“Zach comes out with suspense that will haunt you, and you won’t be able to look away.”
J. Thorn, Amazon Top 100 Horror Author
“Few horror writers work as hard as Zach Bohannon. Turn the lights low, and don’t let the blood splatter hit you.”
Dan Padavona, author of Storberry
“Zach Bohannon takes dark thriller and suspense to a terrifying new level, with spine tingling tales of the macabre that will keep you turning the page deep into the night.”
David J. Delaney, Author of The Vanishing
For all the latest news on my books, including the best-selling Empty Bodies series, exclusive content, and members only giveaways and contests, join my new release mailing list. You’ll receive a free gift just for signing up.
Click or visit:
http://bit.ly/zbblist
Awaken
by Zach Bohannon
Navigation
Start Reading
Copyright
About the Author
Other Works
New Release Mailing List
AWAKEN
Zach Bohannon
Copyright © 2015 by Zach Bohannon. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in whole or in part without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Edited by Jennifer Collins
Cover design by K.R. Griffiths
Click or visit:
www.zachbohannon.com
I awaken, shrouded in darkness. My first instinct is to feel around, and I run my hands along the concrete slab I’m lying on. It’s so cold. Not so different than when I lay in the middle of the road after the accident; the one I awake from every morning thinking of.
I stand, with no recollection of how I got here. The air around me carries a chill. This confuses me. I don’t remember much, but I do remember that Autumn still held the hand of Summer when I was last awake.
And where exactly is ‘here’?
Reaching my hands out in front of me, I try to find a wall or a door —anything. As I wave my hands through nothing but air, the vulnerability makes me uneasy. For all I know, I could be moving toward a cliff, and step to my inevitable death at any moment. Aware of this, I stop. The cold air coats my throat as I draw in breath after breath. I bring my hands together and clap. The sound reverberates, and I realize I’m in an enclosed space.
"Hello?" I call out, and my voice echoes. It's as if I'm standing in the middle of a sanctuary where the congregation has yet to gather.
I reach into my pocket and bring my hand out, grasping what I was looking for. The small matchbook rests in my palm, and I use my other hand to open it and withdraw a single stick. I push the head against the sandpaper side of the small box and strike the match, lighting it on the first try. I pull the match up in front of my face and am given little light, though perhaps it’s enough to figure out where I am.
Every couple of feet, I see what appear to be handles in the shapes of torches fastened to the wall. Between each one of these handles, text is etched into the concrete. I step closer to read it, but the match goes out. I sigh, then strike another match and move closer to the wall. I squint my tired eyes and read:
Harrison Seymour Downs
April 21st, 1878 - June 13th, 1917
Father. Husband. Son.
I’m in a mausoleum. What the hell am I doing in a mausoleum?
Someone, or something, screams outside just as my second match reaches the end of its kindling. I turn around, following the direction of the howl. My hand is shaking, but I manage to withdraw another match. It drops from my hand, and it’s so quiet in here that I hear the small wooden stick bounce off the ground at my feet.
“Calm down, Andy,” I tell myself, whispering.
I grab another and, even though my hand won’t stop trembling, it lights. I place the small flame in front of my eyes, and turn until I see a door. I find it, but a disturbing thought comes into my mind as I see the other dates carved into the walls around me: I’ve been sleeping among the dead. Something about it makes me uncomfortable, and it sends a chill up my spine. I find a way to put the thought aside, and try to open the door before I lose my light again.
I reach out my hand and place my palm on the surface of the cold, concrete door. Just before the match goes out, I find the handle. My first instinct is to push, but the door doesn’t budge. Am I going to be trapped in here, left to become one with the deceased surrounding me? I shake off my fear, and try pulling the handle. The door is heavy, but it moves. With a groan, I use all my strength to pull on the door.
It opens.
The wind whistles and the chill of the nightfall pierces my skin. I’m reluctant to stand outside, curious if the dead will protect me from the creatures of the night. I smile, nervously, and shake my head.
“It was just a coyote I heard,” I tell myself. “No big deal.”
I push the door further ajar, and step out under the moon.
Tombstones line the land in front of me, standing in what seem like endless rows. The moon shines down upon them, peeking through the trees that stand at the edge of the yard. The stone dedications appear old, but the grass is well-kept. The last time I was in a graveyard was when I buried Jules and little Robbie. I don’t want to be here.
I take the two steps down off of the mausoleum and begin looking around for the nearest exit. I just want to get home. My daughter is there. And she must be scared, wondering where Daddy is. I have to leave this place of decay and get to her.
That scream, it happens again. And now that I’m outside, I can hear that
