With Axe and Hatchets They Came Read online

  With Axe and Hatchets They Came

  Prologue

  Marc Monroe

  Copyright © 2018 by Marc Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Prologue

  Continue the Story

  2. Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain

  About the Author

  1

  Prologue

  Everyone in the coal town of Middwood, Kentucky knows the story. Children are taught it right after evening prayers and John 3:16. Some towns have myths or lore, but there is no lore in Middwood, only rules you live or die by.

  * * *

  With Axe and Hatchets, They Came

  * * *

  They were running for their lives. Their downward mountain path of rock and dirt lit by a waning moon. The infamously damned husband and wife, Roger and Sarah Johnson, raced hand in hand. Roger was wounded, a deep gash in his left calf. His petite wife did her best to support him as they fled along the ridge of eastern Kentucky's Black Bear Mountain, leaving a trail of Roger's blood behind. He struggled to fight through the pain as Sarah pushed the bare low-hanging limbs out of their way.

  Roger hurried, but with the mountain's steep pitch and his injured leg, he tumbled numerous yards into the trunk of a birch tree. With his head still spinning, his eyes darted back up and along the mountain. He feared the crunching leaves and snapping twigs had given away their location. In the deep, dry autumn there wasn't any way to quietly sneak off the mountain. He panted, "Do you see them? They were right behind us.”

  Sarah whipped her long brown hair behind her. Her breath shallow and thin, as her eyes searched through the brush. "No. I don't see them. Maybe we got away?"

  He examined the raw meat that was once his lower leg and shook his head. "No. They're toying with us, watching us."

  The man shivered as his body temperature continued to drop. He was losing too much blood. He knew the distance was the only thing that could save them, but he was running out of time.

  Roger took in Sarah’s determination, as she helped him to his strong leg. Even after nineteen years of marriage, he loved her more than he ever had. She was hopeful, an eternal optimist, but Roger knew he wasn't going to make it. There was no way he could limp across the basin. Regardless, somehow, Roger had to ensure Sarah would survive.

  Beyond the trees nestled down in the valley's gorge was old man Casteel's shed. The weathered building had been there as long as Roger could remember. Despite the elements and time, the abandoned barn somehow remained standing.

  Sarah followed Roger's line of sight. "The shed's too obvious. If we go in there, they'll have us trapped. Maybe we can hide in the grass and wait for them to pass.”

  "Sarah, it's not tall enough."

  Four swaying orbs of light broke into view higher up on the mountain.

  "Quiet," Roger whispered. A resolve of anger stirred in him as he ground his teeth. "Trust me. I'm not going to let them hurt you."

  Biting through the pulsing agony, Roger did his best to hide his deteriorating state from Sarah. They reached the base of the mountain and struggled across the stretch of dying brush grass, then vanished around the side of the old building.

  Roger pulled on one of the weather-worn gates. It opened with a dry creak. Before entering, he checked their flanks, then they slid in and shut the door, encasing them in darkness.

  Sarah clung to Roger as their eyes adjusted. The November moonlight glowed through a hole in the sagging roof, illuminating a massive wooden beam leaning against the wall. Roger cut his eyes to the gates and saw two rusted metal arms for the plank to hang. He staggered to the joist. "Sarah, help me."

  Sarah rushed to her husband's aid. If they could block the entrance, Roger's plan might work. Together, Sarah and Roger lifted the beam and barricaded the door.

  "We're trapped," she whimpered.

  "No. We just have to outsmart them."

  Sarah shook her head. Her voice trembled as she peered around the shadows. "Maybe we can reason with them?"

  "There's no reasoning with them now."

  "Don't say that. We have to make them listen! We can do that."

  Silver-blue light peeked in from a gap between two boards across the barn. Roger labored across the distance and spied through and waited.

  One light appeared spinning its beam on the grass. A second light jostled into view. Roger held his glare until he counted all four. "They're here.”

  "Roger, we have to find a way out of this."

  He swallowed. "There's always a way."

  Hanging on the walls were various old tools and pieces of horse tackle and spare saddle parts. Sitting in a corner was an old broken horse cartwheel and a workbench.

  "Sarah, check to make sure there aren't any other ways in."

  Without question, she hurried through the barn, while Roger hobbled to search the workspace for anything he could use as a weapon.

  He lowered himself, checked the bottom shelf, and found a small opening in the shed wall. It was too small for him to get through but big enough for Sarah. It was all he needed, a way to save his beloved wife.

  "Roger, I don't see any other way in or another way out."

  Roger collected himself. "Honey, come here."

  She knelt beside him. "What did you find?"

  His heart broke as he stared into her green eyes. He took her hands in his. "Sarah, listen. I brought you here so I could hold them off while you run."

  "Roger, no. No!"

  "Sarah." He took her chin in his hand. "Honey, my leg, I can't run anymore. I'll hold them off."

  "You can't!" She raised her hands breaking his hold.

  He took her by her shoulders and explained. "But you will get away.”

  She protested, "Roger—"

  Roger held a finger to his mouth.

  A shadow blackened the moonlight beyond the shed’s wall.

  The barn door bowed with a soft and graceful flowing motion like a gust of the approaching winter.

