And Soon Comes the Darkness Read online

  .

  AND SOON COMES THE DARKNESS

  An Anthology by

  Angelique Archer and J. Mills

  Copyright © 2020 by Angelique Archer. All rights reserved.

  Cover design © by Onur Burc.

  Formatting by Aslam Khan.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Epilogue

  Chapter 4

  THE TOWN IN THE MOUNTAIN

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THE VALLEY OF ASH AND SHADOWS

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Epilogue

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Authors

  .

  The couple who writes together stays together.

  Prologue

  C ora groaned.

  When she furrowed her brows, her skin felt sticky and taut, and an unexpected jolt of pain shot through her head.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted her chin from her chest and tried to look around.

  Puzzled, she realized she was sitting in her writing chair in the middle of the living room.

  She grunted in confusion. Why wasn’t she at her desk, writing like she normally did?

  Her mind was fuzzy, but she remembered she needed to write; she had a deadline.

  There wasn’t time to waste.

  Cora attempted to stand, tried to move her arms and legs and make them cooperate.

  But she was trapped, immobile.

  Icy wind whistled through the cabin, draining it of its warmth, and she shivered. Why was it so cold?

  As the fog cleared from her memory, Cora began to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and as she did, her skin prickled. Her gaze drifted to her sides, further and further until she saw the impossibility of her situation.

  She was anchored to a chair, her hands tied behind her back.

  Someone had done this to her, wanting to hurt her and make her suffer.

  Where was he? Had he left?

  If so, there was time for her to escape, to get help.

  Cora wriggled around fearfully, yanking her wrists against her bindings in an effort to get free.

  Hurry! her inner voice screamed. You don’t want to die here!

  The wood floor creaked, and she froze.

  “Rise and shine,” a steely male voice announced.

  Too late.

  Not so alone anymore, Cora.

  No one will ever hear you scream.

  Chapter 1

  C ora Parker set the tea kettle back on the stove and turned off the burner. She pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail before reaching in the fridge for the milk, shoving aside several bags of fresh vegetables and cartons of juice until her fingertips brushed against the handle of the plastic gallon jug.

  After pouring a little milk into her mug and adding a dollop or two of sugar, she swirled a small spoon around and lifted the cup to her lips as she stared outside.

  Snowflakes fluttered gracefully to the ground, finally slowing their descent after a hefty snowfall the night before.

  There was at least three feet of snow outside, and Cora was grateful that she’d stocked up on groceries two days prior. She wouldn’t have wanted to venture the roads in her rental car now, even if it was all-wheel drive. And it wasn’t like they delivered pizza this far away from civilization anyways.

  She leaned down to plug in her little Christmas tree that she’d purchased during her grocery run at Walmart, along with a box of cheap ornaments and lights. It was only a couple feet tall, but the warm glow from the twinkling colored lights brought her a modicum of cheer. She fiddled with one of the ornaments that hung from the branches, moving it to a different part of the tree so it was more visible, and she was instantly crushed with a wave of memories from her past.

  It was December, almost Christmas, and unlike most people this time of year who were traveling to spend the holidays with loved ones, Cora had opted to isolate herself in her cabin for the next two weeks so that she could finish her latest work-in-progress.

  Cora was a writer. And not just any writer, but a New York Times bestselling one. Since her late twenties, she’d published over a dozen psychological thrillers, each riddled with more suspense and intrigue than the last.

  She didn’t start out a writer though. Cora had gone to college for business and marketing and shortly after graduating, landed a job at a major marketing firm in Manhattan.

  At first, she was overjoyed, thinking the job would be glamorous and exciting. Maybe even make her parents proud of her, their approval something she’d always sought, but forever seeming elusive and impossible to obtain.

  Yet after working there for a few years, she came to the conclusion that she was stuck in a thankless career with long, exhausting hours and unremarkable pay.

  And her parents still weren’t that proud.

  Cora had always found joy in writing. It came naturally to her, the words flying from her fingers effortlessly. It was her escape from an unsavory reality. At night, when she’d get home from the office, she would turn on the television, put on her favorite cozy pajamas, and start typing on the old laptop she still had from college, her mind buzzing with new ideas and storylines.

  After working on the first book for over a year, she found an editor, cover artist, and formatter she could afford and self-published her first psychological thriller online.

  She distinctly remembered how she felt the first time she received a shipment full of her new book, holding the weight of all of that hard work in her hands, running her fingertips over the smooth matte cover. Emotional. Euphoric. Electric. Each time, that feeling never diminished, no matter how many books she published.

