He hit me in the back, sending me staggering forward as his arms snaked around my waist. I twisted, attempting to pry myself free, but he was deceptively strong. Finally, as a last resort, I brought my arm back, ramming my elbow into his face. His nose splintered and hot blood sprayed my neck. He let out a high-pitched squeal and slackened his grip long enough for me to pull away and turn to face him.
Walter was a mess. Blood poured from his ruined nose, trickling down his chin and onto his shirt. A mix of spittle and some kind of brown mush that looked suspiciously like dirt, fell from his mouth as he spewed a tirade of guttural grunts that bore little resemblance to speech. Judging from the brown stains on his hands I came to the conclusion that he had, at some point prior to attacking Clara, actually been eating dirt.
I scanned the area for anything to use for a weapon. My eyes alighted on a stack of propane canisters next to the dumpster. Not perfect, but they would do.
“What are you doing?” Clara lingered next to the door. “Get in here.”
“Give me a moment.” Walter was eyeing me the way a person might look at a fat juicy steak.
“Don’t be stupid.” Clara was frantic.
“Hang on.” I backed up, edging toward the cylinders.
Walter watched me for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the blood that was still flowing from his nose, and then he took a step forward.
I could guess what was about to happen, and Walter did not disappoint. I ducked sideways at the same time as he charged. The canisters were not far away. I reached them and snatched one up, grateful that they were empty, just as I suspected. If they had been full there was no way I would have been able to hoist one, and my plan would have been ruined.
Walter closed the distance between us with astonishing speed considering his girth and age. He lowered his head, intent upon ramming me. When he was less than two feet away I swung the canister as hard and high as I could.
Walter ran right into it.
My aim was not great. As a means of self-defense, a propane tank is not the most graceful of instruments. Luckily my assailant was either too mad or too stupid to bother ducking. The canister bounced off his skull with a hollow thud. Walter’s head snapped to the side. He performed a perfect pirouette, and then his legs collapsed under him. The impact sent a wave of jarring pain up my arm and I lost my grip on the tank, which fell to the ground and rolled away, finally coming to rest near the back wall of the convenience store.
Walter was down.
I waited a moment, watching, expecting him to spring back up unharmed like one of those screen monsters in a slasher movie, but thankfully he didn’t move.
“Is he dead?” Clara still waited by the door.
“I don’t think so.” I thought I detected the faint rise and fall of his chest.
“Shame.” Clara edged closer, keeping her eyes on Walter. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought he was going to kill me, or worse.”
“You’re safe now.”
“He came out of nowhere. I wasn’t paying attention.” She wiped the tear away. “Stupid.”
“Not at all.” I eyed Walter. He was still down. “Did you find a charger?”
“Yes.” She glanced toward the car.
“Good. Maybe we can get out of here in the morning.”
“I don’t want to wait that long.” Clara looked dismayed. “Can’t we leave now?”
“It’ll take a while to charge the battery.”
“Just great.” She looked down at Walter. “So what do we do with him?”
“We tie him up, and then we lock ourselves inside until dawn.”
KEEP ON READING
THE REMNANTS OF YESTERDAY
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THE APARTMENT
Jack Brannan thought the fifth floor apartment in New York City would be a great place to finish his latest novel. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, free room and board in exchange for looking after the rambling old apartment building while its owner was out of town. He soon comes to realize, however, that there is much more to the former Roosevelt Hotel than meets the eye, and that nothing is ever free.
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FEARSOME THINGS
Five short tales of horror and suspense to keep you up at night.
Are you afraid of ghosts? Draw the covers over your head and step out of the light into a place where monsters lurk, the banshee howls, and the spirits of the dead walk in restless eternity.
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About the Author
Anthony M. Strong is a British writer living and working in the United States. When he’s not writing he spends most of his time watching documentaries, listening to rock music, and waiting on three raucous pooches named Gidget, Tiki and Hayden.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
The Remnants of Yesterday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author