  Sarah stirred, but Roger placed a shivering hand over his wife's mouth.

  Something heavy hit the barrier.

  They jumped. Roger pulled Sarah to him.

  There was silence.

  A breeze whistled through the cracks of the barn, and an icy shiver ran down Roger's spine. He pulled her so close he could feel Sarah's heart racing. He held her tighter.

  A small voice from outside called. "Mommy?"

  Sarah gasped and hid her face in Roger's chest.

  "Daddy, will you come out and play?" a boy's voice asked.

  Sarah remained silent despite her pained expression.

  Their oldest teen male's voice roared. "Mom? Dad? Are you in there?"

  Sarah whispered, "They are our children."

  "Knock knock," taunted their oldest girl.

  "Who's there?" asked the teen boy.

  "Since you axed!"

  A single heavy strike hacked into the wood. The force shook both doors. Another chop hit and pierced the barn's frail lumber.

  There was a lull.

  A barrage of blades attacked the gate in a hellish thunder as the four children carved a path to their parents.

  Roger forced Sarah out of his arms and moved her behind him.

  "Dear God," she gasped, covering her ears as the realization spread over her face like a shroud. "Will they really kill us?"

  "Those things aren't our children any longer. Hide.
Once I distract them, run."

  She pulled at her husband's shoulder. "Roger, come with me. We can make it together."

  He grabbed her. "Sarah, we'll both die if you don't do as I say! I've failed at protecting my children, please don't let me fail at protecting you."

  The children chanted. Their words gnarled, dripping with sarcasm as their assault continued.

  "Do what he says, Mommy!"

  "Do what he says, Sarah."

  "Is daddy getting you in more trouble?"

  They all laughed.

  "Don't worry mommy. I'll kill daddy first, and you can watch. Then I'll kill you!"

  The cuts dug deeper through the wooden slat.

  Roger readied himself. "It won't hold much longer." He stared at her. "I love you. Always."

  "Always,” she repeated.

  Roger stood and slid out of the corner. Sarah gripped her husband's arm as he pulled away. He felt her strength surrender as her hand's flattened and slipped from his forearm to his fingertips. She wept behind him. He couldn't blame her.

  Roger pushed back his own tears and grabbed a long wooden board. It was too long to fight with. As the onslaught continued, he wedged the board between the workbench and the ground and leaned his entire weight against it. The wood snapped in two, and he cursed as his body slammed into the wall.

  The children struck the final blow, and the beam plunged to the dirt.

  The hairs on the back of Roger's neck rose as the door screeched opened.

  Roger's six-year-old daughter wore a little white dress adorned with yellow flowers. She pointed and called out in eerie delight. "Daddy!"

  Roger willed his tone deeper, stronger, "Turtle, It’s late and I want you to run home now."

  "No no no, daddy," Turtle replied.

  "Please, sweetheart, don't do this."

  Isaac, their ten-year-old, stepped into the barn as Roger hopped to steady himself against the wall. "Look Turtle. Daddy is a bunny." He laughed bouncing in his overalls.

  Grace, the oldest girl of twelve, entered. She wore a blue dress, and her chestnut hair was pulled back in two tight braids. She shined her flashlight on her father's leg, then pursed her lips and swung her hatchet casually through the air. "I didn't mean to hurt your leg. I swear." Her expression hardened and her body tensed. "I meant to cut it off!"

  "Grace? Children, why are you doing this?" Roger pleaded.

  Grace screamed, "You know why!"

  "Isaac, we're your parents. We love you. You can't do this to us."

  "Quiet, old man," a voice came from the shadows.

  Joshua appeared behind Isaac in a gray sweatshirt. He stepped forward, the moon's somber luminesce uncovered a full-sized ax. The children's voice rose in staccato chants, as Joshua pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt, hiding his face in darkness. "Weak. Worthless. Dead. Weak. Worthless. Dead."

  Roger beseeched his children, "I'm your father!"

  "Weak. Worthless. Dead."

  "Please! Stop this!"

  The children broke into mad mocking laughter. "Stop this. Please. Pretty pretty, please. Stop this."

  "Weak! Worthless! Dead!"

  Roger growled through the pain and advanced toward them, thrusting out the jagged-tipped board. "Enough!"

  The children's laughter ceased.

  They turned their flashlights into Roger's face and fanned out into a semi-circle.

  Roger squinted his eyes, barely able to see the shaded figures behind the lights. He gripped the plank. "If you won't stop," his heart in his throat. "You'll force me. . . You'll leave me no choice, but fight!"

  They remained hushed.

  "Where are your laughs now?" he scolded.

  Behind the beams, a high-pitched scream pierced the night. The oldest boy fell to the ground. Joshua's flashlight tumbled and rolled, shining in his father's direction.

  The three remaining children spun their light to reveal Sarah holding a wooden panel in her shaking hands. She dropped the timber and mewled, "Babies, it's me. It's Mommy."

  She looked at her trembling hands and collapsed into the dirt.

  In his panic, Roger put his full weight on his injured leg and fell head first onto the ground. He tried to stand, but his leg wouldn't hold him. He watched his bewitched children move in on their crying mother.