  Although the first, and even the second book that followed a year later, didn’t bring her much success, just enough royalties to cover groceries and utilities here and there, the next year, she happened to meet a friend of a friend in a publishing press with whom she felt comfortable enough to share her third manuscript.

  He quickly recognized her talent and potential and eagerly handed her manuscript to his boss. Within a few months, her third book gained a momentum she wasn’t expecting, and Cora was catapulted toward success from there.

  She still held onto her marketing job because writing books, albeit their success, didn’t seem as reliable or responsible to her. Cora wondered when her l
uck would run out; it couldn’t last forever.

  Her biggest fear was that she’d eventually wake up, and her fifteen minutes of fame would be over, forcing her to return to the grueling, mundane existence that was her life before she started pursuing her writing.

  But one day on her way to work, something changed, made her second-guess her rationale and let go of her fears. It wasn’t a big change, nothing major, nothing cathartic. It was as simple as Cora catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She touched the thin skin around her eyes, the deep lines forming on her forehead, and brushed down the gray strands popping through her hair.

  Cora was in her twenties, too young to feel so old.

  The next morning, wondering if she was making the worst, riskiest and simultaneously, most empowering decision of her career, she walked into her boss’s office and wordlessly placed a letter of resignation on his desk before turning on her heel and leaving forever.

  The years passed, a whirlwind of a decade, and now she had more money than she ever did growing up, two homes, including this cabin in Colorado and a massive seven-bedroom colonial in Virginia, plus a rumored movie deal with Netflix in the works.

  Her current work-in-progress was a sequel to her last release, and naturally, the publisher had given her a tight deadline. Not only was Cora under pressure from the publisher, but she had a strong fan base, and they were champing at the bit for the next installment. The outpour of love and support from her fans was wonderful and appreciated, but it also brought with it a good deal of stress.

  And nothing killed a writer’s groove more than that.

  It was the first time in her decade as a writer that Cora wondered if she could get this book done in such a short turn-around.

  Of course, it wasn’t just the anxiety that was slaughtering her progress.

  Oddly enough, the more successful she was, the less inspired she became. She struggled to find a muse, a plot, an idea that would give birth to a novel that would land a bestseller list. That was the easier part.

  Then she had to weave the story together, make sure there were no holes, that the twists and turns of the plot made sense. More times than she cared to count, Cora had ended up with a tangled mess of a storyline, one that neither she nor her editor could make sense of, and unraveling it was as challenging as finally getting around to untangling the necklaces in her jewelry box that had been sitting like that on her dresser for years.

  Cora shuddered. Untangling necklaces was probably her least favorite activity; watching paint dry honestly sounded like more fun.

  And when she found herself trying to conquer such gargantuan writing hurdles, Cora couldn’t focus on much else. She was a worker bee. Sometimes she would be so deeply engrossed in her work that she’d forget to eat. It happened so often that she had resorted to setting alarms on her phone as a reminder.

  Breakfast? Check.

  Lunch? Whoops, forgot that one.

  Dinner? Yeah… better eat, or you’ll die.

  But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter if she remembered to eat, if she managed to sit down at her desk and painstakingly type a few words…

  Since when did a few pathetic words on the page count as a victory for the day?

  There had been a time when she could easily write ten thousand words in one sitting.

  Cora fearfully wondered what happened to the creative inspiration that at one point had made her a bestseller, that in the past had so readily flowed from a well with no bottom.

  Maybe your well’s run dry.

  Maybe you just don’t have any good ideas left.

  Words of encouragement like this from her inner monologue made Cora want to crawl under the bed sheets and hide from the world.

  She took a long, contemplative sip of her tea and gazed into the wide swath of trees beyond the window, her cabin perched high in the snow-capped mountains.

  At first, the home was merely a retreat to escape the hustle and bustle of the city, the isolation a welcome reprieve. What started as a trip a couple times a year to write without distractions was becoming more and more frequent, to the point that Cora was considering selling her Virginia estate. It wasn’t like she had anyone to share it with anyways.

  Instead, each time she ventured to the cabin to write, she ended up staying a little longer than she intended. And each time she went, she lost contact a little bit more with the rest of the world. She became a little sadder, a little more reclusive. She stayed in the same worn cardigan and sweatpants and didn’t bother washing her hair half as often as she should.

