Scream Read online

  Mike Dellosso is a storyteller extraordinaire. It's a rare writer who has the chops-or the courage-to lead readers into hell so he can show them heaven. In Scream, Dellosso does exactly that. Scream is an expertly crafted thriller that combines a tight, twisting plot with intriguing characters, primarily an imperfect but genuinely likeable protagonist, and one of the wickedest villains this side of a nightmare. Toss Dellosso's brilliant wordsmithing into the mix, and bam!-you got yourself a story that'll keep you reading well into the night... and thinking about it long afterward.

  -ROBERT LIPARULO

  AUTHOR OF COMES A HORSEMAN, GERM, AND DEADFALL

  Mike Dellosso turns up the heat in his edgy and gripping thriller Scream. Never predictable, always riveting, and superbly paced, this novel is impossible to put down-and impossible to ignore.

  -KATHRYN MACKEL

  AUTHOR OF VANISHED

  In The Hunted and now in Scream, Mike Dellosso speeds readers along the twisting back roads of rural settings, where characters struggle with personal anguish and spiritual questions. Hold on for a fast-paced journey that satisfies on a number of levels.

  -ERIC WILSON

  AUTHOR OF FIELD OF BLOOD AND HAUNT OF JACKALS

  Mike Dellosso has once again brought us an engaging thriller full of gut-wrenching suspense and strong spiritual truth. Scream will have you breathlessly flying through the pages and closely examining your heart at the same time. Mike Dellosso is a bright new talent who demands to be noticed.

  -JAKE CHISM

  THECHRISTIANMANIFESTO.COM

  Mike Dellosso, an astonishing new voice in supernatural thrillers, cements his right to be grouped with the likes of King and Peretti with his relentless new thriller, Scream. Dellosso's sophomore effort is packed with wonderfully flawed characters, a very creative plot, and a strong spiritual message.

  -SUSAN SLEEMAN

  THESUSPENSEZONE.COM

  Mike's writing is full of suspense. Once you've started his book, it's hard to put down. More importantly, there is a truth that comes through loudly and clearly. Heaven and hell are real. In light of the brevity of life, the time to tell people about Christ is not tomorrow; it's today. Scream reminds each believer of the need to reach out-NOW!

  -DR. LARRY MOYER

  PRESIDENT AND CEO, EVANTELL

  For Darrell, whose near-appointment with death first inspired me to turn to the written word

  For Dan and Judy Dellosso (Dad and Mom), for always believing, never doubting

  O THIS IS THE PART OF THE BOOK WHERE I GET TO THANK all those who played a role in the production of this story. If I thanked everyone, this volume would compete in page tally with some of the great epics in history. I won't do that to you. So to keep things reasonable, I'll limit my acknowledgments to the core contributors. This in no way diminishes the role or contribution of everyone else, but sometimes frugality is necessary, and in an effort to spare a few trees and do my part in saving the planet, I must practice self-control. Here goes:

  Thank you, Jen, my dear wife and constant supporter, for praying for me, loving me, and (let's be honest) putting up with me. In short, for being the best doggone wife a man could ask for. You deserve an award. Seriously.

  Thank you, Laura, Abby, and Caroline, my sweet trio of giggles, for bringing so much brightness and laughter into my life. You're the best daughters any daddy could want.

  Thanks, Mom and Dad, for your prayers, encouragement, and love.

  Thank you, Les, my wise and knowledgeable agent, for your guidance and counsel. I know I couldn't have done this without you.

  Thank you to my editors, Debbie Marie, Lori Vanden Bosch, and Deb Moss, for your sharp eyes, careful suggestions, patient ways, and constant encouragement. Another sweet trio.

  Thanks to all those who have prayed for us, encouraged us, supported us, and fought this battle with cancer alongside us. You are dear to me, and I really can't say thank you enough.

  Thank you to everyone else who encouraged me in my writing, offered advice or assistance, and urged me onward and upward. Sorry I can't mention each of you by name, but hey, you're joining me in sparing a tree. That's something.

  And lastly, thank You, Jesus, for saving me. Your promises make that appointment with death a sweet reunion waiting to happen.

