Imp (Two Years Later)
Short Serial Fiction - Horror
Greetings, Talebones Readers!
DISCLAIMER: This is a horror tale, and therefore may contain themes and situations that are darker than my average fare.
Reader discretion is advised.
This is the seventh (and final) part of a multi-part short story.
Read Day One, or
Read Day Two, or
Read Day Three, or
Read Day Four, or
Read Day Five, or
Read Day Six.
If you like this story, and you want to see more like it, please let me know with a like, comment, share, or restack!
And for more fiction fun of various shapes and sizes, subscribe for free!
TWO YEARS LATER
Andrea Pierce got out of the car and sighed deeply, filling her lungs with mountain air. The sky above was crisp and blue, the nearby foothills dazzling green, and Graft Creek Lodge looked like a postcard. In fact, it looked even prettier than the images she had seen online. According to recent reviews it had been renovated a year before, new cabins added to accommodate larger retreat groups, and updated amenities.
It was perfect. It was so, so perfect.
There were several other cars in the parking lot, and Andrea’s heart thundered with anticipation. The Nisqually River rumbled by in the distance, and a smaller stream—Graft Creek itself, she assumed—sang a quieter song behind her. She looked around for a moment, gathering her bearings. Lodge ahead, creek behind, a trail leading off into the woods to the right, and a whole sweep of lawn. Beautiful.
Satisfied, Andrea pulled her modest suitcase out of the backseat and rolled it across the gravel parking lot to the front entrance.
Inside, the sun streamed through the windows—so many wide, clear windows!—and bathed the interior in a golden glow. Aside from moving into the dorms at Seattle Pacific University a few years earlier, Andrea had never done anything like this, before. Stayed somewhere by herself for a whole week. It felt very adult, very adventurous.
There was no one in the entryway to greet her, but there was plenty of chatter coming from a room just off to the right, so Andrea followed the sounds.
She entered a large sitting room with high raftered ceilings, a fire roaring in the river-rock fireplace, and lots of comfy places to sit. Groups of people—it was about twenty altogether—milled around the room in twos and threes, mugs and cups in their hands. Lots of talk, convivial. Andrea tried to imagine the silence that the week was supposed to promise and found it nearly impossible.
“Welcome!” said a sweet voice, and a woman moved through the gathering toward her, graying blonde hair clipped just under her ears in an artsy bob. She was wearing a flowy caramel-colored dress and beaded earrings that swayed, and Andrea immediately fell in love with her hippie aesthetic.
The woman held out her hand. “Andrea Pierce, yes? You’re the last one on my list.”
Andrea nodded eagerly, taking the woman’s hand. “Yes. Andrea, that’s me.”
“I’m Eileen. Welcome to Graft Creek,” the woman said, beaming. “How was the drive?”
Andrea winced in apology. “There was lots of traffic around Federal Way. That’s why I was late. Tacoma traffic is the worst—”
“Not late at all. You’re just in time for the introductory lunch,” Eileen said, waving away the apology. “You can leave your suitcase anywhere and grab a drink from the sideboard. Lunch will be ready soon.”
Andrea was freshly twenty-one, raised by teetotal grandparents, and the idea of alcohol was still a novelty. Especially in the middle of the day. She flushed and glanced over at the sideboard, then froze at who she saw standing there, chatting with two other people.
“Oh.” Her mouth went dry.
“Everything alright?” Eileen asked.
“Yes, um…is that…is that Cal Thornton over there?”
Eileen laughed lightly. “Oh yes. Mr. Thornton is here working on his latest book. Are you a writer, too?”
Andrea felt like a fool nodding yes, but she did it anyway. “I guess so. But not published. Not anywhere near Cal Thornton’s level.”
Eileen shrugged. “Everyone has to start somewhere. You should go say hello. He’s quite a pleasant fellow, as artistic types go.”
Andrea’s throat clenched in anxiety. She turned to ask Eileen what she should say, how to introduce herself, but the woman had vanished back into the crowd, mingling, playing hostess with ease.
You got this, Andrea thought, taking a deep breath. She rolled her suitcase against the wall out of the way of anyone’s feet, then made her way to the sideboard.
Cal Thornton. She had read one of his early science fiction books on a whim in high school and devoured the rest of his bibliography, but back then hardly anyone knew who he was. He had a brief popularity spike with The Leaves of Midnight, but then that awful movie adaptation came out. It really seemed like he wasn’t going to publish again.
But then…his latest book had been published out of nowhere, and something clicked. An instant bestseller. A horror icon.
