Blood in the Woods Read online

  Blood

  in the

  Woods

  J.P. Willie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  A HellBound Books Publishing LLC Book

  A HellBound Books LLC | Publication

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author | This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental. | www.hellboundbookspublishing.com | Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION

  PrOlogue

  THE END

  About the Author

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  A HellBound Books Publishing LLC Book

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  A HellBound Books LLC

  Publication

  Copyright © 2017 by HellBound Books Publishing LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  2nd Edition

  Cover and art design by Joey Brana for

  HellBound Books Publishing LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  www.hellboundbookspublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  Cover and art design by Joey Brana

  For HellBound Books Publishing LLC

  Edited by Xtina Marie

  This novel is dedicated to my family and childhood friends.

  Friends come and go in your life, people die and love sometimes fades away, but true horror is forever.

  J.P.Willie

  INTRODUCTION

  Fearless Reader, the story you're about to embark upon has taken over seven years to reach publication. After countless rejections from literary agencies and publishing companies, Blood in the Woods has finally made it into the hands of avid readers like you.

  Although it is evident that evil lurks upon the very pages of this novel, like a lion stalking its unwitting prey, the malevolent is not all this tale has to offer. This bittersweet, heartfelt and vivacious anecdote is about family, first loves and the unbreakable bond of friendship.

  I hope this novel not only terrifies you, but also inspires you to reach out to a loved one and tell them how much you love them; maybe you'll pick up a phone and call a friend you haven't spoken to for years. For some of us, our friends mean more to us than we ever mean to them. And if you have children, this novel will make you cherish them all the more.

  Just remember, you'll find no monsters or werewolves lurking within these pages - only devils of the very worst kind.

  - J.P. Willie

  PrOlogue

  THE GRAVEYARD: 1975

  On a deep-south Louisiana country road, a young boy by the name of Jerry Jones Jr. patrolled up and down Rhine Road on his yellow, 1975 Schwinn. His slim body leaned from side to side as he pedaled back and forth, humming to himself an out of tune rendition of KC and the Sunshine Band’s Get Down Tonight.

  The boy’s curly hair (most people would call it nappy) tightened as the wind pulled it back slightly, as he waited for his three friends; the Benson boys.

  The Benson’s father just happened to be one of the wealthiest men in all of Hammond – Jerry thought he was an architect or something, but all he knew for sure was that the man drew really neat pictures for people to build houses by.

  This particular evening, Jerry and the Benson boys had decided to take an adventure – a detour to the local graveyard that sat but three miles away. The kids at school had been talking about it for weeks, and of course to kids in their early teens, a graveyard was not just a chilling place to be, but also a location you’d gain notoriety for visiting. And so, today was the day that Jerry was to earn his fame for being one of the only boys in school to have set foot in the place, the old boneyard’s reputation was a fearsome one which kept all but the most hardy at bay.

  Jerry watched as the Benson Boys approached on their bicycles, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves.

  Unbeknownst to them all, they really should’ve stayed home.

  The boys rode toward their destination, making a sharp turn onto a small dirt road lined by a bunch of oak and willow trees that stood tall and proud on both sides of the street, their branches hung half way over the road, providing the boys welcome shade from the murderous Louisiana heat. Taking the turn a little too fast, the front tire of Jerry’s Schwinn almost lost traction. Skillfully, he regained balance, keeping himself from being thrown over the handlebars like a man from a skittish horse.

  The graveyard rested upon a small hill and contained with twenty to twenty-five graves, many of the headstones illegible. It was well shaded by the surrounding woods, which served to give the place an eerie appearance.

  The second they stepped into the graveyard, Jerry noticed something strange; the place was unnaturally quiet – a pretty bizarre occurrence, since birds, wildlife, the wind – something – should’ve been moving around in those woods.

  As the gang made their way further in, avoiding the creation of any noise, they spotted a dead bird, laying upon on a gravestone to their right. It looked like a crow, although it was difficult to be certain since the thing had been completely gutted. The bird’s lifeless, black eyes stared up into the beautiful fall sky as if it were searching the heavens for someplace to go. The poor creature’s intestines were draped across a gravestone, and it looked to Jerry as if someone had tried to write a ghoulish message with them. A cool breeze blew through the woods, making the feathers on the dead bird flutter as if for one last attempt to take flight, and each of the boys felt goose bumps on the backs of their necks, like ghostly fingers were caressing them.

  “What the hell happened to it?” Daniel asked, his eyes fixed on the bird’s ruined corpse and the visiting flies that buzzed around it.

  “No idea,” Jerry replied as he studied the thing with morbid fascination.

  Keith, the oldest of the Benson brothers, squatted down next to Daniel. He poked at the bird’s guts with a long stick, scattering the flies.

