Marked by Darkness - Book 1, Maddison, Indiana Supernatural Thrillers

Living can be worse than death. Death requires no struggle. Death only requires giving in.

Life requires battle, a never-ending succession of skirmishes. Each day an agony of combat, each step a hard-won victory.

Today, my steps of victory crunch through melting snow and piles of fallen leaves. My legs burn, regardless of the cold. This daily run grounds me. I've kept the habit from before the police academy, through my detective career, and now here, one of the few things I kept from my previous life.

I push on through my woods. Trees slide past in a blur. My lungs settle into my pace, my chest rising and falling in customary rhythm. Puffs of steam escaping my lips into the frigid air. My feet land on the familiar trail, my legs stretching over downed branches without thought. My body has run this path so many times it no longer needs my conscious thoughts to guide it. My mind is free to roam into the darkness. I struggle to keep my thoughts on the path, to skirt the empty abyss that beckons.

My property consists of three-hundred acres of heavily forested woodlands. When I first came here, the woods seemed to stretch forever, an expansive embrace of trees and wildlife. Now I quickly reach my property line and make the turn back towards the cabin, following the remnants of snowy footprints from my last run.

My only companion, my gray and white husky, Indy, knows the path well, too. As we make the turn towards home, he bounds ahead excitedly, kicking up snow and leaves with his fast feet. Indy stops suddenly, several paces ahead on the trail. He raises his nose to the air and catches a scent. The rabbit flashes across the path and Indy gives chase.

He shoots into the brush, his gray fur flashing against the white of the snow. I watch him go, wondering if I should follow, but I run on. Indy can take care of himself in the woods better than I can. He'll come home when he's had his fill of fun.

The music in my earbuds blasts the last of my dark thoughts about death and life away. I match my feet to the beat and plunge forward one step at a time, eager to get home before darkness falls.

A sharp bark intrudes over the music. I slow my pace, turn the volume down, and Indy barks again.

I pull an earbud out. “Indy?” I call into the trees. A whine and a yelp echo in the stillness.

Panic spurs my feet, and I crush into the brush. One earbud hangs from its wire, bouncing against my chest in a staccato of fear. My breath claws at my chest, hidden branches cling to my feet.

Indy's paw prints lead to a frozen pond and continue onto the thin sheet of snow blowing across the ice. Several yards away, Indy scrapes the edge of an icy hole, desperate to draw himself out of the frigid water. He yelps in fear, his bright blue eyes pleading for help.

The ice moans beneath my weight as I take cautious steps towards my dog. A crack zigzags in front of me, and the ice gives way. The shallow water bites up to my knees. Gasping against the icy pain, I push on, breaking the ice with clenched fists. The water crawls up to my thighs. Drowned branches and debris pull at my numbing feet.

Indy watches my slow progress with helpless eyes. The water climbs to my crotch, knocking the air from my lungs as it reaches my sensitive skin.

A few feet away from him, I stretch my arms across the ice, strain to reach the thick fur of his neck. It fills my gloved hand, and I pull. Indy yelps and claws at the ice. One paw catches hold, and combined with my pulling, he slides out of the water.

He crouches on the ice, instinctively spreading his weight on his four paws. He scrambles to the bank and shakes off most of the water. Now that he's safe, he paces the bank of the pond, barks anxiously, spurring me on.

Numbness settles into my bones, making my return to the bank heavy and slow. A submerged branch catches my running boot, tripping me. Icy water clenches around my belly, but I catch myself on the edge of the ice before sinking lower.

Freeing my boot from the branch, I lunge for the bank, pushing hard with my other leg. A hidden scrap of metal slices my foot, the sudden warmth of blood burning against the cold water. Ignoring the pain, I push again for the bank.

I land face down in the dirt and snow, then belly-crawl out of the water. Indy pushes his nose against my face, urging me on with his warm breath. My vision fuzzes, and I shiver in the wind. Using my unhurt foot, I try to stand. My numb leg wobbles, crumples, and I land with a humph. The cold seeps from my soaked legs up to my chest. It slithers under my coat and wraps icy fingers around my lungs.

