Cold Cat Mountain: The Peak (Cold Cat Mountain Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Cold Cat Mountain By Kimberly Goss-Kearney

  This is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  All characters are fictitious. Any similarities are coincidental, both characters and content within this book have not been drawn from real sources, nor have the locations and events. Information shared within this novel is not meant as factual.

  Dedication To my husband~ thank you for loving me even at my worst Daniel. I love you more. To my sons~ you are my sonshines.

  To my parents~ who taught me to make lemonade.

  To my Krysta~ what would this be without you?

  To my Dianne~ you always make it easier

  ~ColdCatMountain~

  We often assume we have discovered everything there is. We have not. “Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb.”

  ― Sue Grafton

  ~One~

  Doctors’ offices. Impersonal spaces with a host of bright cheery smiles gazing up from glossy wrinkled magazines, where the scent of alcohol and latex gloves blends with cleaning solution and hand sanitizer to create an arid aroma. The scent of the ill.

  Sitting on a gray exam table Blaze slowly swayed her feet. Light spilled through a tiny window above her. A stethoscope, discarded laid on a nearby counter. She could hear the shuffle of feet. Phones rang. Doors opened and closed down the hall followed by muffled voices and the occasional cries of a child. Staring down at the bottle of pills in her hand she turned it over, dropping her head. She felt she had no fight left. Somewhere, the woman she had once been retreated, and had moved aside for something sinister. An illness that marked her. She moved a tear from her face and gripped the bottle tighter, until wrenching sobs surged forward without an offered release. She swallowed them, taking the grief captive at the back of her throat. A captivity that caused her chest to throb and ache.

  The journey leading up to her doctor’s appointment had been a lifeless shuffle from case number to case number. The lifeless zombie-like shuffle of Social Work. A grind that took well intending souls and ground them down into fragments of pulverized loss.

  The faces of children swam in her mind like water colors. Abused children. Injured children. Children with eyes that lacked light. Somber, staring back unblinking. They’d held her inward gaze until she’d finally wrenched herself free through a portal of pain; pain that had assisted her in leaving them behind, prompted the stacking of file folders for someone else to manage, and forced her to turn her back on the atrocities society managed to anchor in silence. Below the surface, where only the signed form of confidentiality reigns over truth, children wait to be helped. Instead they become a number, a diagnosis, and a burden to a system which cannot handle their need.

  The daily erosion of hope darkened her soul. Blaze had not known that her secret self, craving preservation, had unlocked a primitive warning system in response to the overwhelming trauma she faced daily in a world filled with the young and the helpless. Finally, when she could not keep up the erratic pace of helping the multiple children she had been assigned to, she simply laid down her armor, took off her helmet, and walked silently into the fray.

  Without a mental shield intact, an ancient shift within quietly transferred her power to an inner monster. A monster with teeth. A monster that drove her into a small corner of her own mind, to shield her from what she could not survive. Horrific abuses upon the innocent. Appalled, shocked and in grief, the monster within railed against her pre-occupation with duty and overcame her obligations with a blinding pain. A pain so difficult to manage it was dubbed the Suicide Disease within the medical community. A disease that fought back against the world’s insistence and compliance at every turn.

  Because releasing one monster is really the only way to defend yourself against another.

  ~*~

  A limb brushed across Matilda’s face as she quietly climbed an old tree stand in the first moments of dark, the moment when sounds hover between nature and earth as a sacred entity of their own. Settling cautiously onto the old tree stand, biting her lip, she shifted her weight past a board she knew would creek if pressed. The loons on the lake called out to one another, a plaintive cry that hovered above the waters with a haunting lilt.

  Easing back against the tree trunk Matilda adjusted herself. And then waited. As an Anthropologist she’d grown proficient at waiting. The ancient tree stand was splintered and rough, but it was also well hidden. Running her fingers over old scratch marks she reminded herself this was not the time to forget the encounters spoken of by old souls who knew the history of this place. Matilda sought to respect the unknown. Within the forested enclave was a sinister vibration that could be felt, sensed

  The wind died down. The climate at the heart of the cold dead land often merged with something else. Something no one understood. Death Bed Ridge had its own weather patterns. Her interviews with many of the men who had once walked the forest shared a common belief, a belief Death Bed Ridge had once been the scene of something horrific, something the human mind could not grasp. Something that many claimed affected the very temperatures within the shrouded mountainside. Never did its soil experience direct sun light. Tangled twisted limbs arose as if from the dead, forlorn and moss ridden.

  The loon’s call somehow made the atmosphere feel heavier. Matilda closed her eyes. She had never personally used this observation point. Her only initial exploration had been in daylight. Now the dark frightened her.

  Her exposure to an unknown presence reported to linger within the chill resting among the trees also frightened her. The old men had spoken in low tones, revealing a cautious regard for what they experienced in the darkened woods. Some had refused to speak of it at all. They were frightened; almost as if in a mute state, their minds continued to grapple with something they couldn’t logically come to terms with. Her own mind drove her to embrace what they spoke of. She mentally reached for that thing which had made their eyes distant with a dark and disturbing memory.

