Sample Chapters Posted

Ok after much waiting, here are the first two chapters of Afterlife. This novel is meant for Young Adults ages 10 - 18, aimed mostly at 12-14 year olds. Comments and critiques are not only wanted, but loved, even if they are harsh. Show no fear, I love the advice!

I am splitting these into two chapters, and posting links on the sides of the Blog for easy navigation. Have fun!

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Afterlife: Oblivion Awakens

Chapter 1

The hot days of summer kicked off with a bang in the beginning of June for kids all over the Midwest – that being the sound of school doors crashing open, ringing out cries of jubilation from happy children everywhere. It was the start of the two month period where everyday was a sleep-in day and there was no mention of books, homework, or class schedules. Kids rejoiced, parents moaned.

Among the ruckus and chaos of the great escape, three boys walked along the paved roads away from the school and towards their homes, blissfully unaware of the horrid events that lay before them. Mark Stone, one of these three and the oldest (but only by a few months, the others would be quick to point out) kicks a rock down the street as they make their summer plans known.

"I don't care what else we do, but this summer we have to go into that house next door to you. It's been empty ever since the Fergusens died, and we gotta go in there and see if there is any blood or brains left on the walls," Zig said to Mark. Zig’s real name was Chester, but he picked up the nickname in elementary school for his zigzagging means of running the bases in P.E. He was heavier than a lot of kids his age, with short cropped dark hair. Word around town is that Zig would make a great football player one day, but he’s bored by anything played without a bat and pitcher and so sneers at the idea.

"There won't be any blood on the walls, Zig. The police and authorities would have cleaned that up. Besides, I think it’s disrespectful to intrude like that. It's like a gravesite, and God only knows what we would be pissing off by barging in uninvited," Oz said, kicking a rock down the two lane highway that made most of Main street. Oz, whose nickname comes from a love of the Wizard of Oz movie, is the group expert on all things strange and scary. As such, his room is filled with all sorts of horror and sci-fi memorabilia. He stands the tallest, and the thinnest, of the three, with lots of curly hair, and a particularly bright white complexion.

Mark looked at the ground as they walked, his thumbs tucked behind the straps of his backpack. "Plus I think that would be considered breaking and entering, Zig," Mark said. Mark was an average everyday fourteen year old kid, with shoulder length brown hair was well kept, but still ‘cool’. His skin was blessedly clear most of the time and his soft eyes made girls melt, although he didn’t know it. He wore baggy clothes, but not too baggy. He was smart - all A's and B's, but not to the somewhat nerdy level Oz was aspiring to. His only love in sports was Baseball – which had been his father’s favorite.

These three best friends had been inseparable since Mark moved into the town of Asherton as a small child, and this summer would not be any different. Oz looked up at the sky, aware that even though it was three in the afternoon, he could still see the dim outline of the full moon in the sky. He shaded his eyes and looked closer, wondering if the red tint he saw was a trick of the bright sunlight, or the omen of death.

“What’re you looking at?” Mark asked.

“Moon’s out, and it’s red,” Oz answered.

“What’s that mean?”

“Dunno. I think it means something about someone will die tonight.”

“People die everyday, all over the world. It’s not much of a revelation,” Mark said, looking at the moon as well. It did look a little red. Zig turned and walked backwards, facing the other two.

"Look, it’s not breaking and entering if no one knows we're there. Come on guys, we have said we are going to do it for the last three years, and each time someone has chickened out. I am starting to think that you guys are scared of it or something," Zig said.

They turned the corner, into the residential section of town. Mark lived the closest to the river, and the main road. Zig lived two blocks past that, and Oz across the street from Zig. Luckily for them, the blocks were small. As they turned the corner, Mark and Oz stopped, staring straight ahead.

"I don't think we will need to worry about it anymore," Mark said, pointing. "Look." Zig turned around, and saw a large truck in front of the house next door to Mark’s. Bob's Movers and Trucks was written on the side. Two tall and dirty men were pulling furniture and boxes from the trailer. The real estate sign that had stood in the front yard for nearly three years had a sold sign on the top of it. The sign itself was so faded from the sun, that the picture of Mrs. Rice was nearly impossible to see.

"Holy crap dude, someone is moving in!" Zig shouted, stating the obvious. He seemed to have a good knack for that, and called upon this ability often.

"Come on, let's go see what kind of freak would want to live in a house where people were murdered," Zig said and started for the moving truck. Mark and Oz followed, both in quiet awe of the spectacle before them. The movers were attempting to drag a heavy dark green sofa out of the truck and down the ramp, grunting and breathing hard. As one of them stepped into the street, he farted loudly, sending Zig into giggles, and making Oz and Mark smile at each other.

"I can do better than that, kid," the sweaty mover said. Zig waved him away and stared up into the house, whose front door was wide open, like a mouth in the midst of a yawn. It seemed as though it were stretching out the last three years of its slumber.

"Remember what the papers said? Blood all over, two of the bodies were decapitated. I don't think they ever found the murderer, but they also never found that Fergusen girl. What was her name? Nancy?" Oz said. Mark was quietly staring into the windows. He remembered the first time he had heard the stories. It made him close his blinds; his bedroom window looked down upon the bedroom where one of the headless bodies was found, or so he’d been told.