  HEY SAY GOD WORKS IN STRANGE AND MYSTERIOUS ways. Well, I'm not going to argue with that. I've seen my fair share of the strange and mysterious coming from the hand of God.

  As of the writing of this preface (which happens to be occurring during the editing phase of this book), I am in a battle with colon cancer. It's not what I ordered, not what I had in mind, and definitely was never part of my plans, but it's what I got. It's funny (not ha-ha funny, but strange and mysterious funny) how life can change with one phone call. It was March of 2008, and I was at work when I received a phone call from the gastroenterologist, the doctor who, days earlier, performed a colonoscopy on me. I'll never forget the feeling of utter solitude, the way the world seemed to literally stop spinning on its axis, when he said, "I'm very sorry, but you have colon cancer."

  I was thirty-five at the time, excited about preparing to release my first novel, The Hunted, planning my future, and suddenly I was thinking about death. That vapor that is my life had been disturbed and had taken on a new shape.

  Now I think about death all the time. Cancer has a way of doing that, of reminding you of the frailty of your existence, the brevity of life. Of reminding you that we're all just walking on a thin sheet of ice that can crack or break at any moment.

  But thinking about death is a good thing. The wise king Solomon wrote, "We must all die, and everyone living should think about this." (See Ecclesiastes 7:2.) Good advice. Thinking about death forces us to think about life, something most of us don't do nearly enough. And thinking about life forces us to think about how we're living our life, something all of us should do a lot more of.

  Anyway, I don't mean to bore you with all this macabre talk of death, but honestly, it's what's on my mind now. And ironically (here goes that whole strange and mysterious thing), it's what Scream is about. I find it funny (again, not in the ha-ha way, but in the interesting way) that I'm battling cancer, being reminded of the brevity of life and the imminence of death, experiencing firsthand how quickly life can shift on us and everything can change, while I'm reworking my novel about just that ... the appointment with death we all must keep.

  Strange and mysterious.

  -MIKE DELLOSSO

  HANOVER, PENNSYLVANIA

  AUGUST 2008

  There's nothing certain in a man's life except this: That he must lose it.

  -AESCHYLUS, AGAMEMNON

  Death is a debt we must all pay.

  -EURIPIDES

  Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to me: Thou must die.

  -JOHN DUNNE, MEDITATION 17

  It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.

  -HEBREWS 9:27, KJV

  ARK STONE COULD STILL SMELL THE GREASE ON his hands.

  No matter how hard he scrubbed or what fancy soap he used, the residue remained, stained into the creases of his fingers and caked under his fingernails. In a way, though, it was comforting. At least something in his life was still predictable. He gripped the steering wheel of his classic Mustang with both hands and willed his eyes to stay open. The hum of rubber on asphalt was almost hypnotic. It had been a long day at the shop, and he was ready to go home, soak in a hot shower until he puckered like a raisin, and get cozy with his pillow.

  Outside, the headlights cut a swath of pale yellow light through the dense autumn darkness. Stars dotted the night like glitter on black felt. A pocked moon dangled low in the sky in front of him, a cratered carrot on the end of an unseen string, leading him home,
home to the comfort of his bed.

  His cell phone chimed the theme from The Dukes of Hazzard. Mark turned down the radio and flipped open the phone. It was Jeff Beaverson. "Jeffrey."

  "Hey, buddy. How goes it?"

  Mark glanced at the dashboard clock-10:10. "Kinda late for you, isn't it?"

  Jeff laughed. "You know me too well. I was at my parents' house installing a new hot water heater, and it took longer than I thought it would. I'm heading home now. Gonna walk in the door and drop myself right into bed. You in the car?"

  "On my way home."

  "Boy, you're putting in some late hours."

  "Yeah, business is good right now. Keeps my mind off... stuff. You know."

  "I know, buddy. I've been thinking about you. Thought I'd check in and make sure we're still on for tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. Saturday. He and Jeff were scheduled to meet for breakfast at The Victory.

  On the radio, John Mellencamp was belting out "Small Town."

  "Yeah. Seven o'clock. You still ... kay with ... at?"

  "Sure. Where are you? You're breakin' up."

