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Where Dark Things Hide - Book One

By Jamal Williams All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Action


The novel takes us on adventures with humans who live normally on the surface but underneath each has evil intentions that lead to horrific endings caused by their inhuman approaches to others. An ultra conservative political leader on the verge of an unwanted retirement is given a political "tip" that might return him to the elite level of political icons. He goes South to follow up on his tip, but ends up digging into an old example of unwarranted lynching and that tip with the help of a Voodoo woman sends him back 50 years on the night of the lynching as an active participant. The other novella is the story of a career military man stupidly trying to solve a mass disappearance of soldiers on Grenada that is tied to an ancient Caribbean witch named Ligibliss. Finally the final story is about an abused child whose only friend is a life-size cloth doll that turns out to protect him and his mother from a drugged out boyfriend who plans to murder them to collect insurance money to pay his drug bills.

Chapter 1: The Gathering

The clouds angrily twisted, swirled, dipped and billowed, turning muddy and black in the dark San Francisco sky. Like Banshees they came sweeping over, under and around the red structure of the famous Golden Gate Bridge. It happened so fast that tourists walking the span could only stare with fear and awe to a sight that the native San Franciscan had so blasé come to expect as the same-o, same-old every day thing. Below the world’s most famous rust colored suicide jump off platform, the cold blue water of the Pacific Ocean churned choppy with white heads pounding the surf on Baker beach. But it was the deluge of rain that really sent fishermen, seals, surfers, and sunbathers scampering for cover.

Way on the other side of town, just south of the Golden City by the Bay, the structure of Candlestick baseball/football stadium stood like an ancient structure.

The ballpark was nestled into a scooped out Candlestick Mountain; just off the bay’s polluted estuary where the rusting shell of the once thriving Hunters Point shipyard sat abandoned. In this designated industrial zone, where once the city operated a refuge dump where asbestos and garbage were used as landfill, were two infamous housing complexes. One was known as Double-Rock, Dodge City to its tenants, the other was known as Hunters Point, Gunpoint to the police.

The bowels of the earth moved. The earth rumbled and the rain poured down hard and relentless like an ass whipping from an abusive mate. Fearsome booms of thunder rumbled to great brilliant bolts of lightning flashes.

Coming north up the 101 highway, a long, black, 1969 Cadillac, its polished enormous chrome grill splicing through the heavy blinding downpour, exited at the Sierra Point turnoff.

The green fluorescent reflector sign at the crossroad pointed an arrow to the left towards the ballpark and the other arrow to the right pointed to Sunset Scavenger’s garbage refuge area. The big black car headed right. Though the rain was still falling hard, the car had no windshield wipers and no need for any. Even the gold-platted winged hood ornament stood dry and seemed to guide the Caddy like a beacon towards the middle of the big muddy landfill lot.

The car came fishtailing to a mushy stop and a tall figure stepped out in the rain without a drop falling on him. Another lightning cracked across the sky the bolt out flashing off his gold covered teeth. He snickered; his mouth showing a gold star design on his upper front teeth.

From the Caddy’s rear, he pulled out a huge steamer trunk and plopped it on the ground; the sheer weight sinking it down two feet in the putrid sewage mixed mud. Dragging it just clear of the car, he pulled a silver key from his vest pocket, inserted it in a skeleton-head lock on the trunk, and turned.

He lifted the lid slowly and stood back as a broad and intensely bright bluish/white band of light streaked skyward slicing a hole through the angry dark clouds. He snickered again as he turned to retrieve a black apron and chef’s hat from the front seat of the humongous car.

Like a gigantic inflatable dome, the roof rose skyward out the Steamer followed by the walls, windows and an ornate entrance door until a fully operational café materialized. Then like God’s giant mushroom, with a swooshing “Pop”, the steel pole holding a huge revolving neon sign, plopped out of the mud and rose above the diner.

It sputtered to life; pale pink lettering humming and crackling presenting: The Café Fly Paper. The tall man rubbed his hands together--for once again, the Café Fly Paper was open for business.

He walked past the headlights of his car; his front teeth sparkled goldenly as he climbed the steps.

He looked at the lights on the freeway and raised a long arm, balled up his fist and beckoned with his long crooked middle finger. It wouldn’t be long before his special guests would be arriving. He would definitely be ready; as always. He entered the café chuckling thinking that it felt “simply marvelous darling” to serve such a great esoteric and spiritual purpose--like a big black spider waiting for his playthings to come for dinner and it was so much fun too.

His black was intimidating but black was the power color that suited him just right and made the world so very right. The door closed behind him.

The interior was as dark as a funeral home and colder than an undertaker’s heart. In the darkness, the tall Blackman clapped his hands together and the lights came to illuminate an interior that was a wondrous sight to see.

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