"I mean seriously, that’s some bogus stuff, and you know that the realtor couldn't have just let that slip her mind. I mean dude, the whole town has to know about that. Probably the whole state," Oz said, his eyes not leaving the house.

"What kind of freak would want to live in a house like that?" Zig said, echoing his earlier statement.

"A freak like me," came a girl's voice from around the other side of the truck. She stepped out from behind it, dressed in a black tee shirt, and a black short skirt. She was about their age, Mark guessed, with shoulder length straight brown hair, and pale skin. Her eyes were sad, Mark thought.

"Whoa, a girl!" Zig said, and jumped away from her as though she were on fire.

"You were expecting something else? A vampire perhaps? A serial killer?" she said, her eyebrows coming together with an irritated look.

"Vampires only come out at night-" Oz started, but was hushed when the look was shot his way.

"Excuse him," Mark said stepping over to Zig, "Sometimes he forgets and just says whatever falls out of his little brain. My name is Mark." Mark offered her his hand, and she regarded it as though he were trying to hand her something green and vile. After an awkward few moments, he let his hand fall back to his side. She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then looked back to Zig.

"Who are these other two stooges?" she asked.

Zig, who wasn't in the least bit offended, stepped forward with a big smile and stuck out his hand saying," I'm Zig. That's not my real name, but everyone calls me that." She stared at Zig like he was some kind of amusing science fair project, and ignored his hand as well. Oz returned her annoyed look and didn't answer.

"What's the matter, smarty, too good to talk to a girl?" she said.

"No," Oz said sneering, "I just resent the comment that I one of the three stooges."

"Well I resent being called a freak," she sneered back.

"Hey, I didn't call you a freak, Zig did. Don't take it out on me!"

"Well you didn't argue with him."

"Well, you are moving into the murder house, after all. The one and only massacre that this little town has ever seen happened in your house. So how were we supposed to know?" Oz shot back at her. She only glared at him. Mark stepped towards her and held up his hands in defeat.

"We didn't mean to offend anyone. It took us by surprise that someone was living here," Mark said.

"What are you, Super Boy? Apology not accepted. Get out of my yard," she said and started to stomp away, her arms crossed over her chest. Mark looked down and shook his head.

"Fiesty one, she is, " Zig said, trying his best Sean Connery accent.

"Hey, anyway, I gotta get home guys. Mom asked me to clean the kitchen. You still comin’ over tonight?" Mark said. The others nodded and muttered their goodbyes. Halfway across the lawn to his house, his mind already starting the night's camp out, the girl called to him again.

"Hey super boy!"

Mark stopped and turned around. She was standing on the front porch, her arms around one of the posts.

"My name is Kate. Don't go away with your tail between your legs – we are going to be seeing a lot of each other. We do live next door, after all," she said smiling, and gave him a wink. With that she turned and walked back into her house. Mark shook his head again. God, what is WRONG with girls?, he thought as he went to his porch.

His mind drifted again - monster movie marathon was on tonight plus they were going to do a spooky camp out afterwards, but only if he got the dishes done and the house picked up before his mom got home. Plus his Uncle Saul wanted him to help with something in his closet. That meant another long, drawn out story of how he saw a ghost one time, or a werewolf down the street, or a vampire in the cemetery. Mark had learned over the years to just nod and smile. It was the easiest way out of the situation - putting up any argument was an invitation for another hour of debate on why things like that can't really be real.

His uncle wasn't old, somewhere in his mid fifties, but after Mark’s aunt died ten years ago, he had come to live with them. It was either that, or he would have been locked in a looney bin. His mind, Mark’s Mom said, had just slipped. Outrageous stories of monsters poured out of Uncle Saul's mouth to anyone who would listen. And each time he swore they were true. He kept all these weird trinkets and charms in his room, and once a week, on Saturday, he went down to the local 'magic' store to buy something else.

Today his uncle was standing on the front porch, regarding the scene of the new neighbors moving in by rubbing on his gray and white beard. He seemed very intrigued by all the excitement, and at the same time, like a peeping tom, watching from behind the visual protection of a front porch column.

"Hey Uncle Saul, " Mark said, walking up the steps to the front porch.

“Girl likes ya,” Saul said. Mark rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I could see that with her warm smile and invitation to tea,” Mark said sarcastically. Uncle Saul frowned.

“You’ll see, maybe, one day. Women are tricky creatures.”

“I think I sort of know all about that,” Mark said, and Uncle Saul laughed.

"They shouldn't be moving into that place. That is one nasty house. Bad blood in that spot, dude," Uncle Saul said. Mark hated it when he talked like this. Not the surfer talk - Uncle Saul had lived most of his life on the California beaches - but the ‘cursed’ and ‘mysterious’ talk.

"It's fine, Uncle Saul. I am sure they have some sort of priest or someone bless it," Mark said, a sigh of long suffering in his voice. Uncle Saul turned around to face him.

"We'll see dude, we'll see. I know what happened there and I don't like it," he said following Mark through the door into the house.

