feeling like my thoughts had jinxed reality, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, antique gun.

  "A derringer? Did you rob a movie lot or an antique store?" I asked aloud not really expecting a response.

  He laughed a bit, and the gun shook in his quivering grasp. I didn’t want to get shot. I sped to the side trying to avoid it. I rushed towards him in a burst of speed with the hope that I could disarm him before he shot me.

  The gun went off, and I twisted to the side. The bullet grazed my left side below my rib cage. He kept pulling the trigger, but it had carried only one bullet.r />
  I held my side. The small bullet packed a punch at close range. Covering the wound, I went down to a crouch. It hurt, but the shock blocked most of the pain.

  He came closer walking on his ankle. He wasn't cautious and came towards me with death in his eyes. “Have to,” he muttered. “Have to for the black wings.”

  Dark red blood from the bullet was pooling on the cement and all over my clothes, stockings, and shoes.

  When he reached to grab my hair, my legs un-bunched. My right arm shot out smashing his knee. His knee made the same awful crack that his ribs had earlier. Hopefully, this injury would stop him.

  Holding my wound hard, I watch in amazement and horror as the man tried to stand back up again. One foot didn’t work, and the opposite knee had been badly damaged. His leg gave out, and he ended up face first on the pavement. Blood splattered the pavement as he hit, breaking his nose.

  He used his arms to push up and tried again. Same result. Pretty sure that was the definition of insanity.

  Since his kneecap was most likely dislocated or broken, he couldn't stand, no matter how hard he tried. The third attempt and he fell down for the count.

  Kicking the gun away from his twitching body, I tied his hands with my scarf.

  He was just another loon in a city of madness.

  The first-aid kit in my car was low on gauze, but I made do with what was left and some duct tape from my gym bag. The graze from the bullet left a wide gash. Cursing, I held the skin together and put the tape over the wound. At least now I wasn't bleeding all over.

  I pulled on my yoga pants without taking off the ruined skirt. Then I took out a black garbage bag and tossed in the bloodied skirt, shirt, and my suit jacket. I put on leather gloves, a fuzzy navy hoodie, and sneakers.

  I gathered up my dress shoes and scattered buttons. The shoes and buttons went in the trash bag. The garbage bag went back into the gym bag. Closing the trunk, I went to check on the man and call the police.

  He kept trying to undo the scarf with his fingers, but at least he wasn't trying to stand again. Since he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, I searched through his pockets and his satchel. There was a small bag of black glittery powder, and some stolen things: wadded up money, rings, some soft black feathers that were as long as my forearm, watches, cell phones, a mostly used matchbook, and a music box. Such a whimsical item seemed out of place with the other bloodstained items.

  It had been designed in the typical white princess-like-ballerina style favored by little girls. Complete with a pink tutu. Spots of blood stained the white plastic and fabric.

  My vision started to slip to scarlet, so I did my breathing exercises. Walking quickly, I put the music box, one feather, and the baggie of glitter in the back of my car. What was with the feather and glitter? Was he planning arts and crafts?

  I pulled out my phone to call the police. The kid had called them, but I wanted to make sure they were on the way. The hairs on my neck stood up. It felt like I was being watched.

  Doing a three-sixty, I didn't see anyone in the parking garage. "Who's there?"

  No reply.

  I rubbed the back of my neck.

  "Dianna!" Brad materialized next to me. "It's here!"

  It was just Brad, or the ghost that Brad had become. He must be talking about the police arriving.

  I wanted to check out this ganger's tee before they got up here. The symbol on it wasn't one I'd seen before.

  Stepping towards the deranged man, black vapor swirled around the bottom of him.

  "What the-" I started.

  "Too late," Brad screamed. He jumped through the floor of the garage and disappeared.

  The hair all over my body stood on end. My gut clenched as an icy feeling crept up from my toes. The cold feeling spread from my feet upward to my calves, making them cramp.

  Impossibly proportioned hands clawed their way from the shadows of the concrete pillar next to the man. Blackened fingers too long, but not matching each other in ratio curled around my calves. Long misshapen black talons tipped the deformed digits.

  Claws that were from my deepest, darkest nightmare. All connected to a body made of swirling shadows.

  It rose from the darkness as its long body unfolded. The grotesque form was three-dimensional when it wasn't watching you from inside a shadow. I called it the Shadowed Man.

  Sounds of a loud foghorn exploded.

  My mind fought to stay in the present, but the world shifted. The smell of the cheap beer Brad and Max's fraternity brothers had brought filled the lake house. The night echoed with screams of the dying. Voices silenced by the Shadowed Man.

