Imp (Day One)

Short Serial Fiction - Horror

Greetings, Talebones Readers!

Ready to join me on a dark little journey?

Sometimes—not always—a story idea falls into your lap and asks to be written, even if you’re not fully sure how it will go. Imp is one such story.

As with The Shell, I am not 100% sure of how many parts this story will be, but this time I won’t make the mistake of promising three parts and ending up with seven. ;)

It does have logical ending, however (as you’ll see as we go), so never fear. This is a trip we’ll be taking together. Care to join me?

By Way of Disclaimer: this is a horror tale, and therefore may contain themes and situations that are darker than my average fare.

Reader discretion is advised.

If you like this story, and you want to see more like it, please let me know with a like, comment, share, or restack!

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Photo by M S on Unsplash

imprimatura - (in art) an initial stain of color painted on a surface 

imprimatur - a declaration authorizing publication of a book 

from Latin: “let it be printed”

*******

DAY ONE

Cal Thornton climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut a little harder than he meant to, the report echoing off the nearby foothills and shattering the uncomfortable hush.

The gravel parking lot of the Graft Creek Lodge was soft underfoot with long days of autumn rain, and the well-kept grounds of the place slipped around and away from him, stretches of green grass ending in black towers of leaning evergreens. The lodge itself was log-built and blocky, covered by a steeply-pitched gray composite roof stained at the edges with the dark shadows of past mosses, dutifully cleared away every year. A river-rock fireplace belched a thin trickle of smoke into the clear, sweet air. 

Cal stood for a moment in the chilly mountain silence, stretching out his back from the two-hour drive, feeling unsure. Aside from his car there were only three other vehicles in the parking lot. Shouldn’t there be more? He checked his watch—his phone was turned off, tucked under his socks at the bottom of his suitcase. Sure enough, he was on time. A little late, even. 

Opting to leave his suitcase in the car, he strode to the lodge’s main front door and pulled it open. 

Within, the entryway was warm with bare stained wood, and Cal could hear a thin buzz of conversation coming from deeper beyond into the main room. He followed the sounds and found himself in a large high-ceilinged sitting room, the dusty antlers of mounted trophies reaching for the exposed beams, heavy leather couches ringed around the big fireplace and bookshelves and photos—mostly Ansel Adams pastiche—lining the walls. Big picture windows surrounded the room on almost all sides, revealing the long sweep of manicured lawn, the close black trees, the passage of the Nisqually River on one side and the small tributary known as Graft Creek on the other, embracing the lodge with languid arms. Over all, somber in the distance, rose the foothills of the Cascades.

A middle-aged woman in a flowy green caftan thing over black leggings and a short, white-haired man in a wool cardigan and faded jeans stood together in the middle of the room with filled glasses in their hands, making easy conversation. When the woman saw Cal, she beamed and crossed the floor to him, her caftan billowing, her graying blonde hair long and loose down her back. 

“Mr. Thornton!” she said, smooth voice light with practiced hospitality. “Welcome to Graft Creek! How was the drive down?”

Hell, as usual, but Cal knew enough not to complain about southbound traffic through Tacoma. It was a conversational trap, and no one ever actually wanted to hear about it. He smiled graciously. “Fine, thanks. Are you Eileen?”

“Eileen, yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” To illustrate her point and emphasize what a pleasure it was, she took his hand in her soft fingers and squeezed it. Then she gestured to the old man in the cardigan. “Have you met Richard Avalon? The painter?”

It didn’t really ring a bell—Cal didn’t run in visual art circles much—but he nodded anyway and held out his hand. “Pleasure, Richard.”

“Cal Thornton writes books,” Eileen said to the old man, as if it was some grand secret. “Science fiction isn’t it, Mr. Thornton?”

Cal nodded. “Mostly, yeah.”

Richard Avalon shook his hand firmly, thoughtfully. Cal decided he might like him. When the old man spoke, his voice was deeper than Cal expected. “Thornton. I think I’ve heard your name. Wasn’t one of your latest turned into a film?”

