The
Gentleman
Natasha
Powell
Genre:
Horror, Paranormal (bromance), Fantasy
Date
of Publication: April 14th 2014
ISBN:
0615990371
ISBN:
978-0615990378
ASIN:
Number
of pages: 266
Word
Count: 81,247
Cover
Artist: Natasha Powell
Book
Description:
James
Greene would do anything to keep his soul. But his year on the run
from the demon known as The Gentleman, has left him with two choices:
kill himself, or pay the piper. While in a dumpy hotel in Florida,
wrestling with the thoughts of suicide, a letter sent from a stranger
gives James a third choice: get rid of him once and for all.
The
letter leads him to his family’s plantation home in Athens,
Georgia. There, he discovers not only his family's secrets, but also
The Gentleman’s true intentions. The Gentleman offers James a deal
he can’t resist, play the last game, and if he wins, he gets to
keep his soul.
Storm
of the Century
It
was 1981, and a year since James Greene’s deal with The Gentleman.
Days ago, he’d fled from the terrors in South Carolina for the
Florida Keys. He intended to reach the Keys before the sun rose, but
the storm that put cannon-sized dents into his truck in the wee hours
of the morning spoiled his plan. Worst of all, the feeling of someone
watching and following him had heightened after he’d entered
Florida.
When
the droplets of rain became tiny atom bombs exploding on the
windshield, he’d swerved around potholes and driven slower than the
speed limit to avoid driving his 1959 pickup into a muddy quicksand.
The condensation on the windshield formed faster than his wipers
could clear it off. As the rain fell harder, gallons of it flooded
the inside of his truck by way of the rolled down window on the
passenger’s side.
“Damn
it! I had only one hundred miles left.” He slammed his fist into
the steering wheel. The impact left knuckle marks in the plastic and
bent the frame. After taking a deep breath and a swig of rum, he
looked on either side of the road for a place to hole-up until the
storm died.
Only
dreary trees lined the sides of the road. Then, finally, a sign for
The Hotel Love Nest blinked on and off beside the road as he drove
past. James mashed the brakes to the floor, turned his truck around,
and drove back in the direction of the hotel. His bag splashed onto
his floorboard, into the swimming pool that grew with each passing
minute. As his tires screeched, they pushed slushy mud up and sprayed
rocks in every direction.
He
parked his truck, more crooked than usual, in front of a rundown
hotel. It had all the makings of a bad-side-of-town look. As the rain
increased its frenzy and cascaded harder from sky, he rolled the
passenger window up to prevent more from pouring inside.
“Okay,
one, two, three!”
On
three, he opened his door and battered through the storm, until his
boots landed in a large puddle outside the main office. He ignored it
and continued toward the door. The rain confused his sense of
perception, and he overshot the distance to the handle, causing him
to open the door with his shoulder, shoving his way inside where he
collapsed onto the floor.
Once
the door shut, reducing the sounds of the raging thunderstorm, he
stood and wiped the rain from his face. With clearer vision, he saw a
man with stringy hair, coke-bottle glasses, and greasy clothes
sitting dangerously close to a black and white TV behind the desk.
“Hey,”
James said and waved his hand to the guy.
The
man paid him no mind and watched a woman on the tube scream as a
monster slashed her throat.
James
moved his hand to his side with stealth and unsheathed his knife.
“No,”
he whispered, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and snapped
closed the button to the knife’s casing. “Hey buddy, I need a
fuckin’ room.” James smashed his hand on the bell that sat on the
desk.
The
man moved around to face him. “Ten dollars.” He turned back to
the TV.
James
ripped out his wallet and put the soggy bills on the counter.
After
the man had removed the key from the wall, he slid it over to James.
“Room four,” he said while gawking at the TV where a townsman was
dragging the monster from its hole. He stuffed more donuts into his
cavity-corroded mouth.
“Thanks,”
James said and ran back to his truck for his soaked bag.
The
rain pelted his skin; the gusts slapping his face and slowing him to
a fast walk. Because of the hurricane force winds, the truck’s door
weighed a thousand pounds, and he had to dig his feet into the mud to
yank it open. After removing his bag and shotgun, he hustled to the
sidewalk, but not before grabbing the two sets of dog tags that hung
around the rearview mirror. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the
hotel roof finally provided relief from the storm.
He
reached into his pocket for the key and accidently snagged a drenched
flyer with a fisherman on the front along with it. The wind tossed
the paper in the air, and he captured it before it disappeared into
the downpour. He held it to the moonlight, scanning it before
returning it to his soaked pants.
“Soon,
I’ll be James, the fisherman. Just one night and that’s it.” He
strolled to room number four and paused before entering. “Something
doesn’t feel right.”
The
wind swirled, pulling him back toward the rain. He forced his feet
forward and focused on the lock. The sounds of the hotel building
settling resembled the hair-raising screams from a serial killer’s
basement. Something, he was sure of it, called his name.
“It’s
not real.” He stabbed the key into the lock. A swift jerk and shake
of the door caused the room number to fling free of the bent nails
that held it up as the door swung open. Without looking back, he
darted into the dark room and closing the door, leaned his back
against the door as it closed out the howls of Hurricane Nightmare.
Rain dripped off his wet body and streaked down the doorframe.