I will my legs to move, too cold to obey, my muscles only twitch. With my gloved hands, I pull myself through the dirt like an animal. Fallen branches reach out from the snow to scratch my face.

Indy whines and shoves me with his nose, urging. Shadows dance around his broad face, as the sun sinks low in the sky behind him. I manage to drag myself a little farther, then lie panting against the dirt. The cold seeps from my chest into my shoulders.

Indy whines against my cheek. I can barely see his blue eyes in the falling darkness. Behind him, three familiar balls of light appear, and I turn away from their approach.

"I just need to rest," I tell my dog. “Give me a minute.”

Music sings softly from my earbuds dragging along beside me. "Dust in the Wind" carries along with the snow on the breeze.

As I have every day for two years, I fight the battle to survive. I don't give in. I don't give up. The cold strikes back, a valiant competitor.

“Maribeth, you have to move,” Bryson’s voice blocks out the music.

“I can’t,” I explain to my dead husband. “Too cold.”

“Get up!” he commands. I open my eyes and meet his face.

"You need a haircut," I tell him non-sensically. "You should have gotten one before."

“You say that every time,” his warm smile makes a heat flutter in my frozen chest.

“Mom, it’s dark,” my son, Benny, says from somewhere nearby. “I don’t want to be here in the dark.”

“I know, baby. Sorry. I stayed out longer than I intended.”

“Mom, get up!” My teenage daughter, Lilly, demands. Always headstrong and to the point, she doesn't give in now.

I manage to roll on my back, and the three of them shimmer above me. The empty branches dance behind them, through them.

“Indy’s cold,” Bryson says. “You have to get him inside the cabin.”

My dog shivers next to me, a crinkling sheet of ice frozen over his thick fur.

“I can’t,” I whine to my family. “I’m too tired.”

“That’s the hypothermia talking. Damn it, Maribeth, move!” In our 17 years of marriage or the last two years, I’ve never heard Bryson cuss at me. “Get your ass in gear and get up!”

I don't like his tone and anger surges through me. When I try to move my leg, it obeys. "That's it, Mom. Fuck this shit and move!" Lilly chimes in.

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” I snap automatically. Adrenaline pumps against the cold, and I force myself to my hands and knees.

"It's getting darker," Benny fusses, consumed by his fear. "Get us inside."

Even Indy gangs up on me, pushing against my rear. I pant on my hands and knees, crawl a few steps towards the trail. “Why won’t you just leave me alone so I can join you?” I plead. “If you had stayed away, I could be with you now.” Tears of frustration burn my frozen cheeks.

“You have things to do yet, Maribeth. Now get going.” Bryson urges. “Don’t let the kids see you like this.”

That works more than the harsh words. I crawl a few more feet, then pull myself up on a tree. My cut foot stings as I step down gingerly. “Pain is good,” Lilly says. “Do that again.”

As blood pumps through my frozen extremities, the skin tingles and burns. “The sooner you get to the cabin, the sooner the burning will stop,” Bryson urges.

I pull myself straight and step away from the support of the tree. My cut boot flaps in the snow, but I keep moving, each step agony.

“Good girl, keep moving,” Bryson says.

Panting and exhausted, I stop to catch my breath once I’m back on the path to the cabin. I want to sink to it, want to curl up and sleep.

Bryson senses my hesitation and tries another tactic. "Chica and Rizo need their dinners."

“My pigs can eat the grass,” I point out.

“It’s winter, there’s no grass left. They need you.”

I look up the dark path where the pigs and chickens wait for my return.

"Just give me a minute," I tell my family and lean against a tree. I dig my pack of smokes from the inside pocket of my coat, and fish out a cigarette. It's squished, but miraculously dry. I fumble with the lighter through my gloves until a tiny flame finally appears. The hot smoke warms my tired lungs.

I take a few drags, summon the last of my energy, and march on.

My family follows, cheering me, pissing me off, whatever they can do to keep me going.

