Jackal Read online
Copyrighted Material
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 Victoria Povall and David Povall
All rights reserved.
Publisher: Dragonfly Media
ISBN-13: 978-0692136737 (Custom Universal)
ISBN-10: 0692136738
eISBN: 9781642372489
Library of Congress Control Number (LCCN): 2018948992
Dragonfly Media, Oceanside, CA
Writing never happens in a vacuum.
Many are those who help in different ways.
Thanks
To
The guides and residents of Old Town Eureka and
Clear Lake for their input and assistance while conducting our research.
And To
The ghosts we encountered, who made us feel right at home.
A Special Thank-You
To Jennifer Silva Redmond, our exceptional editor,
for her invaluable advice and her unique ability to elevate our prose
while honoring our voice.
Contents
1 The Book Consequence You
2 The Story Young Love
Ardor Words
Surprise
3 The Fellow Traveler
4 The Decision Discern
Flash Come Back
5 The Friends Harmony Missing You
6 The Tourists Danger Another Night
7 The Dream Release
Counterpart What Reminds Me of You
8 The Obstruction Turmoil
Twins Night
9 The Chameleon Aberrance
Echo Love
10 The Shift Lovelight
Departure
The Spark You
Then and Now
Aldercrest Times
11 The Search Enlightenment
Recurrence
12 The Contact Not Alone
Clarity
13 The Alliance Derivation
14 The Team She Said
Pursuit
15 The Disclosure Allusion
16 The Exposure Revelation My love
Entangled Now
17 The Trail Relate
Truth Star
18 The Cabin
19 The Reveal
20 The Arrival
21 The Split
22 The Jackal in the Mirror
23 The Gathering
24 The Art Mood
My Love
Lovely
Enough
Eyes
Hello
V.&D POVALL
1
The Book
The moment Sarah entered the timeworn bookstore her heartbeat intensified. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and her hands tightened into fists.
Made wary by her body’s reaction, she took in her surroundings. The quaint Booklegger bookstore appeared harmless. New and used books of every size and shape crowded worn-out wooden shelves that lined the narrow aisles, and welcomed the curious to peruse and browse, enveloped in the scent of thousands of new and experienced tomes.
When selecting a spot for their first all-women four-day escape, her friends had suggested the Victorian seaport of Eureka, California, south of the Oregon border. The location made it easy for all of them to reach. It also had the added thrill of plopping their psychic friend Sarah into the heart of a town famous for its paranormal stories.
The decision had been made before they called Sarah. Not that she opposed the idea—after all, she hadn’t spent any time with her California friends for over a year. And, truth be told, the minute they mentioned Eureka, something had stirred deep within her.
At first, she attributed the feeling to a natural interest in the eerie tales that made up Eureka’s distinctive history. But she soon realized that tourist allure wasn’t the whole reason. A presentiment about the town created an internal vibration, as if an electrical current was passing through her body.
Curiosity aroused, she decided to arrive a day early to get a feel for the place, just in case. In point of fact, she had no idea why, except for a strong urge to get ahead of any surprises.
Aside from the constant vibration that still coursed through her, the trip had been an uneventful one. After kissing her husband Conrad goodbye and appeasing his many concerns, she’d driven south across Washington State from their home near Winthrop, and stopped for the night in Bend, Oregon. She’d driven on early the next day and arrived in Eureka’s historic Old Town by mid-afternoon.
After a quick bite, she made her way down 2nd Street and discovered the Booklegger bookstore, surrounded by refurbished and updated buildings erected more than a century earlier. One window sign said Used Books, the other proclaimed Rare and Antique Books. Sarah had no reason to go into the bookstore, but the front door beckoned like a long-forgotten friend. The instant her feet crossed the threshold, she froze, overwhelmed by the sensation that her arrival had somehow been preordained. She spotted an arch to her left that led deeper into the store.
I’m expected. Okay, then… let’s get on with it. She headed resolutely through the arch and toward the back of the bookstore.
A couple of years earlier, these kinds of feelings and impressions would have caused her to turn away or even flee in haste. But after years of painful denial, she had finally come to terms with her unique ability to discern a reality beyond the four-dimensional plane that most people inhabited. She no longer dreaded its effect. The sensations her body experienced when entering the bookstore were no longer to be feared. She viewed them as harbingers of things to come, her internal alert system.
Stopping in front of a shelf like many others in the bookstore, she selected a hardcover book from the far end and opened it.
A piercing scream escaped from its pages.
