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  Darkness Within

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016 Isabel Lucero

  Cover Design:

  Robin Harper from Wicked by Design

  Interior Design and Formatting:

  Christine Borgford from Perfectly Publishable

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchasing it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete the file and purchase a copy legally. This novel is for your enjoyment only and may not be resold or given to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  WARNING:

  This book contains themes of violence, graphic language, and talk about abuse. This is intended for mature readers over the age of eighteen.

  Table of Contents

  DARKNESS WITHIN

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Isabel Lucero

  About The Author

  “CHIEF FRANK LARSEN of the San Bernardino Police Department says they are looking for information regarding fifty-one year old, Steve Baker’s whereabouts. He was reported missing by his neighbor who told police she was concerned when he didn’t show up for their morning get-together on his porch, something they’ve done for years. After waiting all day, and never getting a response at his door or on his phone, she called the police stating he had no family that would report him missing. Upon entering the home, police did find evidence of a struggle. If anybody has any information . . .”

  “Yeah, I can hear you,” I say into the phone as I mute the TV.

  “Will you be able to make it out on Saturday?” Nick asks me, referring to his birthday celebration.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb, squeezing my eyes shut as I allow my chin to touch my chest. “What’s the plan again?”

  “We’ll start the night watching the game and having some beers at Celebrities. After that, we’ll probably find a bar or club to spend the rest of the night at. You in?”

  I stifle my groan. “Ah. Maybe. I might have plans, but I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Nick sighs loudly over the receiver. He’s used to me blowing him off, but it doesn’t stop him from inviting me to things. “All right, man. Let me know.”

  I hang up and place the phone next to me before reaching for the remote to unmute the TV. The news has gone off, replaced by some stupid reality dating show. With a huff, I press the power button and get up from the black, leather couch. My feet carry me across the wooden floors, taking me to the deck on the side of my house.

  Here in Twin Peaks, my home is nestled in the mountains and surrounded by trees that dwarf the houses that reside near them. More importantly, however, the neighbors are scarce. It’s not a big home and it’s nothing fancy, but the privacy makes living here worth it. The houses that are closest to me cannot be seen from my property, and again, more importantly, they can’t see mine. This is where I feel most content—away from crowds of people, in my own element, where I’m in control. Where I can be me.

  As a kid I was labeled a weirdo, a loner, and called many more names I’ve long tried to forget. The labels kids put on me in school didn’t bother me as much as what was happening to me at home. The terms my foster parents used to refer to me—little shit, worthless, good-for-nothing, waste of space, were still not as bothersome as being hit, kicked, starved, touched, and locked in a closet.

  I never thought I’d find happiness in a small, dark place, but at least in that closet, I knew I was alone.

  The kids didn’t know why I preferred being alone. They didn’t understand I had already lost the ability to trust people. Now I choose to be by myself as much as possible due to my abhorrence for much of the human population. Sure, there’s probably some well-meaning people in the world, but I’ve yet to meet very many. However, I try to exist like any normal person would, putting my mask in place every time I leave my house.

  I no longer steer clear of people because I’m afraid of them or don’t trust them. That ship has sailed. I tend to steer clear of them for fear of how I’d react if they upset me too much. I don’t trust the darkness that resides inside of me.

  You know how people say if your parent is a drunk, you’re more likely to become a drunk? Or if your dad was abusive, you’re likely to abuse your own family? Yeah, well I was lucky enough to have alcoholic, abusive, demented, perverted, and neglectful parents. What do you think years of that does to a person? Nothing good, I can tell you that. Maybe I’m just one of the unlucky ones. Perhaps after years of both mental and physical torture, my mind was too weak and it snapped, creating a person void of emotion. You have to learn to not feel anything after feeling entirely too much for too long.

  I sit in one of the black, aluminum patio chairs and rest my booted feet on the matching table. After swiping a pack of cigarettes from the railing of the deck, I pluck one from the box and light it up. The tip burns red as I inhale, and smoke filters up into the charcoal sky.

  My mind wanders, trying to figure out what I’m going to tell Nick regarding Saturday night. It’s not that I don’t like him. I like him about as much as I can like anybody, but everything in me despises being around people, especially large groups of people. The club and bar scene is not one I ever wanted to be a part of. Any place that serves liquor to people who don’t know how to handle it, is only looking for problems.

  I glance at my watch before putting my cigarette out and stride back into the house. One of the selling points with this place was the fact that it has its own little built-in workshop. At least that’s what I’m assuming it was used for. It’s connected to the back of the house, which is good because there are no homes or roads back there, only massive trees.