  Looking at the wooden floor, I concentrated. I was in a parking garage. Stained pavement underneath me.

  Vomit hit the back of my throat, as adrenaline slammed into my body. Pushing it down, I froze. My body didn’t move.

  I had needed to run.

  Closing my eyes, I whispered my mantra: it was over, this is now. Opening my eyes, I was back in the parking lot. My leg muscled burned with the urge to run.

  The sound of a foghorn continued going off.

  Instinct had my body turning as the creature grabbed my calves with its repulsive hands.

  The lighting inside the parking garage flickered, and then the lights shorted out. Darkness would be my tomb as it had been for my friends.

  Laughing, the creature oozed closer as it pulled me upwards towards its maw. Dried pieces of flesh fell off its skin.

  Tendrils swirled around the creature when it wasn't pretending to be your shadow. The dark feelers writhed while he glided towards me. No eyes, or nose, or ears marred the murky smoothness of its rounded face. But the strange dried flesh kept peeling off. Its mouth was its only opening, smiling in a toothy grin. Almost like someone started to carve a doll's face, but hadn't got to shaping anything, except a slash for the mouth. The voice, which I hadn't heard in six years rumbled out.

  "It has been long since we met, unchild." Its elongated fingers reached out, as it bent its massive eight and a half feet frame towards me.

  Fear held me in place.

  Fingers and claws caressed my cheek, while the inky appendages touched my legs, with a touch that felt like a fish petting me. Bits of its papery flesh stuck to mine. The beast’s had rows of jagged yellowed teeth inside its maw. A dark gray tongue shot out and licked my right cheek. The texture reminded me of a live octopus, sticky but soft like velvet.

  My mind went to a place of pure darkness.

  "Chosen of the unfather, did you miss me?" The voice was inhuman, sounding like metal scraping together in between words.

  Pictures and memories flooded my mind in a slideshow as panic overwhelmed me. Pieces of my friends' bodies scattered over a bloodied floor.

  Brad wearing his bloodied fraternity shirt lied on the floor by the kitchen phone, while he tried to tell me to run. But he could only mouth the words because his lower body was gone. His organs glistened in the pool of his own blood and fluids. Hands trying to point to the door, while his eyes implored me to escape. To live.

  And then this creature unfolded from the kitchen table's shadow into the Shadowed Man.

  Its face's slit constantly in a wide smile.

  The smell of night soil and maggots clung to this beast.

  How could I escape? While the Shadowed Man pet me with its blackened hand, I almost kept it together.

  Its skin looked like layers of blackened phyllo dough.

  Screaming as it let me fall to the pavement, I moved backward in a crab-crawl. Away from it. Away from death.

  It laughed, and the sound rebounded in the garage like a car crash at high speeds.

  Its misty feelers moved continually, but then they stopped. They all lifted up pointed skyward to face the unconscious attacker. "You left me dinner."

  The Shadowed Man moved towards him.

  "No," I screamed standing up.

  The Shadowed Man turned to me. "Time to feast," it intoned.

  Then fast
er than the blink of an eye, it moved to embrace the man in an obscene hug.

  Its head shook in impossibly fast, jagged movements. Each shake, making the creature's jaw unfold to widen. In the space of a handful of seconds its jaw was inhumanly large: large enough to shove in a whole person.

  I ran towards the unconscious man, and the Shadowed Man's tentacles batted me away.

  I bounced off my car's hood face first with a crunch of bone and metal, before landing on the cement again. Blood poured from my nose.

  The creature shoved the man into its now impossibly large mouth. Black mist swirled around the bottom of the Shadowed Man as its feelers raised the man and lifted him towards the lethal jaws. The man died as the teeth chomped down on his torso, halving him in a single deadly bite. His legs remained, sticking upwards in the creature's mouth.

  My feet moved without conscious thought. The car door made a grating metallic noise as I opened it. Slamming the door closed while scrambling inside, it banged against my heels but stayed shut. A strange noise kept sounding.

  The loud blast of a foghorn and a pounding rhythm slammed into my ears. Boom. Boom. Keys in the ignition. Don't look, Dianna. Don't look.

  But I couldn't help myself. I'd failed. Turning around, worn red sneakers stuck out. All that remained of the man.

  "Run!" Brad sat in the passenger seat. He looked pale. Even for a ghost.

  My hands shook while trying not to scrape the sides of the garage's spiral path, going down towards an exit. There was no attendant, and the gate was up. Looking for oncoming traffic, and seeing none, and no pedestrians, I sped off towards safety. The radio blared out a familiar song in Spanish about Christmas. The noise helped block out the sound of the dead and dying.