“Okay,
I made it. It’ll take him a while to catch me now.” After
standing up from the ground, he turned on the lights and marveled at
the disaster of a room. The walls resembled the pocked surface of the
dark side of the moon. The bathroom, covered in mildew and mold, had
no door. Cracks similar to the ones in the Sahara desert appeared on
the ceiling, and cancerous black spots filled the corner. The only
positives were a bed, a desk and chair, and a TV.
“This
is the worst of the worst. No wonder it was ten dollars.”
Not
wasting a minute, he dropped his duffle bag on the floor and unzipped
it. After pulling out a velvet pouch, he spread soot at the inside of
the door. The smell of burnt leather drifted up to his nose, and a
small haze rose from the material. He burned sage in the window seals
and set fire to a hard material that he laid in the middle of the
room. As the hard substance burned, a smell worse than the room
lingered. But once it evaporated, the muggy smell of a dead man’s
anus withered away.
Now
to get out of these. He wiped away some of the water from his face as
he reached down, unlaced his boots, removed his wet socks, peeled off
his shirt and pants, and tossed them onto the ground. From his bag,
he retrieved a dry pair of socks and pants and put them on.
After
unsheathing his knife, he felt the groves and tic marks engraved
along the handle and placed it on the table. There were thirty-four
marks etched in the wooden handle.
When
he’d finished, he rested his short-barreled shotgun against the
table where he relaxed and pulled out his Florida State game-winning
baseball from college. He tossed the ball into the air, launching it
higher and higher. It hit the ceiling and pieces of plaster fell on
his head.
“F*ck!”
Once
he stood, he brushed the fragments from his matted hair and shoulders
onto the stained carpet and stopped the baseball from rolling under
the bed with his foot. The ball still had pieces of plaster on it,
and he brushed them off then tossed it into his bag. His bag
contained another treasure of his—rum. He removed a new bottle and
uncapped it, sucking down the spicy juice through his dehydrated
lips.
“Huh.”
He wiped what spilled off his face and recapped the bottle.
Sitting
at the table, he flattened the torn flyer and spread it across the
broken and splintered top. While shutting his eyes, he pictured the
sea, the way it smelled, and the way it felt against his skin. The
whales collided with the boat, and he heaved and hoed with the dozen
or so other men that worked along with him on the large vessel. The
ropes burned his hands and blood mixed with the salty water. No one
knew if they’d die by the whale’s hand or the storm.
Nevertheless, that was all right by him. There was no one around
hounding and harassing him, taking away his sleep and ability to
think. No one threatening his life, family, or conscience. It was him
and the sea. James and his thoughts.
“I
can’t wait.” He smiled and interlaced his fingers behind his
head.
A
violent bang at the door erased the peaceful vision. James fell from
his seat onto the floor, whacking his head along the way. When he
rose, he dashed to the light switch and flicked it off.
The
thing outside beat and hammered on the door. With his back pressed
against the wall and breathing as little as possible, he shook each
time the door thumped. Sweat raced down his chest and forehead. His
nostrils flared as lilac seeped into the room, and he resisted the
urge to gag.
“No,”
he whispered.
The
thing scratched and chattered on the other side of the door, and
multiple voices talked simultaneously. It raged and laughed, and the
windows vibrated; little cracks spread across the glass.
James
squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to God, any God that happened to
hear him. He prayed until his mouth was too dry to open. Then he
prayed in his head.
The
commotion ended, and the ominous presence left. He lifted his
trembling hand to the newly cracked window, pushed the curtain away,
and saw nothing. After turning on the lights, he sat at the edge of
the bed with his head in his hands.
“Only
one more day. I’ve had one hundred fucking miles, and now this.”
He drove his fist into the wall beside the bed. The pain caused him
to wave his hand.
“It’s
one of the hallucinations. You haven’t slept in what, three days?
It’s like the time in Macon.” He rubbed his head.
A
letter swished into his room from under the door and floated beside
him onto the tattered covers. James leapt from it. His eyes widened
at the sight of the handwriting.
“It’s
just paper,” he muttered. Mustering the courage, he seized the
letter. It shook in his unsteady hands as he read the words.
I
WANT MY SOUL, AND SINCE I’M SUCH A NICE GUY, I’LL GIVE YOU UNTIL
DECEMBER 22 AT 1:30 AM. I KNOW WHERE YOU’RE AT. NO NEED TO RUN,
IT’LL ONLY MAKE THINGS WORSE. OH, AND CLEAN UP.
FROM
THE GENTLEMAN, WITH LOVE
James’
thoughts spun. He looked around the room for something, anything, to
help him stand upright, but instead landed on the bed. The words
raced through his mind, smashing the good memories aside.
“I
can’t leave?” He tugged at his hair and wiped the sweat from his
face. What he’d spent the last several months planning was all for
nothing. A deep emptiness filled his soul. Not even the burning of
the rum could fill it. He curled into a ball and wept himself to
sleep.
About
the Author :
Natasha
Powell is an avid gamer, anime and manga junky, comic artist, sci/fi
nut, in other words, a well-rounded nerd. When she isn’t busy
fighting pirates for booty on the high seas, Natasha resides in her
home in Tampa, Florida, where she continues to write horror,
thriller, and sci/fi novels and short stories.
Twitter:
@na_pow
FB
page: www.facebook.com/napinc
Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/napow
Website:
www.natasha-powell.wix.com/author
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