After the scream, came a rush of air, as if a door had been opened allowing the encased energy to escape. A mist seemed to emanate from the ground and engulf the corner where she stood, leaving behind a whisper that echoed through the aisles.
Sarah, please help me.
Sarah spun around, searching for the origin of the voice, but found no one.
She stared down at the book and turned to the first page. A terrible pressure built inside her chest—the deep pain of profound disillusionment. Instinctively, she brought her hand to her heart to ease the agony.
She stared at the book and realized the words had patiently waited for her to find them. She obliged, and read the first chapter.
Consequence
A heavy mist hung above the lake, causing the moonlight to cast a shadow-less glow across the water. An abrupt embankment that shot up to the surrounding forest bordered the mirror-like surface. In a clearing a few hundred feet from the lake, sat a two-story house engulfed in darkness, except for a pale yellow glow that spread from a window.
Inside, the home appeared silent, cold, except for the flickering shadows cast by a few votive candles set in a circle on the living room floor. A woman, clad only in a long white nightgown, her grey hair tousled, her anguished face bathed in tears, stepped over the candles. She reached a barely illuminated staircase and stared at a crack of light that seeped from under a door on the upper floor.
“Why?” she asked, as she made her way up the stairs.
“You know why,” a man answered from somewhere in the shadows above her.
“No, I don’t. I can’t understand. Please, help me understand,” she pleaded as she slowly ascended.
“It’s what I do,” he said, his voice cracking.
“No!
It’s not you. How could you do such unspeakable things?” When she reached the top of the stairs she stretched out her hand to touch him, but he recoiled.
“Don’t!” he snarled and slapped her hand away.
The force of his blow propelled her backwards. She lost her balance and cried out, “Dear God!”
“No!” His cry emanated from the gloom as he reached for her, but she plunged helplessly down the stairs. A moment later she lay dead on the floor, eyes fixed on her killer.
Engulfed in darkness he froze, staring at her body sprawled on the floor below. He took the stairs, one step at a time, his left hand tightening around the banister. “No,” he whispered with each step. “No.” On the back of his hand a rose-shaped red birthmark seemed to darken with the pressure of his grasp.
When he reached the bottom, he sank to his knees. With great tenderness, he unbent her limbs, straightened her hair, and caressed her face. He picked her up gently, as if handling precious crystal, crossed to the living room, stepped over the candles, and gently set her down in the middle of the circle. He adjusted her nightgown, brushing away any wrinkles, cleared the loose strands of hair from her face, and kissed her forehead.
He lay on the floor next her, curled up against her body, and sobbed.
Sarah snapped the book shut and stared at the title, Jackal in the Mirror. She shoved the book back onto the shelf.
A piercing scream in her head made her clap her hands over her ears. “Stop.”
The discordant scream gave way to a murmur.
Help me Sarah. Please help me. Take the book.
She stood in stunned silence, considering the scene she had just read, and the pleading request. After a few seconds her heartbeat and breathing returned to normal. She knew there was a reason she had felt compelled to visit Eureka, but the intensity of the past few minutes had come as a shock. After a few deep breaths, Sarah grabbed the book. “All right. What now?”
Silence.
“Read the book? Is that it?”
Silence.
Reluctantly, Sarah opened it and continued to read.
Mist floated above the serene water of the mountain lake. Crickets chirped in the distance. A rhythmic paddling joined the sounds of nature. A small rowboat, its cracked paint starting to peel, glided gently across the water. The woman’s body lay across the stern; her white nightgown twisted, her hair snarled, one of her arms dangling in the water. The red birthmark was visible in the moonlight on one of the strong hands powering the oars.
The man ceased rowing and secured the oars. Ripples lapped against the boat, rocking it gently. He lifted the inert body, slid it into the water, and pushed it under.
The crickets stopped. Only the gurgle of water, as the lake slowly swallowed her, could be heard. As the body vanished beneath the surface, the scene regained its stillness. The crickets resumed their song.
With a shadow at the oars, the small boat disappeared into the mist.
Sarah shut the book and returned it to its spot on the shelf. “No,” she said, “I don’t wish to read this.”
As she turned away, the sharp cry threw her off balance.
“Stop!” Sarah yelled, covering her ears and shutting her eyes.
A tall white-haired man approached Sarah and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Sarah shook her head as she struggled to focus.
“Would you like to sit down? Are you dizzy?”
Sarah steadied herself and regained her composure. “No, thank you. I’m all right. I was a bit startled.”
“Poetry will do that.”
Sarah turned to the shelf behind her noticing a sign that read: Poetry. “Yes, I guess so.”
“One can become completely enraptured by a poem.”