Now he was a social media literary darling. Interviews, podcasts, book tours, the works. Another impending movie adaptation, but this one had some serious film clout attached to it. It was like someone had snapped their fingers and handed him the world on a gilt-edged plate.
The two people Cal Thornton had been talking to had moved on to another part of the room, so the author stood alone when Andrea made it to the sideboard. He looked a little bit older than the black and white promo image on the back of his books, his beard a little bit fuller, and he wasn’t wearing the square tortoiseshell glasses that he clearly only wore for his headshots. But it was him, all right.
At the sideboard Andrea pretended to peruse the options, scanning the bottles with entirely too much concentration, but she had no idea what she was looking at. Her heart was pounding in her ears.
“The red is excellent.”
Cal Thornton had spoken. He was looking at her, smiling.
“Oh. Oh, thanks.” She picked up the red wine, poured herself a very short glass, not sure how much was too much and not wanting to make an ass of herself.
“I’m Cal,” he said, and extended his hand.
She shook it. “Andrea,” she said. Then, because she couldn’t help it, she laughed and shrugged. “I actually…I know who you are, Mr. Thornton. I’ve read all your books. I even wrote about The Leaves of Midnight for my senior thesis.”
His smile deepened. It was genuine, grateful. “That’s very kind of you. I’m honored.”
“Not at all. I love your work. I really do. Your switch from science fiction to horror is really fascinating to me. Being able to like, pivot in your career like that. It’s really cool.”
He nodded, and Andrea felt awkward. Why am I trying to tell the guy about his own career? Andrea, get a grip.
She took a drink of the wine, realized only then that she did not like wine—and that this wine tasted kind of stale, anyway—and quickly changed the subject. “Is it…uh…is it true that Imp was written here, at Graft Creek?”
His smile never faltered, but something behind his eyes slipped, like one lens in a pair of binoculars was slightly out of focus. He nodded, took a sip of whatever he was drinking. “That’s absolutely true. I wrote the entire draft in one week. There really is something special about this place, and I am living proof of that.”
She said, “I hope so. I’m really eager to make a dent in my work-in-progress this week. Really feels like the fresh air and the quiet are the perfect combination.”
Briefly, Andrea was distracted by movement outside the picture window behind the sideboard. A moth, a big brown one, was fluttering against the glass, as though frantic to get in. The windows were thick and the moth’s movements were silent, but Andrea could almost feel the tickle of its wings, its legs, its antennae. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, then realized that Cal Thornton had asked her a question.
“I’m so sorry, what did you say?”
He asked again, “What do you write?”
Andrea felt warm, sort of euphoric, and it wasn’t the wine. She had simply never met a famous writer before, and she was deeply amazed at how kind and patient he was being with her. Talking “shop” with another writer, let alone Cal Thornton, was a dream come true.
She replied, “I’m going through a true crime phase in my work right now…but through a fiction lens. Like…creative nonfiction, I guess. Investigative journalism meets literary fiction. Right now I’m working on a piece about Richard Avalon, the painter. His life and career and suspicious death here at Graft Creek. Signing up for this retreat felt like the perfect way to immerse myself in the story, you know? There’s only so much you can learn online.”
Cal Thornton blinked. “Really.”
“Yeah. I know the police ruled it an accidental death because he had been acting erratic in the days leading up to it, but I’ve learned some really interesting stuff about the area. Supernatural stuff. Local folklore. I’ve been trying to interview his ex-wife, Tanya Francis, but so far she’s been pretty unwilling to talk to me. All I know is that Graft Creek was super important to Richard Avalon. I’m just curious to learn more, ask lots of questions, maybe dig up some stuff no one else has found.”
Andrea met his eyes, then, hopeful. “Did you meet Mr. Avalon, when he was here?”
Cal Thornton gave her a long, hard look. But before he could answer, the woman in the flowy dress—Eileen, that was it—clapped her hands together for attention and said, “Everyone, lunch is served in the dining room. Come on through!”
A spell over Cal Thornton broke, and he flourished with his hand, a gentleman.
“After you,” he said.
“Thanks. It was really nice to meet you, Mr. Thornton,” Andrea said. “I’ll see you around. Here’s hoping we both get some work done, this week.”
He nodded, smiled, and his voice was kind.
“Andrea,” he said, “I’m certain Graft Creek will give you exactly what you need.”
END
“Andrea,” he said, “I’m certain Graft Creek will give you exactly what you need.” Andrea, run and do not walk away!!! Oh, my, SE, this is a terrific, misty, dark-woods-in-November tale, wonderfully crafted. We can feel the late fall chill seeping into the bones. Captivating read!
Wow, what a send off for a fantastic mini series.