This was clearly news to Eileen, whose eyes widened and mouth rounded into an exaggerated little “o”. She said, “A film! Really!”

Cal shrugged. “So they tell me.”

He wasn’t being modest. The Leaves of Midnight had been his one foray into horror a few years back, and it did well enough to get a film adaptation released in the last year. He couldn’t bring himself to watch the movie; he had heard it was absolute crap. The online reviews in particular had been pretty unkind. 

“You two chitchat,” Eileen said. “I need to go check on lunch.”

With a flurry of fabric she left them, disappearing down a hallway toward the rear of the lodge, and Richard Avalon gestured to a sideboard with a selection of drinks. 

“Glass of something, Mr. Thornton?”

It was just past noon, but Cal caught himself; it’s not like they were going anywhere. He surveyed the choices.  

“Cal, please. And sure, I’ll have wine.” He paused to look out the window at the Nisqually River, a dark ribbon past the boundaries of the lawn and sweep of trees. “You’re here to get your creative mojo back too, huh?”

Richard smiled over the carafe as he poured red wine into a glass. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. Have you ever been here before?”

Cal shook his head, accepted the glass. “You?”

Richard nodded. “Oh yes, many times. There are few places quite like it for inspiration. Something about the silence. I take it your film success has left you a bit bereft.”

It was not a question, and Cal felt a little uncomfortable that Richard had read his thoughts so thoroughly, and so fast. He replied, trying to keep it light, “It’s the double-edged sword in getting the thing you think you want, right? Too much of a good thing.”

“Your publisher sent you here, I imagine.”

Cal bristled. Maybe he didn’t like Richard as much as he initially thought. “It was recommended, yes.”

Richard took up his own glass and smiled apologetically. “I’ve known a few authors in my time, so you’ll have to forgive me for knowing the script by heart already. Peaks lead to valleys, and publishers—and gallery owners, come to that—are particularly nervy about valleys. A career in the arts is often unkind, cold, formulaic.” He paused at this, then, “I think you’ll find that Graft Creek has exactly what you need.”

“Do you know how many more guests are expected?” Cal asked, changing the subject and sipping his wine. It tasted just slightly of wet cardboard, and Cal wasn’t sure if it was corked or if his conversational distaste had simply found its way onto his tongue. 

Richard shrugged. “They usually fill the cabins up for the week, so I imagine we’re still looking for half a dozen or so to join us.”

Cal found it hard to picture, eight people living at this place for a week and not speaking to each other at all. No phones, no Internet. He had heard of silent retreats, of course; they were very popular among the set he ran with. But those were usually spiritual retreats, full of meditation and flower arranging and whatever the hell else New Age people did to get their rocks off. 

This had been pitched to him by his publisher as a creative retreat. The silence was merely an enforced etiquette to allow creatives of all types to work in peace. And while he had often thought that the catch and verve and grimy gray of Seattle was necessary white noise for his particular brand of fiction, he had to admit that it hadn’t been working for six months, and deadlines were deadlines. Maybe a change of scenery would do him good. His Belltown apartment was starting to look and feel like a prison cell.  

The image broke apart as Eileen came back into the room. Her brow was slightly furrowed in confusion, but it never traveled to her bright smile. “Well, no reason why we shouldn’t head to the dining room for lunch, gentlemen. Hopefully the rest of this week’s guests will join us soon.”

Exchanging the quickest of glances, the two men followed her back through the entryway and down the opposite passage to the lodge’s dining room. 

Lunch was delicious—grilled salmon and some kind of rice thing and a salad—but felt cavernous and impersonal under the vaulted ceiling of the large room, clearly built to hold generous gatherings. Cal imagined corporate retreats, big family reunions, church youth groups…raucous with laughter, games on the lawn. A far cry from how this week was shaping up. 

Cal and Richard sat together at a table by the wide window, and what had felt companionable in the sitting room felt unsettlingly intimate over a meal. Cal had switched to beer—the wine had made him feel queasy—and Richard was drinking something that looked remarkably like whiskey. A strange choice for lunch, but Cal decided to ignore it. 