  "Mill Road. Down ... oopers Hollow... lasts a ... ittle"

  Mark paused and tapped his hand to the beat of the music. Jeff's voice boomed into his ear. "Am I back? Can you hear me now?"

  "Yeah, I can hear you fine now," Mark said with a laugh.

  Jeff snorted into the phone. "I always lose my bars along that stretch. Hey, I've been meaning to ask you..."

  Jeff's voice was suddenly drowned by a hideous screaming. Not just one voice, but a multitude of voices mingling and colliding, merging and blending in a cacophony of wails and groans, grunts and cries. A million mouths weeping and howling in bone-crunching pain. Agony. As if their skin was being peeled off inch by inch and their burning anguish was somehow captured on audio. It rose in volume, lasted maybe five, six seconds, then stopped just as abruptly as it had started.

  Mark clicked off the radio and pressed the phone tighter against his ear. Goose bumps crawled over his arms. "Jeff? You OK, man?"

  There was a pause, then, "Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. What the blazes was that? Did you hear it?"

  Mark massaged the steering wheel with his left hand. "Yeah, I heard it. Sounded like something out of some horror movie." Or hell. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. "Weird."

  "Maybe our signals got tangled with something else. Weird is right. Anyway, I've been wanting to ask you-and we can talk more about it tomorrow if you want-how are you and Cheryl doing?"

  Mark clenched his jaw, pressing his molars together. Cheryl. Don't make me go there, Jeff. It's too soon. "I don't know. I think it's over."

  "Over?"

  Over. Finished. Kaput. I blew it, and now I have to live with it. "Nothing official yet. But she pretty much made it clear she doesn't want anything to do with me."

  Jeff paused and sighed into the phone. "Man, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

  Mark slowed the Mustang around a hairpin turn. He didn't want to talk about this now. He wasn't ready. And besides, it was late, and he was tired. "No. I don't even think there's anything more I can do. Can we talk about it in the morning?"

  "Absolutely. I just... wait. Hang on a sec. What's this guy-"

  The sound of screeching tires filled the receiver. Rubber howling against asphalt. Then a low earthy rumble... Jeff grunt- ing...crunching metal and shattering glass.

  Mark leaned heavy on the brake, and the Mustang fishtailed to a stop. The engine growled impatiently. "Jeff? You there?"

  Nothing. Not even static. His pulse throbbed in his ears.

  Mark dialed Jeff's number. Four rings. "Hello, this is Jeff."

  Voice mail. Great. "You know what to do." A woman's voice came on. "To leave a voice message, press one or wait for the tone. To-"

  Mark's thumb skidded over the keypad, dialing 911.

  Sheriff Wiley Hickock sidestepped down the steep embankment, sweeping the light from his flashlight to and fro in a short arc. Up above, a couple of firefighters were winding a hose; two others were stripping out of their gear. Lights flashed in an even rhythm, illuminating the area in a slow strobe of red and white. Red, red, white; red, red, white. The pungent smell of melted rubber and burnt flesh permeated the air. Three towers holding four floodlights each lit up the area like a baseball stadium during a night game.

  When he reached the bottom, Hickock surveyed the ball of twisted, smoldering metal that had once been a Honda Civic before it bulldozed ten feet of oak saplings and wrapped around the scarred trunk of a mature walnut tree. Tongues of smoke curled from the misshapen steel and licked at the leaves of the walnut. A large swath of ground had been dug up, exposing the dark, rich soil.

  Deputy Jessica Foreman headed toward him. Her dark russet hair looked like it had been hastily pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her uniform was wrinkled, a road map of creases. Her hands were sheathed in blackened latex gloves.

  Wiley frowned as she approached. "Sorry to get you out here on your day off, Jess. Thanks for helping out, though."

  Jess tugged off the latex gloves and swept a rebellious lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. "Do what's gotta be done, right?"

  Wiley squinted and ran a finger over his mustache. "That's what they say. When did fire and EMS get here?" There were still some firefighters milling around the wreckage, poking at it with their axes. Two paramedics were standing off to the right, talking and laughing.

