Solitude

Three people. Two worlds. One destiny.
And that is to stop both worlds from colliding, entwining to a nightmarish morph of death and chaos. How will it all play out in a fateful town?
And with a mysterious entity following them, helping them, guiding them...
In the end, it all comes down to
Solitude

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2. one

"Hey, is that Myers over on the other end?"

There was a pause, and Danielle King waited with baited breath. The cool winter air seemed to be chillier as she waited. She licked her dry lips and began pacing. She was standing up in her living room. The atmosphere was very much tense, her pale hand gripping the Samsung smartphone.

There was a man, or someone, breathing heavily on the other end. Not steadily, but rather, erratically, first a short puff, then a deep huff, another, than rapid breathing. Finally-

"Yes, this is Myers." The words were interrupted periodically by crackles, as if the connection wasn't good. Danielle almost choked as she breathed again. She realised that hadn't been breathing for a minute. With one arm bringing her phone to her ear, her other arm dropped from her chest to hang by her side. She stopped pacing, stopping by her fluffy sofa.

"Thank god! Are you still selling that journal?"

"How did you find me?" The voice wasn't friendly, and was definitely a man. He was rasping, as if he had a sore throat. Danielle shivered despite being in a sweater, jacket, and tight fitting jeans. She could hear the venom in the voice.

"I went through some old newspaper clippings. There was a small piece about your book back in 1986. There's a phone number there, and I gambled. It's a small town, you know." Danielle tried to bring small talk into play, try to ease the mood. But the man was not to be pacified.

"We cannot speak over the phone. I will call you again." A pause. Then: "Danielle King." Her surname was sneered out, once again injected with a healthy dose of poison. There was a click and the phone was silent.

Danielle pulled her arm away from her ear jerkily, as if someone was preventing her from doing so. She stared at her phone with disbelief. How the hell did Myers know his name? Jeremy Myers was his full name. Myers was an author who had stopped writing when he in his 30s. Notable works of his included Seeping Memories and the unforgettable Cowl of Nightmares. Both had put the small town on the map briefly until Myers stopped without rhyme or rule. A local magazine tried to pursue the story but Myers had turned him down.

A year later, Myers was found missing in his mansion. Local police made a half-hearted attempt to locate him, but unsurprisingly came up empty handed. People moved on, forgot.

Danielle was surprised that 1) The phone number worked. And did no one try to call that same number again? 2) He picked up. She assumed he wanted to stay under the radar and abstain from contact with the outside world. And finally, 3) Myers actually wanted to entertain her, to call her back. Of course, she didn't have any guarantees, but it was a sure breakthrough.

Danielle was interested in one of Myers's work because it tied in so closely to real life events, and it was the last book Myers had written before he walked into the shroud of mystery without a glance back. Danielle walked into her study.

Piled on her desk was teetering stack of research notes, clippings, printed and faxed, photocopied and handwritten. She needed some serious organisation but she was too harried to bother. The research was taking over her life. Her spendings became less frivolous as her dive into knowledge stretched.

When her husband died of a plane crash during a business trip, he had left behind a sizeable fortune. Danielle had splurged on a spectacular service at the graveyard that made it to the newspapers, attracting both friends, families and unknowns across the town and beyond.

She had sold the old house at perhaps a price too low because she was desperate to escape the rousing nightmares of her deceased husband, and bought an apartment at a price definitely too high. She had then spent money on new furniture, leaving her with half the money, which she spent to coerce people to talk.

The research had taken its toll.

Danielle looked years older than her actual early thirties, and she was left with a little over a million. In hindsight, she probably shouldn't have been so careless, but she loved her Christopher so much...

She spread the papers across her desk and somehow located the notes on the book, all handwritten painstakingly. She had gone through many ballpoint pens during her frantic writing. She sometimes wondered if she had gone mad the day her husband had been fireballed by the mysterious incident.

It was still pending an explanation. With few staff aboard the private plane, with the chunks lost in the middle of the ocean, it was Myers all over again- nobody really tried.

So Danielle tried. And was still trying. She sat down and refreshed herself on Solitude's Depths.

 

 

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