Sarah shrugged. She could tell he was humoring her and offering an elegant way out. She chose to take it. “The images were too vivid and I didn’t…well I couldn’t get all weepy here in the middle of the bookstore…so I called out to myself to stop that silly behavior…sorry. I didn’t realize I was so loud.”
“No need to apologize.” The man smiled. “If you need anything I’m right over there.” He indicated the desk at the front of the store.
“Thanks,” Sarah said.
He nodded and walked away.
Alone again, Sarah turned back to the bookshelf. She recognized the cover, pulled it out, and stared at the title. “Poems For My Love?” she whispered. She examined the book. “This is the same book.”
She scanned the bookshelf. “Where is Jackal in the Mirror?” She searched the shelves above and below, but found nothing. She stared at the book in her hand. “This is the book. I’m sure of it. What’s with this title?” She opened it to the first page and read.
YOU
You are my eyes
My hands
My voice
The feeling of love that I need
The slow tender moments that kisses prolong
The only peace that I know
I wish sometimes I were the wind
To follow wherever you go
To be part of your breath
To be every caress
To be with you all of the time
Sarah closed the book and carefully inspected it. “It looks like the one I grabbed, but—” she scowled at it, “—where the heck is that awful chapter I read?” She looked past the book in her hands to the shelf in front of her and slid the poetry book back onto the shelf.
Instantly the scream pierced through her. Sarah yanked the book out and the shrieking stopped.
“All right, all right. I get it. This is the book and you need to come with me… whoever or whatever you are.”
Having made a decision, she made her way through the bookstore and handed the book to the man behind the desk.
He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the book. “Ah, is this the book that moved you?”
“You could say that.”
His eyes widened. “This is marvelous!” he said, admiring the book in his hands, before quickly handing it back to her.
“Is it?”
“Look at it. It’s in such good shape.”
“I couldn’t find the price. How much is it?”
“What?”
“I’d like to buy it. How much is it?”
He looked shocked. “I didn’t realize we had this book.”
“Is it well known?”
“Its history is, within certain circles.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
He took the book back. “Well, to begin with, look at the cover. There’s no author listed.” He flipped to the title page and pointed. “Or here.”
Sarah glanced at it. “Why not?”
“That’s the conundrum, isn’t it?” He grinned. “The story is that only three copies were ever printed. The printing house refused to reveal the author’s name or who received the three books. Needless to say, that created great speculation regarding the author, which in turn generated a huge interest in these books.”
“Why?”
“The reputation of the publisher itself had a lot to do with it. They specialized in creating exclusive editions by elite authors with a limited number of books available.”
“But why no author? Wouldn’t that decrease the value of the book?”
“You would think so, yes, but the mystery of anonymity coupled with the publisher’s status made the three books a rarity.”
“Was it a stunt to create demand?”
“Some surmised as much, but that didn’t turn out to be the case.”
“If there were only three copies, how did you learn all this history?”
“One of the books ended up being auctioned off at an estate sale after the death of its owner. Not the original owner, mind you, but a man who had ob
tained the book—how he acquired it remains a mystery to this day. Anyway, he gave it as a gift to his wife. His good intentions backfired, apparently.”
“Why? What happened?”
“No one knows for sure, but the story goes that the wife hated it. She couldn’t stand it. Supposedly she kept it locked away in a trunk in her basement for years, and when her husband died, she was quick to get rid of it. And that story gained momentum among collectors of such rare and unusual books. Eventually, a publisher purchased that copy and tried to get the rights in order to distribute it. He issued a public appeal in an attempt to locate the author. That’s when we, the public, first learned about the existence of the books. The media pushed and pushed. A few people stepped forward claiming to have written it. However, the original publisher denied their claims. They admitted to printing the three books, yet never divulged the name of the author. As you can imagine, endless speculation ensued, but to no avail.”
“What happened?”
“The publisher never obtained the rights and eventually gave up on the idea altogether. After that, the buzz surrounding the book died. We all assumed that someone paid the publisher some good money for it.”
“What about the other two copies?
“Their whereabouts are a mystery.”
“How did you come to have it here?”
“Like I said, I’m clueless, truly baffled. I don’t remember seeing the title on any of our inventory lists. It’s strange, very strange. But if you wait a moment I’ll check with the owner, she might have more information.”
“You’re not the owner?”
He laughed. “No, I’m a devoted volunteer. I love this old bookstore and I’m a good friend of the owner. She’s a brilliant woman, and I enjoy her company.” He winked and disappeared through a door at the back of the bookstore.