  "'Bout twenty minutes ago. Didn't take long to douse the fire." She glanced at the paramedics. "No need for those guys. Did you notice the skid marks on the road?"

  Wiley nodded, keeping his eyes on what barely resembled a car. The driver was still in there. He could see his rigid, charred body still smoldering. Mouth open in a frozen scream. Lips peeled back. Back arched. Fingers curled around the steering wheel. He'd seen it only once before-a burned body. It was revolting, and yet there was something about it that held his gaze, as if the burnt stiff had reached out with those bony, black fingers and grabbed his eyeballs-Look at me!

  He shut his eyes tight, trying to push the memory of the other burnt corpse from his mind. He knew it would never leave, though. It was seared there by some psycho-something branding iron.

  Wiley opened his eyes and blinked twice. Concentrate. "Yup. Two sets of 'em. But only one car. I don't like it. Loose ends. What's your take?"

  Jess shrugged and nodded toward the wreck. "Got run off the road by a drunk or sleeper, lost control, and met Mr. Tree."

  "You sound fairly certain. Got a witness?"

  Jess turned and pointed over her shoulder. "Almost. See that guy over there?"

  Wiley looked up the embankment and saw a thirty-something average joe in a faded gray T-shirt and grease-stained jeans leaning against a classic Mustang, hair disheveled, arms crossed, shoulders slumped, eyes blank. "Yeah. Who's he?"

  "He was on the phone with-" She jerked her thumb toward the wreck and the stiff. "Said he heard the accident happen and called it in. Got here before anyone else, but the car was already a torch. Name's Stone. Mark. Said our friend here said something like `What's this guy doin'?' then he heard the wheels lock up and busting up stuff, then nothing."

  Wiley eyed Stone again. In the light of the cruiser's strobes, his eyes looked like two lifeless chunks of coal. His mouth was a thin line, jaw firm.

  Wiley turned his attention back to the Civic. "Anything else?"

  "No. Not yet anyway."

  They both stood quietly, studying the remains of the car, until a man's high-pitched voice from their right broke the silence. "Sheriff."

  Wiley turned to see Harold Carpenter, volunteer fire chief, high-stepping through the tall grass, his chubby jowls jiggling like Jell-O with each movement. With his sagging cheeks, underbite, and heavy bloodshot eyes, the man looked like a bulldog.

  Carpenter stopped in front of Wiley, flushed and out of breath. "Sheriff. What'd ya think?"

  Wiley didn't even look at him. He kept his eyes on the c
orpse sitting behind the wheel. "Just got here, Harry. Don't think much yet."

  Carpenter shoved a singed, brown leather wallet at Wiley. "Here's the driver's wallet. One of my guys retrieved it from the ... uh ... back pocket."

  Wiley took the wallet and handed it to Jess. Opening it, she slipped out the driver's license. It was singed around the top edge. "Jeffrey David Beaverson."

  "Did you run the plates yet?" Wiley asked.

  Jess nodded. "Sure did. Same Beaverson."

  It was a perfect day for a funeral. If such a thing existed.

  The sky was a thick slab of slate suspended over the small town of Quarry, Maryland, coloring everything in drab hues of gray. A dense mist hung in the air, a blanket of moisture, covering the region in a damp clamminess. The air was cool but not cold, and there was no wind whatsoever.

  Mark Stone walked from his car to the grave site, his black loafers sinking into the soft ground. With the exception of their little cluster of about twenty people, the cemetery was empty. Still and quiet. Eerie, Mark thought. For acres, granite headstones protruded from the ground like stained teeth, each memorializing somebody's loved one, lost forever. In the distance, maybe a hundred yards away, stood a mausoleum, a concrete angel perched on the roof above the doorway. Mark shuddered at the thought of a body lying inside. Dead and cold.

  Mark looked to his right then to his left. The other mourners-friends and family of the Beaversons-were climbing out of their cars and making their way across the wet grass, shoulders slumped, heads bowed low. Men held black umbrellas against their shoulders; women held white tissues to their noses. A few trees dotted the landscape, their twisted, half-barren branches reaching into the gray sky as if begging for even a glimmer of life. But there was no life in a place like this. Only death.