To each their own. 

Eileen passed to and from the kitchen, and Cal was vaguely aware of two or three people moving around within, preparing the food. Some hushed yet earnest conversations wafted through the kitchen door every time Eileen opened it; no doubt they had prepared far too much food, considering how many guests were still missing.

While they ate, Eileen stood over their table like an officious waiter and went over the retreat’s ground rules. 

Within the lodge building itself—during meals, for example—talking was allowed, but outside of these walls there was to be no conversation of any kind. This was all on the honor system, of course, and the incentive was creative peace. The only phone on the property was here in the lodge, a landline in the office. Cell phones were not allowed, and it didn’t really matter anyway; there was no cell service or guest-accessible Internet. Electronic devices like laptops were allowed, so long as they made no noise or could be muted. The goal was quiet introspection and space to create. 

Cal listened impassively, and Richard had clearly heard this speech dozens of times. When she was done, Richard thanked her, and Cal echoed him. Then, she disappeared again, back toward the office.

“Strange,” Richard said, picking at his salmon, “that the others haven’t arrived.”

Cal nodded vaguely. “What happens if they don’t show?”

He was secretly hoping Richard would say something like, the retreat gets canceled and we all go home, but the old man just smiled kindly. 

“More ‘quiet introspection and space to create’ for us, I guess,” he said. 

Cal returned the smile, but deep within, his heart sank. 

*******

No one else was coming. 

Eileen told them at dinner, after Cal had spent the hours in between unpacking his suitcase in the small cabin he was going to call home for the week, and staring out at the river, unsure how he was going to handle a whole seven days of suffocating quiet. The dark drew in November-early, a real country-dark beyond the dining room’s big windows. 

In the cavernous space, the sound of Eileen’s voice was small, apologetic. 

“Such a shame,” she said. “They got turned back at the pass coming over from Spokane. Blizzard conditions up there.”

“All of them?” Richard said, mildly surprised. 

“They’re an artist’s collective, all signed up together. Carpooling.” Eileen sighed. “They’re heading home. They’re not going to try tomorrow.”

She said this last statement with the sort of hollow resignation unique to innkeepers who know they’re going to have to issue hefty, unexpected refunds. 

“Well,” Richard said, glancing at Cal, “I for one am looking forward to the peace and quiet. Eh, Thornton?”

Cal nodded, but a large part of his mind was already working on an escape plan. “Yeah, hey, a silent retreat is a lot easier with no one around, right?”

Eileen gave a flicker of a smile, and only then did Cal realize how close to the brink of tears she had come before they had pulled her back. 

“Thank you, gentlemen. I really do hope you enjoy your stay. Graft Creek is…unique.” 

“It surely is,” Richard said. 

Cal felt ill. 

After dinner, they said their goodnights to Eileen and left the warm glow of the lodge, stepping out into the night. A mist was sliding down from the foothills, and Cal knew without knowing how he knew that the morning would be alive with glittering frost on every surface. The river and the creek were both eerily soundless on either side, sluggish as they traveled on their way to lands unknown. 

The two men walked in silence side by side for a while, around the lawn and down the dimly lit trail that led to the cabins. Then, with a brisk wave, Richard broke off and headed for his front door, and Cal continued on toward his.  

The cabins reserved for this purpose—silent retreats and such—were small. Quality furnishings, but sparse: a full-size bed, a desk by the window, a low dresser, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchenette with hot plate, hot water kettle, and mini-fridge. There was an efficient little heater in the corner, a few lamps, some trite Pacific Northwest decorating touches—why do people around here insist on putting black bears and salmon on everything?—but otherwise a modest and comfortable space to live in for a week. 

Cal locked the cabin door and finished unpacking his clothes into the dresser, then pulled his laptop out of his backpack and arranged the desk. It was a little bit too tidy for his tastes. His desk back in Seattle was a complete mess. On this one, his laptop, notepad, and short stack of reference books looked lonely, out of place on the empty expanse of scored oak. Somehow condescending. Daring him. Laughing at him. 

