Butcher's Hands: Haunted Village Series Book 3
Butcher's Hands: Haunted Village Series Book 3
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Subject B’s terrifying ordeal continues. And this time, he may have met his match…
When Marcus Holt is kidnapped by the brilliant and sadistic Professor Worthe, the battle-hardened Vietnam vet is forced to endure a neverending gauntlet of terror. He thought his days of death and horror were over, but Worthe’s Village promises only more of the same. And his next horrific encounter is about to begin.
There is a new test subject in Worthe’s haunted village: Subject G. A Roman Catholic priest in the outside world, this new victim’s faith and devotion are put to the test when the group is hunted by a vicious ghost called ‘The Butcher’. Seething with anger and rage, the Butcher haunts the crumbling remains of an abandoned taxi station. And she is capable of tearing flesh and shattering bones with the unnatural strength in her ghostly hands.
As Professor Worthe watches his latest experiment unfold, the vindictive wraith is set loose against the terrified subjects. Marcus possesses an iron will, and years of combat experience...
But will it be enough to lead his team to survival, and defeat the unholy killer stalking them from the shadows?
Chapter 1: Out of the Weather
Marco took a cautious step out of the protection of the doorway and saw the abandoned taxi station up the street. Despite the cold of the night and the promise of protection that the building offered, it made him feel uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t the way it looked; ruined buildings and houses were nothing new to him.
But there was something wrong and strange about the taxi station. A sense of darkness that made him wish for his mother and the comfort of childhood.
I’ll get sick and die if I stay out all night standing up in a doorway, he thought angrily, stuffing down his childhood memories.
He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, adjusted it as best as he could, and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. With his head bent against the freezing rain, Marco crossed the street and walked toward the taxi station. The air seemed to grow colder as he approached it, and he was shivering by the time he came to a stop in front of the building.
There was a new, temporary chain-link fence around the building. Signs in both English and Spanish declared the station to be private property, and there was to be no trespassing. Violators would be prosecuted.
Marco snorted at the sign, walked up to the gate and pushed it open far enough to squeeze through the fencing.
He made his way directly to the front of the building, and he wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked. Marco pushed the door open and stepped in. His nose wrinkled at the sour scent of old beer and urine. He could smell rotting paper and debris, and he wondered if someone had died in the building at some point.
Damn! he thought, pulling the neck of his sweatshirt up over his nose. This place is foul!
In the dim light that filtered in through the dirty windows, Marco saw the old, molded plastic chairs. They were covered in a layer of undisturbed dust, and they were connected together in rows of four. The chairs were a dull green, and rusted metal poles bolted to the curling linoleum floor held them in place. A broken countertop stretched across the back of the room, and torn wires hung down from the ceiling.
For a moment, Marco wondered if the place had ever looked good, and he came to the decision that it probably hadn’t.
He walked around the small waiting room and found an old cigarette dispenser on its side near the back. Stacked on top of it were dozens of old newspapers. They were dry and yellowed, but they didn’t break apart when he picked them up.
Well, he thought, at least I won’t be cold tonight.
Marco found the cleanest part of the floor, which wasn’t much more than a space the size of his torso, and spread out a thin layer of newspaper. Then, as quickly as he could, he unfolded the other papers and covered himself with them. He curled himself into a fetal position, pulled the sides of his hood tight around his face, and did his best to ignore the stench.
Even though he was exhausted and drained from the sudden, violent fight with Jacinta, Marco couldn’t sleep.
He felt colder and colder instead of warmer, and he wondered if he was getting sick.
Wouldn’t that be great, he thought with a derisive snort. Getting sick and dying in this damned place. Bet she’d feel bad about throwing me out then.
He grinned maliciously at the thought, but then realized he would be dead, and that wasn’t an acceptable solution to the Jacinta problem. Finally, Marco forced himself to close his eyes. He breathed through his mouth as best he could, ignoring the smell and feeling the first waves of sleep roll over him.
“What are you doing?”
The voice was cold and hard. There was a hint of femininity to it, but for some reason, it struck a chord of fear in Marco.
His eyes snapped open, and he looked around.
He didn’t see anyone, and there was no possibility of the door opening without him noticing. Or of even getting by the fence without him hearing them.
Tired, he thought. I’m just tired.
Still, he waited another minute before he closed his eyes again.
Something hard stomped down on his thigh, and Marco let out a howl of pain.
He sat up, his head twisting from left to right, searching for the attacker.
But he couldn’t see anyone.
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