  The floor in the workshop is concrete, and besides the wall the workshop shares with my house, the walls are made of concrete blocks. There were two large windows in here before, but I’ve since covered them up with plywood—one piece on each side of the glass.

  When I enter the dark room, I pick up the lantern I lef
t on the floor and turn it on. The fluorescent LED light is bright, but not enough to illuminate the entire room. My steps are unhurried as I make my way to the other side, but my boots clomp loudly with each stride.

  I approach the chair in the corner and lift the lantern up, holding it out in front of me. My menacing smile stretches across my face slowly.

  “Hello, Mr. Baker. Nice to see you’re awake.”

  “WELL, STEVE, IT looks like you have someone looking for you. Who knew you’d be missed?” I say with a grin as I stare down into his confused face.

  My fingers grab onto the corner of the tape, and I rip it from his mouth, possibly pulling out some of the hair from his upper lip in the process. He cries out in pain, his face contorting into a grimace.

  “Who are you?” he begs. “What do you want?”

  A slab of concrete about three feet high and six feet long is built alongside one of the walls, so I sit down and place the lantern next to me. With a kick to the side of his chair, I turn him in my direction.

  “You don’t recognize me, Mr. Baker? Come on, I spent almost two years in your house. Maybe you don’t recognize me because of this, huh?” I say, referencing my scruffy beard. “You did seem to like me when I was just a boy who wasn’t old enough to grow facial hair.” When he still doesn’t say anything, I relent. “It’s Donovan. Donovan James. Ring a bell?”

  The look that crosses his face is pure shock followed by absolute fear, and he’s completely right in fearing me, because he knows the horrors he subjected me to.

  “Donovan?” His voice is scratchy and thick with panic.

  “You remember now? Because I’ll tell you, I never forgot. It’s a shame that you and Mrs. Baker got divorced. However, when I came across her again, she was Mrs. Lannister, widow of husband number three.”

  “What did you do to her?” he questions.

  The smile that plays on my lips is coated with malice. “If it makes you feel any better, she went a hell of a lot faster and easier than you’re gonna go. After all, she never abused me like you did, she only let it happen. She only lied to social services when I called them to come investigate. She only told them that you were a good man and I was a troubled kid who enjoyed telling lies. She deserved to die, but you deserve to suffer.”

  “That was years ago. I . . . I don’t . . .” he stammers, unable to process his own thoughts.

  “Steve, spare me,” I say, lifting my hand in the air. “Nothing you say or do will make me change my mind. It may have been years ago, but it’s fresh in my mind. What was just a moment in time for you is an everlasting memory for me.”

  “How can you be so cruel?” he screams.

  I hop down from the concrete slab and hover over him, grabbing onto the arms of the chair as I sneer at him. He shrinks back in the chair, not used to the menacing six foot two man he sees today, only the scrawny, four-foot kid who once cowered away from him.

  “How can I be so cruel?” I snarl. “What’s cruel is what you did to me. Death isn’t the most painful thing you can go through. What’s cruel is living, though you’ve already been stripped of what makes you a person. You started killing me long ago, and yet, here I am before you. I’m alive because my heart beats within my chest, but my humanity is already dead. There’s nothing in me to make me feel bad for what I’m about to do to you. I’m a living nightmare, and I promise you’ll beg for the gift of death before I’m done with you.”

  I grab my large toolbox and drop it onto the concrete slab, the sound vibrating off the walls. After shoving a small rag into Steve’s mouth and covering it up with duct tape, I begin searching for the right tools.

  The monster takes control, and when that happens, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him until he completes what he does best. Kill.

  First to come out of the toolbox are some clamps and a box cutter. Do I really need to say what I’m going to do first? Any pedophile deserves to be castrated.

  Steve’s eyes widen with horror and his face turns ashen as beads of sweat appear on his forehead and upper lip. The fear within him seeps from his eyes, and the muffled grunts and pleas go ignored. Why should I offer him mercy when it was never offered to me?

  With his clothes removed, I position the clamp and get to work with muted screams as my soundtrack.

  Steve Baker, foster dad number two, passes out after my first few cuts. After he’s deservingly stripped of his balls, he wakes when I begin to cut his fingers from his hands with a pair of metal snips. Fingers that touched me and who knows how many other kids. He doesn’t last long after that, succumbing to unconsciousness once again. With balls and fingers gone, I plunge a knife into his chest and wait for him to bleed out.