  “Stop that!” Alvin shouted at him. “That’s nasty! You might catch a sick disease or something.”

  Keith and Jerry giggled as Alvin chastised his older brother, broad smirks on their faces as he rounded on them. “I wanna go home,” Alvin whined. “Doesn’t this place feel weird to you? It’s too damn quiet; I can actually hear myself think.” Keith and Jerry snickered again. “Everything surrounding this graveyard is just as dead as it is.” He pointed a trembling finger at the dead bird.

  Jerry stood up. He did have a peculiar feeling about the place, but he was trying to play it cool; no way was he going to be the chicken shit who let the old graveyard spook him. “Yeah, let’s go. There’s nothing special here. You ready, Keith?” he said.
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  “Sure.” Keith stood up and threw the stick back on the ground.

  Keith happened to glance over to his left and noticed something in the far corner of the graveyard. “Jerry... Daniel...”

  “What?” both boys answered in unison.

  Keith pointed to the far left side of the graveyard, his mouth gaping. “Look,” he whispered in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own.

  There, in the corner of the graveyard, were twenty-odd dead birds, all stacked on top of each other. From what the boys could make out, most had been gutted the same way as the first one they’d. It also became obvious, upon further investigation, that some had their eyes gouged out, heads torn off and their guts stuffed inside their beaks.

  Someone had been getting their sick, twisted kicks torturing and mutilating birds in the graveyard and whoever it was had been at it for quite some time – some of the birds were decomposing, their thin, fragile bones stabbing through what remained of rotted flesh.

  Jerry’s brain spun, images skittering across his racing mind as to how the cruel deed had been done; the bird laid upon a headstone, it’s delicate body struggling, beak attempting to bite the hand that held it firm, a knife pressed firmly to its breastbone. A faint pop would sound as the knife went in, the poor bird squawking in agony; and its torturer would enjoy every second of the creature’s pain as he yanked out his victim’s innards out with quick, expert precision...

  Jerry snapped himself out of it, knowing full well that the vision he’d just conjured was going to keep him up tonight; the very thought sent chills down his spine.

  The sun began to slink towards the horizon and the darkness of night prepared to cover the graveyard. The boys were still far from home, and Jerry knew his father would be bringing the stick to his rear end if he didn’t get home before dark.

  “Let’s go,” Jerry mumbled, he craved the safety of home.

  As the boys made their way towards their bikes, sounds drifted in from the distance – voices – the first noise they’d heard since their arrival at the graveyard.

  Frozen with fear, they all listened to the voices – coming through a tad more clearly now.

  “Do you hear that?” Daniel asked.

  “Yeah, I hear it.” Jerry whispered.

  “Shh!” Keith hissed at them.

  The voices didn’t appear to be getting any closer, but it did sound like more voices had joined them; if anything, they seemed to be moving away from where Jerry and his friends were standing stock-still and terrified.

  “They’re in the woods.” Keith played the tough guy, “ “let’s go take a look.”

  “I can’t move, guys,” Alvin was first to admit. “I’m too scared.” Alvin was the youngest and the puniest of the brothers, and hence the most skittish. “What if they catch us spying on them and beat the shit out of us? What if they call the cops on us for trespassing? Or what if they’re a bunch of backwoods psychos who will kill us like – them?” He nodded towards the stack of mutilated crows and squirmed at the thought.

  “Quit being such a chicken shit, Alvin,” Keith growled.

  “Quiet!” Jerry spat. “Alvin, you can stay by the bikes. Me ‘n Keith will go take a look-see. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Alvin nodded, his face flushed.

  “Daniel?” Jerry added, “can you stay here with him?”

  “Sure.” Daniel couldn’t hide his disappointment; Middle Child Syndrome was a motherfucker.

  “Cool.” Jerry turned to Keith. “Let’s go – but don’t make a sound, got it?”

  “Got it.” Keith agreed.

  The two made their way through the graveyard, trying their damndest to be make no sound at all, towards a natural depression at the far end that went down a good fifty feet and was lined by trees and bushes all the way down to its bottom.

  The voices were getting louder as the boys approached, Jerry and Keith dropping to their knees to get a better view of what lay through the dense bushes.

  And there, Jerry observed was something he knew he’d never be able to forget for as long as he lived.

  There, at the bottom of the slope, there was an opening that led to a rock quarry, not entirely dissimilar to the one Fred Flintstone worked at. At the entrance of the quarry there was a small group of people – six in all ­ dressed in black hooded robes and standing in a circle. Jerry also spotted several more hooded individuals gathering fat sticks from the wood’s line.

  The boys couldn’t see any of the hooded people’s faces, and weren’t entirely sure that they wanted to. The hooded people were talking amongst themselves in hushed tones, and Keith and Jerry couldn’t make anything out they were saying, they were still a good ways away from the weird assembly.

