Some Monsters Never Die Read online

  Some Monsters Never Die

  Monsters and Mayhem

  Book One

  E.A. Comiskey

  Some Monsters Never Die: Book One Monsters and Mayhem © 2019 by Elizabeth Ann Comiskey

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: dreams2media

  Editor: Kimberly Comeau

  SP

  Contents

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Some Legends Never Die

  Excerpt from Whispers of a Killer

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  The Taco Wagon

  Hyatt Hotels

  Morgan’s

  Coke

  Top of the Hill

  Walmart

  Al’s Breakfast

  Entertainment Weekly

  Dairy Queen

  The Weather Channel

  Boy Scouts

  Spearfish Regional Hospital

  Salvation Army

  Wray Municipal Airport

  Wray Museum

  Dollar General

  Miralax

  Big Nose Kate’s Saloon

  HBO

  The Emporium

  Crystal Palace

  The Longhorn Café

  Six Gun City

  Circle K

  O.K. Cafe

  Mack Truck

  Velcro

  Dedication

  For my dad, the original Curmudgeon.

  Chapter One

  Richard

  Old age was the most vicious of bullies. Life had already scorned him, knocked the books out of his hands and beat him to a pulp. Now, here came Old Age to kick sand in his face. It wasn't fair. All his life, he'd been promised a retirement from hardship—a handful of golden years before Death's bony hand reached for him. Now, when it was far too late to do anything about it, he realized the whole blasted world had conspired against him.

  There were no golden years. Only a lonely descent toward oblivion.

  Everest Senior Living Facility was not the nursing home of his nightmares. As a younger man, in his seventies, Richard had woken in a cold sweat with visions of dirty, closed-in rooms, abusive nurses, and seeping bedsores. The reality of his old age was nothing like that.

  The old-folks home was bright, full of sunlight that streamed through enormous, plentiful, spotless windows. Perky young girls who smelled faintly of coffee bustled about with rhinestone-studded stethoscopes draped around their necks.

  The food was bland and mushy, but at least as good as what he'd lived off in the years since his sweet Barbara had died, and they served ice-cold prune juice at every meal, so his guts kept moving like they were supposed to. Thanks be to the Holy Lord above, there were no olive loaf sandwiches. He'd eaten enough olive loaf to last a dozen lifetimes.

  All in all, Everest was as good a place as any to be abandoned by your family while you waited for death.

  Well, it would have been, if it weren't for Stanley Kapcheck. Stanley with his shiny bald head and perfect teeth that were all his own. Stanley had a flat stomach and a British accent. He wore a leather coat.

  Honestly! What kind of respectable senior citizen wore leather?

  Pretty nurses, young enough to be his grandchildren, giggled and blushed when Stanley spoke.

  Richard loathed Stanley.

  Was it so much to ask for a man to grow old and die the way nature intended? Something was weird about a man Stanley's age who still wore well-shined lace-up shoes that he tied himself.

  Consequently, the sight of Stanley's pristine wingtip tapping on the white tiles of the dining hall floor was chipping away at the core of Richard's soul. And if that weren't enough, the pompous old peacock had an extra helping of chocolate pudding on the table in front of him. That new girl with the wild black curls had brought it to him, offering it like she was presenting her dowry.

  Richard used the back of his chair and the edge of the table to push himself to his feet. He held on for a moment to make sure his balance was good and steady, and then moved his hands to his walker and shuffled in Richard's direction.

  The insufferable old fart smiled at him. "Good evening, Dick! You're looking well. How's that hip of yours?"

  How dare he act like they were friends? And, Lord, but how he hated being called Dick.

  Richard lifted his chin and looked down his immense nose at Stanley. "I see you have two puddings."

  "Yes, a little indulgence is good for the soul, don't you think?"

  "No. I disagree completely. I think this world is a sick and broken place where people indulge all too often and abstain not nearly often enough."

  "Oh, come on now." Stanley reached forward and patted the round paunch of Richard's stomach. "It seems perhaps you’ve enjoyed one or two indulgences over the years."

  That was it. That was going to be the comment that sent his blood pressure so high something inside would finally burst. He pointed a shaking finger at the other man and tried to get a word out, but his lips were pressed into a thin, tight line of fury and he couldn't quite seem to remember how to get them to move.

  "Mr. Bell," the wild-haired girl said. "Did you want to have dessert over here with Mr. Kapcheck? Here, let me move your pudding for you." In a flash, she scooped the little bowl away from his seat and plopped it down across from Stanley. "There you go. Now you can sit with your friend."