  Turtle sat in her mother's lap. "You're crying," the little girl pouted. She brushed Sarah's hair out of her eyes. "Don't cry, Mommy."

  Sarah clutched her arms around Turtle. "I love you, baby."

  Turtle put her little arm around her mother's neck and hugged her tight. "Bye, mommy."

  With her other hand, Turtle stabbed her knife's blade into her mother's neck.

  Roger dug his hands into the dirt and twitched, as he feebly crawled toward her.

  Sarah held her daughter with one arm while she grabbed her spouting throat with her opposite hand.

  "Look Grace, such fun!" giggled Turtle as the crimson sprays coated her white dress.

  Grace and Isaac both dropped their flashlights. They raised their hatchets above their heads as they scurried to their mother.

  Sarah locked eyes with Roger.

  With a ragged breath, Roger roared, clawing toward Sarah. "No! Stop! Please stop!"

  Chopping hacks began and increased in ferocity.

  The sound of a melon splitting echoed through Roger's ears.

  Roger stopped. His mouth and eyes gaped. He gargled on his own blood, trying to cry out in pain as his hand batted, grabbing at his upper back.

  Isaac laughed, "You look funny father."

  Roger dropped to his knees.

  Grace stepped forward, but Joshua stopped her. "You've already had your turn. Now it's time to go."

  Grace glanced up at Joshua. "Are we just going to leave him there?"

  "Yes, but I need to talk to him first."

  Roger Johnson shook with anger and loss. He stared, not able to take his eyes off of what remained of his wife.

  Joshua stood over his father. "What is it you always say? Oh, that's right. Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you."

  Joshua grabbed Roger's chin and wrenched it. "Look at me!"

  Roger gazed into his son's black, piercing eyes.

  "You?" Joshua's eyes searched over Roger's face like he was a stranger. "No. You aren't the father anymore."

  Joshua snapped his hand away.

  "Now I'm the head." Joshua raised his ax and swung it down into his father's skull.

  Their father's body tensed, then relaxed with a twitch.

  All the children stood staring down at their father's body.

  "That was fun," said Grace wiping her hands on her dress. "We should do this again."

  "We will,” said Joshua. “But now it's time to go home, brush our teeth, say our prayers, and go to sleep."

  Their soft steps crunched across the barn's floor. With humming, singing, and laughing the children picked up their flashlights, and danced up and down the grass as they disappeared across the field and into the woods.

  The next morning the town was as quiet as mountain mist. It was Saturday, but a few people had ventured into town to go to Magnolia's grocery store and the only people drinking coffee at the Bucket were the waitress and the cook.

  Deputy Philip Rollin leaned back in his worn chair, snoozing like he usually did when he overate his mama's breakfast. The sheriff wouldn't be in until closer to noon depending on how much moonshine he confiscated and sampled the previous night.

  The station's door opened, and the bell rang in a tinny jingle. A young man hurried in, tracking in the dirt from the outside street.

  Startled barks filled the make-shift station. "Sheriff? Is the sheriff here?"

  The deputy glanced up, taking a second to focus his eyes.

  Over the end of his boots, deputy Rollin found a teenager wearing a gray sweatshirt with the hood covering his head and part of his face. "No, It's Saturday morning. He’s ain’t here.“

  "When will he be back? It's really imp
ortant."

  Deputy Rollin sat forward in his chair. "You're stuck with me. What do you need, son?"

  The boy turned his eyes down to the floor, "My mom and dad didn't come home last night."

  Philip cut his eyes to the clock on the wall, which read 8:58 A.M. "They probably just went off before you woke up this morning."

  The boy frantically shook his head. "No, sir the truck is still parked in the yard."

  Philip sighed. "Did you look—"

  "Mister, my sisters, and brother looked all over, and all we found was blood."

  Deputy Philip Rollin leaned over his desk. "Blood?"

  "Yes, sir. It led out of the house into the yard."

  Philip cursed under his breath and grabbed a pencil. "What's your name son?"

  The boy gripped the desktop with straining hands. "I'm Joshua Johnson."

  Continue the Story

  Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain- Teaser

  Saturday, October 31st, 1964

  Sunrise 6:56 am Sunset 5:37 pm

  * * *

  The gates of hell were at the gas station at the end of the street in my small suburb north of Atlanta.

  Today was the day of my grand escape…

  * * *

  If you enjoyed With Axe and Hatchets They Came, and want to continue the story, I invite you to read the first novel in the Middwood series, Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain, which is coming soon!

  You can find more information Marc Monroe and his writing at www.marcmonroebooks.com

  * * *

  You can also email me at [email protected]

  2

  Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain

  Matt Christian is a broken, pill-popping, ex-teacher who sleeps in his car. Following his only lead for a job, he arrives at a secluded mining town in the Kentucky mountains. He quickly discovers that not only is the town full of odd rules, but something lurks in the shadows. There are forces at work holding him against his will as he struggles to keep his sanity and his life. Can he find out what is haunting him in time? Is it the community that surrounds him, the ghosts of the town’s past, or are Matt’s own demons finally laying claim on his soul?