{"id":355,"date":"2021-04-26T21:14:49","date_gmt":"2021-04-27T01:14:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/tcschueler.com\/?p=355"},"modified":"2021-05-05T17:10:15","modified_gmt":"2021-05-05T21:10:15","slug":"chapter-1-of-22-dutch-road-1-of-10","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/tcschueler.com\/chapter-1-of-22-dutch-road-1-of-10\/","title":{"rendered":"Chapter 1 of 22 Dutch Road (1 of 10)"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n

Here’s the first portion of the first chapter of my horror-fantasy novel\u00a022 Dutch Road<\/em> to give you a taste of the book. I will be posting Chapter 1 in ten sections, roughly one per day.<\/strong><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Billy was less than a minute from the monstrosity that was his father\u2019s house, an ugly building he\u2019d shunned for three years. He had reason: no one wanted his ass handed to him. Though recent events had nixed that possibility, there were still goosebumps.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Because the body doesn\u2019t forget, does it?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Goosebumps didn\u2019t concern him. A debilitating headache forcing him to drive with his left eye shut, on the other hand, was concerning. Luckily, his right eye worked well enough to navigate. Billy turned the Corolla into his father\u2019s subdivision, mumbling mailbox numbers as he passed them: 14, 16, 18, 20. Twenty-two should have been next, but instead, a large mound of newspapers stood in its place.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Newspapers?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

He braked, upsetting a pair of robins patrolling the road edge. The birds flew away to continue their worm-hunt beneath a tall hedgerow that grew between the road and what Billy now recognized as his father\u2019s property.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

He threw the car in reverse, backing up. Billy could now make out his dad\u2019s ornate mailbox as well as boxes for The Herald<\/em> and The New York Times<\/em>. All three receptacles shared a support pole emerging from the pyre of moldy papers. He marveled at the near-misses surrounding the boxes; there were easily dozens, perhaps a hundred; not one of the plastic-sleeved papers had made it in. Several did perch on the mailbox itself, however, obscuring the house numerals, but he knew where he was: 22 DUTCH ROAD.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Aka Dad\u2019s Playpen.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

It was 12:02 PM on Sunday, August 21, 2016. He\u2019d driven six hours that morning and six the previous day from Little Rock, having stayed overnight at his Aunt Julie\u2019s in Nashville. Both days, it had been a glorious, windows-down drive, Carolina blue stretching horizon to horizon. Now, however, the roar of the open road was gone, replaced with the rhythm of grasshoppers and the steady ticking of the Corolla\u2019s timing belt. As the car idled, he massaged his neck, listening to the insects\u2019 peaceful serenade, contemplating the mildewed papers.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Why hadn\u2019t Dad\u2019s minions cleaned them up? <\/em>Billy chuckled. Because they no longer work here.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

He looked at his reflection in the mirror: a pirate too poor for an eyepatch. Scurvy knaves were supposed to look, well, scurvy<\/em>, and sure, he felt that way, but he also felt envious: a pirate\u2019s missing eye no longer hurt the pirate\u2014Billy\u2019s eye was killing him. He looked back at the smothered mailbox and a vague recollection surfaced, something about a kid on a dirt bike. A childhood friend? He wasn\u2019t sure. Whoever it was had been wearing a shiny metallic-red helmet. That was it: beside the headgear, the memory was unremarkable.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

There was fluttering in the hedgerow. He\u2019d sat idle long enough for the robins to once again make their way down the street, now keeping beneath the shrubs. The bushes surrounding his father\u2019s property were much taller and thicker than he\u2019d remembered; mere ornamentals three years ago were now keeping the property entrance shaded. He opened his troublesome eye to see the entrance clearly: a metal arch spanning the driveway, supported by brick pillars. There was an inscription he didn\u2019t bother reading, because he knew the large baroque letters spelled out his last name: BUCHANAN.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Richard, you\u2019re still the only one in Whispering Pines with a vanity entrance.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Whispering Pines existed in the exurbia surrounding Rock Hill, South Carolina. Six years ago, a developer had cleared an eighty-acre tract of pulpwood forest to make way for a sprawling subdivision of roads and mammoth houses; consequently, the pines no longer whispered. A few owners had opted for landscaping\u2014stick trees trucked in from distant nurseries\u2014but most of the homes floated on seas of unnaturally green fescue. His father\u2019s lawn was no exception, but it was the only one surrounded by a buckthorn hedgerow, which, in turn, screened a six-foot security wall. His father was proud of this barrier: \u201cBushes make \u2018em curious, Son. The wall keeps \u2018em out.\u201d There were thirty-five other homes, each with at least two acres of manicured turf and a white stone driveway. At four acres, Richard Buchanan\u2019s lot was the neighborhood\u2019s largest.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Billy looked toward the residence, a place he\u2019d visited only once before. The building was much larger than a typical house\u2014way too big to be cozy. Conversely, \u201cmansion\u201d or \u201cestate\u201d felt a little too large for it. He searched for a Goldilocks phrase\u2014not too big, not too small\u2014and it came to him:Buchanan Manor.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

He let off the brake, scattering the birds again as he pulled the car underneath the arch. Billy took in the wall: a twelve-inch-thick concrete barrier faced on the inside with a checkerboard pattern of glossy slate squares reminiscent of the Vietnam Wall, a monument he\u2019d seen on a grade school field trip.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The wall\u2019s presence wasn\u2019t surprising; it had been in place since construction. What was <\/em>surprising were the statues, catching him so off-guard he stood on his brakes again.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The grasshoppers\u2019 chorus and the timing belt\u2019s ticking once again resumed, but Billy felt no peace this time.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Statues? What the hell, Richard?<\/em><\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

Next section<\/a><\/p>\r\n

\r\n

Excerpt of the first chapter of horror-fantasy novel 22 Dutch Road<\/em><\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Here’s the first portion of the first chapter of my horror-fantasy novel\u00a022 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\u2019s house, an ugly building he\u2019d shunned for three years. He had reason: … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5837,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[13],"tags":[15,16],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nChapter 1 of 22 Dutch Road (1 of 10) - T.C. Schueler<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Read the first chapter of the horror\/fantasy novel, "22 Dutch Road", on the blog of author T.C. Schueler. 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