  She trotted away to refill the teacup Mrs. Wiler was holding in the air and left Richard standing there, red-faced and trembling with rage.

  "Your shoes are ugly!" Richard spat the words out of his mouth with all the force he could muster.

  Stanley threw his head back and laughed.
<
br />   Richard spun on his heel—or, well, he turned around with pathetic, tiny, careful little steps and did his very best to stomp out of the room. It was difficult since he lived in mortal fear of falling again and therefore never lifted either foot more than an inch or two off the ground.

  Back in his room, he lowered himself into the soft brown arm chair and clicked the TV on, just to have some noise. He sat there, staring at some stupid nature documentary. After a minute or two, he realized that he never enjoyed a single bite of dessert, but he'd left Stan Kapcheck sitting in the dining room with three bowls of chocolate pudding laid out in front of him.

  The unfairness of life was a burden nearly too great for someone as old as him to bear.

  Chapter Two

  Finn

  Finn was one hundred percent certain that cigarettes were the only thing keeping him from ballooning up to three hundred pounds. If he was smoking, he wasn't shoveling potato chips into his mouth.

  He lit a Marlboro and leaned back, making the soft leather of the enormous desk chair squeak. Outside the window, a hummingbird flitted around the red plastic feeder and buzzed away again. The smoke curled up in his lungs, sank into his blood, kissed his soul, and made its way back out of his body as he exhaled.

  On the computer screen, the little black cursor flashed against the blank white page.

  He’d done an internet search for tips on how to conquer writer’s block.

  Exercise. Take a walk. Get a change of scenery.

  What a joke.

  Another long inhale filled him up so completely he thought maybe he could float right out the window and fly away.

  Letting it go, the weight on his shoulders returned twice as heavy.

  The blank page mocked him.

  He breathed in.

  Upon exhale, he whispered to the empty room, “Dear God, send me a Muse. ” Slick tendrils of smoke wrapped around the words and carried them toward heaven.

  With the cigarette dangling from his lips, he stood, grabbed his keys from the hook next to the door, and headed out into the brilliant sun. Joe’s was open, and the owner would serve him a cold beer any time of day, no questions asked.

  A little pink Vespa was parked outside his front door. A girl, presumably the owner of the preposterous scooter, sat on the hood of his car, her smooth, tanned legs crossed like a school child’s. For all that, she sported every attribute of a grown woman. At the sight of him, she flashed perfect white teeth. Tiny dimples formed on her round cheeks. “Hi there!”

  He plucked the cigarette from his mouth. “You’re sitting on my car.”

  “I didn’t want you to leave without me,” she said.

  “Why’s that?” It had been years since the first fan had approached him on the street. He’d been so flattered then it left him cocky for a full week. After a while, fame lost its appeal. They all asked the same questions. Half of them wanted him to make them famous writers, too. The other half expected him to be one of the characters in his books. None of them really cared who he was, outside of his life as a writer. This girl, though, had the distinction of being the first groupie to seek him out at his home. It seemed a level of stalkerly ambition worth a decent conversation, at least.

  Plus, the t-shirt stretched tight across her pert, unbound breasts created an interesting diversion from the all-consuming thoughts of self-pity he’d battled the past few weeks.

  “Can I have a cigarette?” she asked.

  He fished the crumpled pack from his pocket and offered it to her. She let him light it for her and inhaled like the smoke was salvation. “I haven’t smoked in forever.”

  “If you can go this long, you should probably keep up the clean streak.”

  She inhaled again and blew the smoke out in a long, thin stream through the purse of her full pink lips. “Where you goin’?”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Maybe you’ve seen me around. Everybody around here knows each other, right? So, where you goin’?”

  He studied her face. She didn’t look the least bit familiar. “I would remember you.”

  She hopped down and stepped over to him. The cigarette fell to the ground and she crushed it under the heel of her white sandal. “Where you goin’?”

  “I’m going to Joe’s to get drunk.”

  “It’s cheaper to get drunk at home.”

  “Only alcoholics drink alone.”

  She grinned up at him. “So, you’re looking for company?”

  She was Venus on a half shell, offering herself up for his pleasure. How could he resist? Why should he resist? Damn! Remember that. It would be a perfect line in the new novel. Twenty words down, seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty to go. “Care to join me?”

  She bounced on her toes. “I thought you’d never ask. I would love to join you for a drink.”