The solar light on my porch finally winks through the trees.

Benny runs ahead, "Come on, Mom, we're almost there."

My pace quickens once the cabin comes into view. In my haste, I trip over a fallen log. Bryson moves to catch me as I fall, but I tumble through his outstretched arms.

After all, he's not really here.

Chapter 2

Maribeth

I drag myself up the three steps to the wrap-around covered porch on my cabin. The wood steps creak under my heavy steps. Indy zooms past me, wasting no time going through his dog door and into the warmth of the cabin. Pale firelight pours out of the windows flanking each side of the door. The wind funnels through the porch, stings my chilled cheeks. The sudden blast of cold spurs me to cross the last few agonizing steps.

Leaning heavily on the door, I fumble to turn the handle with my freezing fingers. I finally manage to turn the knob and collapse through the door. I land hard on the polished wood floor and try not to think about the bruises I've collected from my many falls tonight.

The funneled wind from the porch blows through the open door, makes the fire roar to life in the open fireplace, and a few sparks dance up the chimney. Already curled on his bed by the fire, Indy contentedly licks the melting ice and snow from his fur. He looks up with a you’re letting the cold in expression.

"Come on, babe, almost done. Shut the door,” Bryson says.

I stay on the floor but slam the door with my un-cut foot. "Happy?" I gripe.

“I’m happy we’re finally home,” Benny chirps and sits next to Indy.

"You're such a baby," Lilly tells him. "Mom could have died, and you're too busy being afraid of the dark."

“I’m not afraid,” Benny replies.

Lilly shrugs and flops on the couch.

"Hot bath for you," Bryson says, looking down at me on the floor.

"You're so bossy tonight. I don't like it," I grumble as I pull off my gloves and hat and toss them across the cabin.

“Whatever it takes,” he smiles. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes melt my heart the way they have for years. “As long as you’re safe.”

I meet his hazel eyes and put all my love into mine. “I’m safe now. Thank you,” I say quietly so the kids can’t hear.

"Don't do that again." His tender voice holds a steel edge. “Don’t ever do that again.”

I look away, ashamed of how close I came to losing. If the last two years haven't done me in, how could I let a frozen pond finish me off? I busy myself with climbing off the floor instead of responding.

I call to the kids, “I’m going to take a hot bath.”

The water steams invitingly as it fills the tub. Sitting on the toilet lid, I untie my running boots. The sole of the one flops open at the cut, ruined. I toss my favorite boots against the wall in anger, thinking of all the snowy miles it took to break them in. They'll need to be replaced now, and fast.

I peel my soaked socks off and add them to the pile against the wall. The sock is ruined too, cut through and stained with blood. I don’t look at my foot, unwilling to see my skin opened by the sharp metal I stepped on.

When the pile includes my soaked pants and my mostly dry sweater, I turn off the water in the tub. The silence in the small bathroom nearly deafening after the roar of the running water.

Steam obscures the tiny mirror above the sink. I wipe it away with my hand and consider my reflection. My blue eyes, nearly the same color as Indy’s, stare wide and frightened. "That was close," I whisper to myself. The mirror is purposely small, only reflecting a small part of me. Lift my chin reveals the red, angry scar puckered across my throat. I finger it gently with a shaking hand. Lower on my chest, another scar, not visible in the mirrors minuscule reflection beckons. My trembling fingers reach lower, outline the roman numeral carved there.

“Don’t touch it,” Bryson suddenly commands.

I pull my hand away, guilty like a child sneaking candy.

I meet his eyes in the tiny reflection. "You and the kids don't have the marks?" I ask.

“We’ve already told you we don’t.” His voice so close to my ear, almost touching.

“You did,” I whisper.

“We don’t now,” he soothes. “Don’t go down this road, Maribeth,” he warns.

I push through him and climb into the tub. The heat of the water like fire against my still cold skin. I welcome the burn, and slide into the water, tipping my head back on the edge of the tub.

My injured foot stings. I raise it from the water, and fresh blood dribbles down my leg. Just a little blood, nothing serious, but it's enough.

