Return to Red Creek Nathan Hystad (e books free to read .txt) 📖

He pretended to be a college student, and by the time she realized her new boyfriend was behind the school’s recent mass murders, it was almost too late.”

Taylor had read the book five times, but it was Brent who’d answered his question. Paul looked at him with an unbelieving stare.

“What?” Brent asked. “Can’t a guy read his girlfriend’s best-selling horror author dad’s novels a few times?”

Taylor smirked, but it vanished quickly as she remembered the five-pointed red star in a circle on the ground.

“So… witches?” Darrel asked, holding his rifle firmly in his grip. Beads of water dripped off his baseball cap’s brim.

“I don’t know. This might not have anything to do with what we’re after. You know Red Creek. I’ve heard about some kids in high school thinking they’re Wiccan or whatever,” Isabelle said. “A few girls have come in to the diner dressed in black – black lipstick, black nail polish, you know the type.”

Taylor did. Some students at her private school in Manhattan had played the Goth card to death.

“Is it blood?” Brent asked, and Darrel shook his head, his flashlight beam falling to the corner of the barn.

“Nope. Look, spray cans. Like you said, this was probably just kids,” Darrel said. “We should split up, search for a trap door.”

Taylor’s dad nodded. “You take Izzy, and I’ll bring Taylor and Brent. Start over in that corner, and we’ll meet here.”

Darrel didn’t have to be told twice; he was moving across the barn with his daughter in tow. Isabelle locked eyes with Taylor, and Taylor could see the terror in her expression. She tried to give the young woman a strong, confident look in return, and silently told her cousin that everything was going to be all right. She didn’t know if she pulled if off or not. Hell, she couldn’t even convince herself of that.

The roof shook under the thunder booming outside, and a few drops of water fell, splashing to the ground at Taylor’s feet. Her dad was in the far corner, stomping the ground.

“The trap door was wooden and hidden under a thin layer of dirt back at the barn on the Smiths’ property. Brent, you take that side, and Taylor, start in the middle of the room and work toward me,” Paul said. He looked funny, hopping on the dirt floor, and Taylor wished her mom was there to see him. If they were there under other circumstances, at least.

She copied him, dust and dirt sticking to her wet pants and muddy shoes as she jumped frantically, moving toward the wall from slightly beyond the pentagram. Knowing it was there made her uncomfortable, and she had the urge to cover it with dirt so they didn’t have to see it, even if it was made by emo teenagers with too much time on their hands.

Ten minutes later, they were all filthy, standing together in their version of a huddle.

“Nothing. I was sure we’d find something here,” Uncle Darrel said, and Isabelle nodded along with him.

Taylor could tell her dad was frustrated. He wasn’t saying anything, but his eyes had the distant look he always got when he was concentrating hard on something. “Dad, what is it?” she asked him.

Brent was pacing around the room, as if he might spot something they’d missed. Taylor loved how involved he was. She tried to imagine what it was going to be like to head back to school in a week. Would they talk of this time for years to come? Were they going to stay together, or would her insane family and this weekend drive the nice boy from Connecticut away from her? Judging by the look he gave her when he noticed her watching him, she didn’t think he was going anywhere. He smiled and kept searching, running his hands along the interior walls.

“Dad?” she asked again, when Paul didn’t reply.

“It has to be somewhere, right?” he asked.

“I was on that job site, and the old nest was filled in, Paul.” Darrel rested his rifle on his shoulder again, but seconds later, it was in his grip, aiming toward the door they’d broken in at.

Taylor spun around to see two men entering the barn, guns drawn.

 

 

Eighteen

Tom Bartlett had seen a lot of things in his days as a cop, but this was a new one. He’d been expecting a troubled man with a rifle – maybe a hostage or two, judging by the old man’s comments – but this was something else. There were five of them: two men and three teens, maybe in their early twenties. It was hard to tell, with everyone soaked to the bone.

“Hands where I can see them!” Tom shouted, and four of them obeyed without question. The guy holding the rifle kept it pointed toward Tom and the deputy. “I said, hands up!”

Rich stepped in beside Tom, his gun aimed for the cluster of people inside the barn. “Izzy?” he asked.

“Rich, put those guns away,” one of the girls shouted.

Tom didn’t take his eye off the gunman with the rifle. “You know these people?”

“Darrel, put the gun down. It’s me, Rich Stringer.” Rich was walking toward them, and the deputy was lowering his gun. Tom didn’t lower his.

Finally, the rifle aimed away, the barrel pointed at the ground, and Tom’s tight shoulders loosened slightly. He was miserable. It had been a long hour or so hiking in the mud looking for this group of people.

“What the hell are you doing out here? Waving guns around Wood Street and sending us on a wild goose chase.” Tom was pissed, and his voice showed it. His gun remained pointed at the one Rich had called Darrel. The man looked Red Creek through and through. Scruffy stubble, baseball cap with a plaid jacket, worn jeans to finish off the ensemble.

“We’re not doing anything, Officer. If we promise to go home, can we just go?” the second man asked.

He was harder to place, wearing a black jacket, but even with the