  “What the hell are they doing, man?” Keith kept his voice low.

  “No idea,” Jerry replied, “but we need to get out of here before they see us.”

  The boys stood up too quickly and Jerry’s shoulder caught on a dead, kindling-dry branch of a tree, snapping it. The branch made a brash popping sound like a bone breaking, in an instant giving away Jerry and Keith’s presence.

  “Dammit!” Jerry growled, angry with himself at being so damned clumsy.

  Terrified, Jerry stared over at the gathering of hooded people, all of whom had heard the noise as sure as if he’d shouted a jolly hello! over to them.

  Three of the black hooded figures turned as one and faced in his direction and for a fleeting moment, Jerry imagined he’d actually made eye contact with the one in the middle of the three.

  In the blink of an eye, the hooded guy took off, sprinting toward Jerry and Keith at full-pelt.

  “Run!” Jerry screamed, his voice shrill with terror.

  The boys took off, feet pounding, hearts thumping, making it back to Daniel, Alvin and the welcome sight of their bikes in what felt like a matter of seconds.

  “Go!” Keith screamed at his brothers.

  “What’s going on?” Daniel stammered, nonplussed at his brother’s ashen face. “What the –?” But before he could finish, Jerry, Alvin and Keith were already on their bicycles and well on their way along the road. Daniel jumped on his bike and raced after them, not knowing what he was running from.

  *

  The front door of the Jones household flew open and Jerry darted into the living room, yapping loudly about what he’d just witnessed in the woods.

  This caught the attention of Gayla, Jerry’s older sister, who was on the sofa with the telephone stuck to her ear; she was busy gossiping with her friend, Jennifer, who just happened to live three miles from the very graveyard her brother was babbling about.

  “Hold on girl, Jerry just came running in yelling about something crazy again. Let me call you back, okay?” Gayla hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

  Household drama wasn’t an everyday occurrence at the Jones residence, theirs being a strict ­ yet loving – Christian-based home. Church happened every Sunday at the local Church Of Christ, located in downtown Hammond; very much your typical southern Baptist teachings – sinners will burn in the lake of fire for eternity, the devil will always be at your heels, ready to tempt you and turn you from Christ, you must repent – repent or burn... the whole Fear of God thing going on, so the Jones kids pretty much minded their P’s and Q’s.

  Gayla stood up, tugging at the hem of her short-shorts, which were riding snug up in her crotch and ass crack. She then focused her attention towards the kitchen where Jerry was red in the face and ranting to their mother about everything he’d witnessed.

  “I’m telling you, momma, there were people wearing black robes! And there was a pile of dead birds! And somebody killed them!”

  “Jerry Jr!” Teddie Jones interrupted her son. “Why in the world were you playing around in that graveyard when you know you shouldn’t? Just you wait ‘till your daddy comes in, he’s gonna tear your butt up!” she spat.

  “Momma, they saw us. They chased after us, but we got away.”

  “They sa
w you! Who saw you?” Teddie asked, concern creeping into her voice.

  “I told you - the men in the black robes,” Jerry replied, gasping for breath.

  “You see what happens when you go looking for trouble, Jerry Jones? It finds you! What if they are vicious criminals, Jerry? What if they come looking for you and those Benson boys? Maybe they already know who you are. And just maybe they’ll come chop us all up in our sleep! There’s some crazy people living in this world, Jerry, and they do unspeakable things to nosey boys like you!”

  Jerry Sr. walked into the house, covered in sawdust from head to toe. He was a big man – six-foot-three ­ without his shoes. His chosen hobby was the one that he figured would bring him closer to Christ – carpentry – and that took up much of his non-work time. Jerry Sr. had a thick, bushy mustache that hid his upper lip entirely and drew attention away from the rest of his facial features, but still he was a strikingly handsome man. He dusted himself off as best he could, sat himself down, and asked his dear wife what the problem with Jerry Jr. was this time.

  And so, Jerry Jr. began his tale once again, all the way from the beginning.

  Gayla wandered into the kitchen after ten minutes of listening in and sat down opposite her father at the kitchen table. She could always tell when something was bothering the old man about a situation, and whilst her father could handle any type of problem, she felt that somehow this one was different. It wasn’t fear or horror she saw in his eyes, it was more a look of deep concentration, as if he was distracted.

  Jerry gazed up from the table, looking his son square in the eyes. “I’m going to tell you this only one time, Jerry. Only once,” his voice remained calm, yet inexorably stern. “Stay away from that place. And never – and I mean never – go back. Do you understand me, son?”

  Struck dumb by this uncharacteristic demeanor, Jerry nodded his agreement.