“Don’t look at the blood,” Bryson tries to help.

My mind betrays me, and the memory slips in.

I pull my SUV into my garage. It’s a tight fit next to the shiny new John Deer Gator Side-by-side. Bryson's gift to me at last month's Christmas. "It'll make doing the chores easier," he'd said. "You can haul feed in the back or whatever you need to do."

I shake my head at the Gator. Our tiny farm is really Bryson's baby. The three pigs in the barn and the six chickens were all surprises brought home from an animal swap meet last summer. "Homegrown bacon and farm-fresh eggs," Bryson had said. I'd seen through the ploy for what it was, a reason to keep me home. Most nights, like tonight, he ends up doing the chores alone while I’m gone working on a case.

Sighing heavily, I push open my door. It's late, very late. Quietly, I enter the kitchen. Bryson left a light on for me. It shines warmly on the wooden cabinets of the friendly space designed for family dinners. I turn off the light, I missed dinner again tonight, and I don't want the reminder.

Indy whines in his kennel, wanting my attention. I let him out, his thick white and gray fur glows in the moonlight as he dances around me, excited I'm home. I rough up his furry neck in greeting, then let him out the back door to his fenced-in area. "Don't take long," I tell him. "I'm going to bed in a bit." Indy sniffs the frozen grass and ignores me.

I toss my phone on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room and walk in the dark down the hall. I peak in on Benny first. He’s sound asleep, curled on his side. A book open on the bed and a flashlight glowing next to him, forgotten as he read himself to sleep. I close the book and sit it on his table, click off the flashlight. His dark bangs have fallen over his eyes, and I brush them away gently. I lean over and kiss his temple, breathe deeply of the little boy smell in his hair. With a pang, I realize that smell has started to fade, to change as he grows older. He's only eight, but he'll be a young man soon enough.

"Love you, Mom," he murmurs in his sleep. He's used to my late-night kisses.

"Love you, Benny buddy," I whisper near his ear and breathe his scent again.

“Stop smelling me,” he mutters and pulls the covers closer around him.

I smile at my son and leave him alone, closing the door with a gentle click.

No light shines under Lilly's closed door. I want to open it, to go to her. At fifteen, she won't tolerate my intrusion the way Benny does. Placing my hand flat on her closed door, I console myself with a quick, "Night, love."

Flickering lights and low voices filter through the crack in the door to the master bedroom. I push it open and find Bryson asleep on the bed, the TV on. I slip out of my suit jacket and toss it on the chair. I put my badge and gun in the side table drawer, the removal of their weight freeing me to just be. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I kick off my low-heeled boots.

Bryson moans and reaches for me, his hand on my thigh.

“You’re home,” he mumbles.

I turn towards him and place my hand flat on the plane of his cheek. The beginnings of stubble prickle my palm. "Don't wake up," I whisper. "It's late."

The TV flickers across his face as I drop a light kiss where my hand just was. He blinks rapidly, forcing himself awake. "How'd it go?"

"We had to release him." I stand and unbutton my shirt.

Bryson wakes up fully, pushes himself onto his elbow. "Release him? After what he did to all those women?" His indignation matches my own.

“His alibi’s check out.” I fume. I don't want to talk about it. I've spent the last few days building a case against Jesse Franklin. Eyewitness accounts linked him to several murders over the past year and a half. My partner, Detective Samuels, and I thought we had enough to bring him in.

“I don’t understand,” Bryson says.

"Me, either." I pause in unbuttoning my shirt. "He sat across the table from Samuels and me, calm and sure of himself. He has solid video alibis for each of the abductions. He couldn’t have done it.”

“I’m so sorry, Maribeth. I know you were sure you had this monster.”

I sit back on the bed, my shirt flapping open. "That's the thing. I'm still sure. Franklin did those awful things to those women, or is at least involved." The rage I fought down before I even thought of coming home boils again. "Franklin looked me in the eye and said he didn't do it, but his eyes lied. He basically dared me to prove it. I can't explain it, but he knows that I know he's guilty."