"Did Mom say when she was going to be home tonight?" Mark asked, dropping his back pack on the floor and removing his shoes. His mom insisted that everyone take their shoes off when they entered the house. Of course, Uncle Saul was immune to this rule, and walked around wearing whatever he pleased.

"She left a note on the fridge. Said that she had to go shopping, and not to forget the dishes in the dishwasher that need to be put back. She underlined 'properly'," Uncle Saul said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Great," Mark said, then, "I suppose you have made more dishes for me to collect around the house and put in the sink?"

"No way dude, I put them in the dishwasher."

"You mean the dishwasher that had clean dishes in it?"

"Looked dirty to me, dude," Uncle Saul said, picking up the newspaper and rummaging through it. Mark closed his eyes and clenched his fists in an effort to keep himself from saying something that would surely get him grounded later.

"I ran it last night, of course they are clean," Mark said, looking at the back of his Uncle's head as he opened the dishwasher. His Uncle laid down the paper. Without turning to Mark, he spoke.

“Look at them. Don't they still look dirty to you?"

Mark looked at the dishes and was surprised to find that they were indeed all covered with stuck on food particles. Either he really hadn't run it the night before, or something was broken. The tell tale sign of dried soap spilling from the soap holder in the dishwasher door told him that it was busted. This could mean one of two things - either it was awesome and he was off the hook for putting the dishes away, or he would have to wash them all by hand and then put them away.

"You're going to have to wash them by hand dude," Uncle Saul said as if reading Mark's thoughts, "I found it shooting suds out of the vents last night. So see, I already knew it was busted. I’ll help. I need to talk to you about something anyway." Mark rolled his eyes, both for the not-so-surprising news of hand washing the dishes and for the feeling of an oncoming story. Uncle Saul was great around Halloween, but it just kept on going – Halloween or not.

"Ok, I’ll fill the sink," Mark said as Uncle Saul came over and put on a pair of bright pink rubber gloves. Mark stopped and looked at them, his head tilted to the side, and then erupted in laughter. Uncle Saul stopped midways of putting on Mark's Mom's flowery apron, and looked at the boy with steady eyes.

"What?"

"You’re seriously going to wear those gloves and mom’s apron to do dishes with me?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that? I don’t want to get dishwater on my nice clean shirt, or my hands all wrinkly in the dishwater."

"But they're pink, and flowery," Mark said, giggling.

"Dude, pink is cool man. And chicks dig flowers," Uncle Saul said, although he couldn't fully compress the smile spreading across his face. Mark kept laughing. When he was more composed and the sink full of dishes, Uncle Saul spoke.

"Look dude, I know that you think the stories I tell you are all made up, and I know it bugs you. I know that I bug you, and that you put up with it a lot -"

"Uncle Saul you don't have to -"

"No I don't. Just let me say my bit and then you can tell me what you think. I just wanted to say that I tell you the stuff I think you need to know. I don't have any kids, and I think of you as my own. I know I am nothing compared to your dad, and by God I wish he was still here, but I try to be part of your life, " Uncle Saul said, washing a plate and splashing soapy water all over the place, including the floors. Mark was silent, not knowing what to say or do. He always had a hard time knowing how to act in sappy moments.

"You're not a bad guy, Uncle Saul. It's just that... those things you say are true, are like right out of the movies. They are way over the top - I mean, come on, seeing real ghosts in the graveyard? I have walked through there for years with Oz and Zig, and I have never seen anything other than spider webs and cats looking for mice. I don't know. They were cool when I was little, but now they are getting a little bit old, you know?" Mark said, not looking at his uncle, keeping his eyes focused on the soapy sewage he was sticking his hands in.

"You have grown up into a great young man that your mom and I are very proud of. But that doesn't mean that those things aren't real to me. In any case, I am going to stop with the stories. No need for me to torture you or your friends any more, " Uncle Saul said, stopping to examine a big chunk of what used to be spaghetti but was now more like concrete, stuck to a plate.

"Ok, I am cool with that."

"One last thing though, I have a box in the closet I want you to help me get to this weekend. It won’t take much of your time. I think your mom wanted me to throw some of it out but, there is stuff in it for you. Stuff that I have been waiting to give you until you were old enough. I think you are now. It has to do with your dad."

"My dad?” Mark asked. Uncle Saul nodded, and slopped more soapy water all over the place.

“Cool, I can do that. Tonight the guys are coming over and we are doing monster movies, then a camp out in the backyard. Probably pizza and soda for dinner tonight too. So maybe tomorrow I can get that for you?"

"OK. Hey we gotta get these done before your mom comes home. I don't think she is going to be in a great mood when she finds out about the dishwasher being broken. That's like the third time this month, and she doesn't want to buy a new one."

“Tell me about it,” Mark said, sighing. It was him that got to clean the dishes by hand each time it broke. Each time right after spaghetti too – like the spaghetti was cursed to destroy the dishwasher. Cursed spaghetti – he would have to remember to tell that one to Oz.

Mark’s mom hadn't been happy when she got home, but she didn’t go completely ballistic when she saw the dishes were cleaned and put away. With a long suffering sigh that said she knew she would be up all night, Mark was allowed to invite his friends over.