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Though retired, Stan Rutmeyer still worked hard. He’d had three jobs before getting the gold watch, the longest and most enjoyable being his last, working as a handwriting analyst for the Secret Service, a position he took in the early seventies. It was a desk job reviewing whatever was brought to him, but there had been travel—a fair amount of … Read More

Bates looked at him as if the last thing on Earth he’d do was touch a sweating human being. He regarded Stan briefly, then turned his back on him, muttering, “Make sure you cut the back,” before making his way toward the front doors. Stan took no umbrage being mistaken for a landscaper; it turned out to be the highlight … Read More

Stan Rutmeyer let Mr. Peebles out for his afternoon potty. The dog bolted, hustling down the deck steps to inventory the backyard pee spots. Some dogs are one-spot dogs, but Peebles, an industrious dachshund, liked to spread it around, hitting previous marks before trying anywhere new. Stan stood between open back doors, watching the dog’s tail waggle as he went … Read More

Then Sarah spoke what they both knew: “That Wendi woman did.” Sarah, who knew her son thought more of Wendi, her ex-husband’s last girlfriend, than she did, changed gears again. “So, you’re at the house. What’s it like?” “Like Van Gogh vomited.” “Whoever he is,” said Sarah. “Some of the furniture in those email pictures Bates sent looked, well, valuable. … Read More

His father didn’t speak again, however, which was a tremendous relief: between the heat, the alarm, the unwanted banter, and of course, his killer headache, Billy’s brain simmered. The trip from Little Rock to Rock Hill had taken two days, including the overnight at Aunt Julie’s. Billy hadn’t minded; he liked driving. The journey had been pain-free until two hours … Read More

A lopsided divorce agreement made for anemic alimony. Dick punished his ex-wife through late payments, enough to hurt but not enough to be sued over. His son? Richard paid lip service to his future, bragging to his sketchy gambling associates about the account he’d set up for Billy’s education—its accumulation, good for a semester’s worth of books and perhaps a … Read More

The Corolla’s AC had expired the previous summer, so Billy was sticking uncomfortably to the driver’s seat vinyl. The manor’s no doubt functional air-conditioning beckoned, but he kept the car in PARK because the sculpture’s face, with its strong cheekbones and broad, dignified nose, was simply marvelous to look at. It had been carved with obvious talent, someone’s skilled hands … Read More

“I thought you’d like them,” Richard said defensively.“ Like the soldiers we played with when you were a kid. You remember, don’t you?” When Billy was five, his father presented him with a bag of plastic soldiers, then left. Billy did the best he could alone, staging battles between the US Army and rocks he’d dug out of the backyard … Read More

Billy called his father by his first name whenever he was mad at him—which was often; Richard’s being dead for eight weeks hadn’t changed this. While his father was alive, Billy wouldn’t dream of yelling at him. Why court a cuffing? Death, however, had been a game changer. Now I can yell all I want. Still, he hadn’t yelled—old habits … Read More

Here’s the first portion of the first chapter of my horror-fantasy novel 22 Dutch Road to give you a taste of the book. I will be posting Chapter 1 in ten sections, roughly one per day. Billy was less than a minute from the monstrosity that was his father’s house, an ugly building he’d shunned for three years. He had reason: … Read More