  The consensus was stark. Death Bed Ridge was no place for anyone to purposefully venture. Robert Klien had been stern in his warning. At age eighty seven he didn’t mince words. His eyes were sharp with memories as he cautioned her.

  “Don’t go. Going in lessens the chances of coming out.”

  He had spoken almost reverently of the day he and his brother ventured in; the day they’d built the very tree stand Matilda crouched upon in the waning light. He recounted their families need for the meat during the depression, which had left him and his eleven siblings hungry. In need. It had been in the late fall they’d decided to follow the game up the ridge where no one else hunted. Matilda felt the confused vigilance from him as he spoke of standing point through the night, afraid and unable to leave when they had completed the stand. He’d relayed his impression of the dread which had seeped into the marrow of his bones.

  Staying until morning light would be her only option as well, arriving late in the fading afternoon on purpose so she couldn’t turn back. Carefully, cautiously, she pulled up the frayed old rope ladder, nestling it against the trunk of the old tree. Beyond that there was no movement, aside from the scratching of dried limbs; they moved like brittle wind chimes lacking melody. Matilda gazed down from her perch. Fifteen feet had felt much higher when she had stared up at the tree stand
from below. A chilling wind blew across the forest floor. Leaves fluttered, scooting off into the dark recesses of rotting trunks and vines that strangled the ground.

  The last vestiges of sunlight turned its back on the day, tugging at Matilda’s resolve to stay put, calling upon her to chase it instead; compelling her to rush down and through the darkened limbs back to the other side of the lake. She had dressed for cold temperatures. Robert had warned her she would feel the cold press in ahead of whatever it was that had changed his mind about Death Bed Ridge. As a youth he had arrogantly ignored the legend. As a man, he had lived the horrifying sounds of the night which had chipped away at his will to remain silent. Robert, looking Matilda in the eyes, stated only the height of his tree stand had kept him and his brother from being enveloped, overcome, and taken. He did not know what had stalked the ridge, or what had stood at the base of his tree stand, breathing, watching and waiting. Pacing. Hungry. He knew only that being quiet was the key to surviving, and the first light of dawn had led him and his brother to safety as they fled the ridge, never to return. Matilda had driven several hours to the stand which she had prepared during daylight hours the week before. She pulled out her night vision goggles, checked the time and waited. As the loons quieted for the night and the temperatures dropped Matilda felt her muscles stiffen from forcing herself to remain still. Her ears pricked at the sound of a foot fall moving upon the heels of night; a dark blanket, smothering and pressing in upon her remaining ounce of courage. Fear, now her only companion in the black of night, sat coldly alongside her, taunting her to move, stretch, or invite attention from something that moved in the distance. Matilda squeezed her eyes shut, longing to flee, yet bound by the need to know. A second footfall followed the first, several minutes later. Nothing else followed the sound. No breeze, no chatter from rodents, no scrape of dry leaves. Matilda felt a shiver travel her neck and spine, chiding herself for believing a creature of any kind could affect the weather or the atmosphere. Rational thought pushed back on her fear, temporarily overriding the notion she was not alone. Another footstep pressed into the forest floor, pine needles giving way, softly crunching.

  And then she knew. Something was with her, near her. Another presence. Her mind grappled with logic, pointing out the cautious and slow approach of deer as they moved about. Perhaps a doe. Silence. It was the kind of silence which created a humming in her ears, thrumming against her temple as she strained to perceive sound. Any sound.

  Slowly, quietly, she exhaled. Stretching her legs without additional movement, she wiggled her toes. It had seemed necessary a week ago to ride out the night and remove the question mark from her mind about the ridge, its legend, and the hostile atmosphere it emanated. Science demanded she approach with logic. Her own fear of the dark had prompted her to endure the exploration alone. Her own means of facing a fear that had almost dominated her life at one point.

  Death Bed Ridge held itself still, as if it had taken a long deep breath hundreds of years ago and never again released it. The vegetation suffocated. Trees grew bent and unnaturally curled, suffering under the weight of the atmosphere. A death had occurred on the ridge in 1898. It was printed boldly in an old newspaper article Matilda had located. A man in his forties had in fact died on the ridge from unknown causes. The reporter who interviewed the man’s family wrote his parents believed he had died from fright. It was written that he was found rigid, stiff, almost as though rigamortis had claimed him before he had even taken his last breath. As he lay dying he panted with wide eyes, staring at something invisible, stating his family should leave their camp. He begged them to take his body with them, not to bury him in the woods where they had found him.

  That death bed request had lent the name Death Bed Ridge. Joshua Bain took his final breath and passed away in his wife’s arms. True to their promise, they took him with them in their buckboard to town and buried him in the local cemetery.

  No deaths had since been reported. No missing persons. Only experiences shared by an older generation who refused to walk up behind the lake, and warned others against it as well.