  “You are old enough to drink, right?”

  “In all fifty states,” she promised.

  It seemed like there should be some voice in his head listing reasons why it was a bad idea to invite this tiny, adorable stalker to go to the bar with him. He listened hard. The voices were as silent as they had been when he’d stared at the computer, so he reached around her and opened the passenger door.

  She slid in and ran a hand over the gearshift. “I adore this car. You have amazing taste.”

  He watched her fingers glide over the molded plastic. Still, there was no voice, but there was more than a little seismic activity south of the equator. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Tell you later,” she said, looking up at him through lashes so long they surely had to be fake.

  The door slammed a little harder than he meant for it to. His boots thumped against the pavement and the car sank under his weight when he dropped into the seat. He crushed the cigarette out in the car’s ashtray. “Tell me now.”

  She pouted. She had a perfectly bite-able bottom lip.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Sara.”

  He had to ask. “What do you want, Sara?”

  “I want to drink a beer with you at Joe’s.”

  He lit a fresh cigarette, put the Mustang in gear, and headed toward Joe’s.

  Chapter Three

  Richard

  The light tap on the door came like clockwork, just after the start of the eleven o'clock news.

  "It's open!" Richard called out, as if it weren't always open. Doors at Everest didn't have locks. A pretense of privacy was maintained, but the charade wasn't lost on him. Strangers washed his underpants and strangers cleaned up under his bed. Strangers asked about his morning stool and peeked in on him while he slept. Privacy was a privilege afforded to those who could still contribute to society.

  The door swung open and a child with a shiny blonde ponytail on the very top of her head bounced into the room. "Evenin', Mr. Bell. How you feelin' tonight?”

  Over her shoulder, Richard caught a glimpse of Stanley leaning against the wall in the brightly lit corridor. He wore jeans and a lilac button-front shirt. His legs were crossed at the ankles. He caught Richard's eye and smiled. Jerk. Looked like a darn wrinkled up old gigolo on a street corner.

  The little girl peeked into the bathroom. They always did that. What were they looking for, anyway?

  "That hip bothering you at all?" she asked.

  "Only when I sit or stand," Richard told her. When he’d fallen off the curb in front of his house and shattered his hip, the doctors had assured him that the newfangled titanium implant would be better than the original. They’d lied. They always lied. Medical school probably had a course—Effective Falsehoods 101. He hurt all the time. It wasn’t just his hip, either. Since they’d officially declared him an old man, he hurt in every joint of his body.

  The girl was undeterred by his gruff attitude. "Time to lay down then?" she asked.

  "I'll be layin' down for eternity soon. I'd like to sit up and watch the eleven o'clock news now, if you don't mind."

  She giggled as if he s
aid something funny and took his wrist between her slim fingers. Glancing at the TV, she told him, "I really love her. She's so much more relatable than the woman who was on there before."

  The woman who was on there before? Was she talking about Barbara Walters? Of course, Barbara Walters wasn't relatable. She was iconic. She was untouchable. She was exactly what a TV personality should be. These pretty young things in short skirts were more concerned about looking like the latest celebrity than in finding incorruptible sources. Not that he had anything against pretty girls in short skirts, but there was a time and place and the nightly news was not that place.

  Nurse Ponytail let go of him and gave him a long look. "Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Bell?"

  That was new. Not once, since he'd moved into this place, had anyone asked permission before getting personal. Out of curiosity as much as anything, he said, "You can ask. Don't promise I'll answer."

  She tugged on the ends of her lavender stethoscope. "I just… You seem pretty unhappy."

  He stared at her, waiting for something more than a statement of the obvious.

  "Do you still enjoy life?"

  It took a moment to even process the question. Enjoy life? Images flashed in his mind. He was a boy on the farm, swinging from a rope in the hayloft and landing in a pile of fresh, sweet-smelling straw. He was racing in the State track and field championships, the crowd screaming his name. It was his wedding night and he learned about the astonishing secret power that women held over men. He held his newborn child in his arms and thought his heart would burst with pride and joy. His wife lay in a hospital bed. His company gave him a gold watch and a pat on the back for forty-two years of loyal service. He buried his best friend. His daughter told him she just didn't have time to give him the care he needed and she was having him moved to a rehabilitation facility.

  To his astonishment, hot tears pricked his eyes for the first time in decades. "I…"

  "Yes?" She leaned in toward him, listening with unusual intensity.

  "I don't…"