Insipid trash. Derivative bullshit. 

Oh yes. The online reviews of the movie had been very, very unkind. 

He tried not to let that get to him. After all, the book came first, and it had been very highly regarded in certain circles as a complex and deeply frightening piece of modern horror literature. But that was three years ago, and people’s attention spans were short these days. When people think The Leaves of Midnight they think of the movie, now. Uninvited, he recalled a conversation he had overheard in a chain bookstore the other week, when a pair of teen girls passed an endcap of the novel—complete with movie tie-in special edition cover—and one of them said, “For real? I didn’t know it was a book!”

And the other one replied, promptly, “I bet it sucks ass.”

Cal sighed and turned away from the desk. He had a whole week to exorcise his demons at the altar of the blank page. He didn’t feel like starting now. 

He gazed out the window for a moment. It was so, so dark. Not even a moon to glimmer on the river. Not even a twinkle of distant house lights or winter holiday homes. Just dark nothingness. Just abyss. 

On the windowsill, a small dead moth lay crooked-legs-up, its dusty wings tattered on the edges. Its antennae stirred in the rush of Cal’s breath, a tiny macabre resurrection.

Something about the twitching movement made his skin crawl.

Shuddering, Cal got ready for bed. 

*******

In the pitch-black, Cal woke and fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. When his groping hand struck a surface closer than the one at home, he remembered where he was. 

No phone. Different nightstand. 

Groaning, fingers aching from smacking the edge of the table, he grabbed his watch instead and pressed the button to illuminate its backlight feature. Three in the morning. 

He sat up in the creaking bed. Something had woken him, but his mind was hazy and the utter darkness was disorienting. 

Then, a heavy knocking. Sharp and persistent.

His neck went cold. He sat for a moment, slowly registering that someone was knocking on his door, and it was not his bedroom at home. It was a cabin. Graft Creek. Silent retreat.  

He climbed out of bed and walked on shaking legs to the door of the cabin. There was no peephole, and no porchlight. Cal called, “Who is it?”

“It’s Richard,” said the old man, through the door. 

Puzzled, Cal unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, just enough to peer through. Sure enough, it was Richard. The old painter was in his pajamas, once blue but aged to white, and had pulled his cardigan around himself against the cold. He looked small and feeble, standing there in his suede slippers. 

“Everything okay?” Cal asked, voice croaky with sleep. He was aware that they were supposed to be silent out here. He felt dimly ashamed, though he didn’t know why. 

Richard looked up at Cal, his eyes wide and rheumy in the gloom. 

“Did you hear it, Mr. Thornton?” he asked, quietly. 

Cal shook his head. “Hear what?”

The old man looked over his shoulder. “I thought…I really thought I heard…”

But he trailed away. Cal listened, waited, partially because he was too sleepy to interrupt. But the old man didn’t finish the thought. He just looked up at Cal with a sort of helpless look, like a lost child. 

Cal felt a quick pang of complicated pity. He hadn’t spent much time around older people. He had been really young when his grandparents passed away, and his parents lived halfway across the country, near his sister’s family. Everything he knew about old age and decline he had heard through the experiences of his friends, dealing with their aging parents. None of it had been very nice to hear.

He tried to adopt a comforting tone. “I bet it was nothing, Richard. There’s lots of animals and stuff around here, making noise. Raccoons and deer and…stuff like that. You should probably head back to bed. Right?”

The old man nodded somewhat wistfully, turned. He said nothing else, but wandered back down the path. Cal—in spite of himself—followed after at a respectful distance, keeping the white smudge of Richard’s pajamas in his view, like following a ghost. He waited until the old man opened his own cabin door, entered, and closed it behind him. He heard the turn of the lock, like thunder in the quiet. 

Spooked—yet satisfied that there was nothing more to do—Cal went back to bed. 

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Continue to Day Two…