  Like I told him, his ex-wife—that cunt, Susan—had it easier. When I went into her house, I found her sleeping soundly in her recliner. Cigarettes were falling out of the over-stuffed ashtray on the table next to her, and she had been watching some minister preaching about living a good Christian life. Yeah, that’s Susan all right. The Christian woman who looked the other way while her husband touched little boys. The religious lady that smoked like a train, cussed like a sailor, and locked kids in closets when she wasn’t flicking her cigarette ashes at them or refusing to feed them.

  It didn’t take long for her to stop breathing after I covered her nose and mouth with my gloved hand, pinning her head to the recliner. She struggled a bit, but when I whispered into her ear, she looked up and locked eyes with me. I could see the moment she recognized who I was and felt the moment she surrendered. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment.

  My whispered words, just like you didn’t help me, there’s no one here to help you, were the last words she ever heard.

  I wrap Steve’s body in the same plastic sheeting that protected the floor and walls, and just like that, my workshop is clean. I finish wrapping him up in a black tarp to keep everything hidden, and then lift his body and carry him to my truck.

  It’s dark in the forest. There are no lights out here amongst the trees. Darkness tends to frighten a lot of people, but not me. I’ve grown to enjoy and find comfort within the shadows. The dark doesn’t scare me, because it lives within me now.

  With his remains in the bed of my truck, I drive him to his new home. A place where nobody will ever find him.

  AS I PULL up to my work site, I secure my normal person mask and turn off who I truly am. I’ve perfected the act of being human. A dark figure walking the street attracts attention. An unassuming person goes unnoticed, and that’s just the way I need things to be.

  “So, tomorrow’s the big day. You made a decision yet?” Nick asks me as soon as I get out of my truck.

  “Tomorrow?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “My birthday?”

  “Oh. Right.” I suppose it’s a good time to celebrate, if not for Nick, for my own accomplishments recently. “Yeah. I’ll make it.”

  Nick’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “Really?”

  I let out a short laugh. “Yeah. I’ll be there. Now, let’s get to work.”

  “Yeah! Donovan’s coming with!” Nick yells to a few of the guys scattered around the work site.

  I shake my head and make my way towards the excavator I operate for DC Construction. I’m in charge of digging the foundations for the homes we’re building for a new residential area in Highland.

  “Yo, Don. You really coming, man?” Miguel asks as he walks alongside me, chewing on a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

  I bite back my annoyance at the shortened version of my name. “I said I was.”

  He slaps me on the back, letting his hand linger on my shoulder. “Fuck yeah. I’m glad. We almost never get you out of that fucking house of yours.”

  My body stiffens and it takes everything in me to keep from punching him in the face. He doesn’t know, and perhaps I shouldn’t blame him, but I can’t stand when people slap me on the back or shoulder. I know it’s a playful, friendly thing, but it sparks something else
in me. Plus, I’ve always hated Miguel. Something about him has always gotten under my skin.

  He’s too nosy, his laugh is loud and obnoxious, and he always runs his hand through his wavy hair like he’s in a fucking shampoo commercial.

  I shrug his hand off and pick up my pace. “Yeah, well, I’ll see ya later.”

  After getting to my truck, I climb in and begin work for the day. Nobody would know that last night I came out here and dug the foundation a little deeper. Not one single soul could guess that Steve Baker’s body lies under several layers of rocks and dirt. The hole will soon be filled, compacted, and covered in concrete before a house is built on top of it, and Steve will forever be missing.

  The workday is long, and the California heat is relentless as it beats down on us. I take a break and pull the hardhat off my head and wipe the sweat from my face with a rag I keep in my back pocket.

  As I sit on the curb, I drop my head and roll a cool water bottle over the back of my neck. I hear boots on gravel approaching but don’t bother to look up.

  “Hey, man,” Miguel says, plopping down next to me.

  I suppress a growl that threatens to come out. “Hey.”

  “You all right?”

  “Just tired. Had a long night.”

  He laughs like he knows what I was up to. Yeah right. He doesn’t want to know. “Oh yeah. Was she fun?”

  I hesitate momentarily before looking up at him. “What?”

  “The girl. Was she fun?”

  “I wasn’t with a girl.”

  His eyebrows pinch together. “Oh. What were you doing then?”

  What a nosy fucking asshole. “Whatever the fuck I wanted to be doing,” I snap, glaring at him in a way that says I dare you to ask another question.

  Miguel raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry.”

  Dropping my head again, I let out a grunt. Maybe I’m not completely emotionless, because people can—and do—get me angry. I’m not reckless with my anger though. I’m methodical.

  “Almost quittin’ time, fellas,” Nick says as he approaches from behind. “Then it’s the weekend and I get to fucking drink and get laid.”