  Knowing she could be hearing anything, Matilda closed her eyes and forced herself again to relax, grateful she had dressed warmly for the night. As minutes turned into hours she felt her head roll to the side of the tree trunk as sleep swiftly set in, and she snapped back into a wakeful state, feeling alarmed she had been dosing at all, which was unlike her.

  Sitting up she heard the first breath. Deep, heavy, breathing, just at the base of her tree. Thick breathing, not of something sleeping, but of something watching. It did not move. Occasionally it would sniff the air, as if trying to catch a scent.

  Matilda experienced the frozen state of being which Robert Klien had described from his kitchen table only weeks earlier. It was the feeling of becoming prey, being helpless, and knowing the predator had the upper hand.

  It waited patiently beneath the tree. Matilda forgave herself for not using the night vision, for not moving and for challenging herself to enter such a secluded area, alone. Gravely, she promised herself to employ a partner if she survived the night. One who was not afraid of the dark, and preferably someone who could endure high adrenaline dosages coursing through their system without giving in to their most basic instincts, and fleeing.

  Matilda forced herself to lean toward the edge of her tree stand. She had made it through the darkest part of the night, however, she had no idea if the predator beneath her had an aversion to light. The board she had so studiously avoided creaked beneath her shifting weight. Freezing, Matilda listened. She could hear foot falls, in the distance, moving away from her perch. She waited quietly until well past dawn, when finally she eased the old rope ladder back down over the side. Her legs were stiff and numb from the cold, and motionless vigil. Carefully, she moved downward. On the ground, she shifted the weight of her small pack, looking carefully around. Stepping back from the tree she stopped. Her heart hammered in her chest. Something had propped a skull at the base of the tree. It had not been there upon her arrival. Backing up slowly, Matilda held her breath, and snatched up the skull. She ran without stopping, until she reached the far side of Loon Lake.

  Shaking, she turned back and scanned the wooded ridge line dotted in in crimsons and golds of early fall color. Nothing moved. Not even a branch. She shoved the skull into her pack and jogged the remaining distance to her range rover. She’d been worried about falling asleep at the wheel the night before as she had a long drive home. She clicked her seat belt into place and locked the doors. Her adrenaline would not permit sleep at this juncture. Grateful, she started the vehicle and turned up the heater, shaking from both fright and cold.

  Extracting the skull from her pack, she turned it over in her hands and stopped. It was riddled across the top with what resembled teeth marks.

  Whatever had left the skull at the base of the tree had done so purposefully. With intelligent intent. Knowing with certainty that her research of the ridge would be waiting for her following her research on Cold Cat, she shifted into drive and called in a favor, trying to control her shaking voice.

  “There's nothing we fear more than our own Reflection. We scream at the monsters within us, hidden deep within our hearts. We run and hide from the terrors all around us- the different mirrors that we see.”

  ― Solange Nicole

  ~Two~

  The wheel of Blaze’s shopping cart shimmied to the right, squeaking obnoxiously. The store was crowded. Shoring up her resolve to get the things she needed, in spite of the gimpy wheel and the crowds, she maneuvered her cart through the produce section. Apples in red and green smiled brightly back. Deciding on the green she weighed them and secured the top of the bag with a green twisty. Moving on toward vegetables she loaded two bags, one with brussel sprouts and the other with cauliflower. Because she was preoccupied with her thoughts about unemployment and financial matters, Blaze hadn’t realized she had automatically shopped without the aid of her list. Laughing at hers
elf she grabbed a roll of paper towels, not certain how she had advanced so far through the market without noticing. Auto pilot. By the time she arrived in the freezer section she was feeling successful about having navigated the crowds, with little to no anxiety, and only leaving with what she had arrived for.

  The quick trip over, Blaze stopped and purchased a small coffee at the deli counter as a reward. Waiting, she reached for her purse and froze.

  The sudden electrical shock ran down her cheek, across her teeth on the right side and into her eye socket. Blaze lurched forward, placing the palm of her hand over her face.

  “Not now…please…” Her whisper was a plea. Taking the small paper cup of coffee she navigated toward the check-out area. Blaze knew it was too late, although she pushed ahead, trying to finish and get home. The breakthrough pain was pulsating through her head and teeth. Gasping, she retrieved her purse and took out a pill, swallowing it with the hot coffee. The heat scalded her mouth and she arched in reaction to the new shock wave. Tears began coursing down her cheeks and she rushed to the check-out counter.

  Nearly hitting another shopper Blaze pulled up to the nearest lane, panic riding herd over her mental state. An elderly woman with brightly died red hair was counting out coupons at the register. Shaking, Blaze wheeled to the next counter, hoping and praying for a swift exit. The clerk looked up with anxious eyes as Blaze approached, shaking, and with mascara streaking her cheeks from the hot tears.

  “Are you alright?” Blaze, hearing but unable to respond through the pain, threw her items onto the conveyor belt, dragging her wallet from her purse. With shaking hands she withdrew her debit card and sobbed involuntarily when a third shock wave hit, spreading the electrical current of pain into her teeth.

  Holding her face Blaze waited in terror as the clerk slowly moved the food items across the scanner, watching Blaze suspiciously.