  She simply didn’t care. Cora had everything she needed here.

  The cabin was modestly sized, only two bedrooms and a simple living area, probably a thousand square feet at best. And it was cozy. She’d had it professionally decorated by an interior designer before she moved in, personalized touches throughout, including plush rugs her toes sank into, paintings of soothing forest scenes on the polished wood walls, unique décor such as a World War II-era typewriter and an antique ink pen and ink pot set from England which sat on a bookshelf crammed with her books and books from her favorite authors… everything that amounted to an ideal writer’s haven.

  Cora had no husband, no children. She had no family anymore. She was very much alone.

  You have no one to blame for that but yourself.

  It was true. She’d chosen to prioritize her writing above all else. Her choice.

  But what did it cost you?

  And at what cost did you maintain your success?

  At what cost, Cora?

  At. What. Cost?

  She shook her head. Enough with the nonsense. She needed to write. Less than two weeks remained before she had to submit her manuscript to her publisher.

  Cora cinched her fluffy robe tightly around her narrowing waist and sat down at her desk which faced another window featuring panoramic views of the mountains flanking her on either side. The sun was high in the sky, its bright beams reflecting off the snow. She cracked her knuckles and opened her computer screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, and she took another look at the mediocre, waifish outline printed out beside the computer.

  She was just about to start typing when her phone alarm went off, reminding her to eat lunch. She shut off the alarm and silenced her phone, determined to crank out five thousand words before dinnertime.

  Cora typed away for hours then paused to read what she’d written, checking to make sure it fit in with the rest of the story.

  To her dismay, she found her writing uninspired and poorly written. Not even caring to see if there was anything to salvage from what she’d just done, she highlighted page after page of work and, without a second thought, hit “Delete.”

  With a sigh of frustration, Cora stood up and walked to the kitchen. She’d purchased several bottles of wine at the grocery store. Maybe it was time to open one now.

  Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

  Actually, it was already past five. She’d completely skipped lunch.

  She uncorked a bottle of Merlot and dumped the now-cold tea stagnating in her mug into the sink, feeling too lazy to get one of the wine glasses from the cabinet. She filled the mug close to the rim then opened the fridge, her stomach growling loudly.

  After pulling out a package of chicken breasts and bags of assorted fresh vegetables, Cora rinsed everything and then placed it all on two cutting boards. She reached for one of the serrated knives from the knife block and started chopping.

  The sun was setting, fiery orange rays slowly sinking lower and lower beneath the horizon, until it disappeared completely.

  When she was finished cooking, Cora added some rice to her plate and topped it with the sesame seasoned chicken and vegetables. It was one of her favorite comfort food meals.

  She returned to her desk and took a deep breath. If she wrote for the next six hours, she could still make her writing goal for the day. She scrolled through the previous pages, spearing a piece of chicken with h
er fork while she read.

  Then she stopped mid-bite.

  Something had quickly passed by the window near the front door.

  A flash of darkness.

  A tall shadow.

  Either her imagination was running wild as she wrote or…

  Or she was no longer alone.

  Chapter 2

  G oosebumps broke out all along Cora’s skin, and her heart started thrumming louder and louder in her chest.

  Immediately, she rose to her feet and walked to the window, pushing aside the curtains. The moonlight pulsated through the tall pines, casting long, spindly shadows onto the blank canvas of untouched snow below.

  She craned her neck, squinting to see what was on either side of the window.

  After what seemed like an eternity of heightened tension in the still quiet, a deer made its way past the front porch.

  Cora exhaled in relief and rubbed her forehead. She was tired and worn out, and now her mind was playing tricks on her.

  “Calm down, Cora. It was nothing,” she said aloud, chastising herself for her stupidity. The sound of her voice filling the emptiness was oddly comforting, and she wished she had a television or radio, anything to keep the silence from taking over once more.

  The cabin was devoid of these distractions, the intention being that she could work on her books without movies and television shows vying for her attention. But maybe the next time she was in town, she would allow herself a small luxury and pick up a television.

  The wind rushed through the trees, the glass panes of the window shuddering from the gusts that pelted it, while low-hanging branches scraped across the roof of the cabin. In moments like these, Cora was reminded of how alone she really was in the mountains.

  You’re too old for scary stories. You’re perfectly safe out here.

  Maybe you should start writing romance. Your own books are getting to you.

  She made her way back to her desk and took another sip of wine, noticing for the first time that she’d finished more than half the bottle.