Haunted Village Series Books 1 - 9: Horror Bundle Series

1,857 pages

Chapter 3: Confusion and Disorientation

Peter Murphy groaned as he sat up, his head throbbing and his blood pulsing painfully behind his eyes.

What in the hell did I drink? he wondered, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. His mouth was dry, and he reached out instinctually for the water he kept by his bed. The glass was cool against his fingers and the liquid sweet and refreshing as he drained the glass.

Tequila? He fumbled for the light switch and turned on his lamp. Must have been. Hell, that girl could put it away though. Never would have thought a thin kid like that could drink like a fish.

Hopeful, Peter glanced at the other side of his bed, but it was empty.

Oh, well, he thought. Peter stood up stretching his arms, but quickly stopped.

He wasn’t in his room.

All his belongings were there. His bed, the lamp, the bedside table, his dresser. Even the old, broken rocker he used to keep his work clothes on.

Everything.

Except, it wasn’t his room.

His mind raced, and he felt dizzy for a heartbeat.

Sitting back down, Peter racked his brain, trying to remember the previous night. He looked at the bedside table and saw his keys and his wallet, but his phone was gone.

And so was his knife.

His heart thundered against his chest, and as his eyes darted around the room, they fell on a small headset with a neatly labeled card that read, Put me on, Mr. Murphy.

With his breath catching in his throat, Peter stood up, staggered across the room and put the headset on.

“Mr. Murphy,” a man said, his voice gentle and pleasant. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“Um, confused,” Peter said, fighting to maintain control.

“My apologies,” the stranger on the other end said with sincerity. “I must dispense with the pleasantries, however. You see, while the batteries in this particular headset are powerful, they won’t last long. Not if I’ve judged my newest acquisition correctly.”

“What?” Peter asked. Then, angrily he said, “You know what? Never mind. Just get me the hell out of here. I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing, but I am going to beat you seven ways to Sunday if you don’t get me out of here.”

“But Mr. Murphy,” the stranger said, “you’re not locked in. You’re absolutely free to go. And once you’ve made your way out, why, I’ll even return your possessions to you, and a fairly healthy amount of money as well. If that sounds agreeable to you.”

“The only thing that sounds agreeable to me,” Peter snapped, “is getting out of here now.”

The man started to reply, but his voice cut away, dying in a fit of static before silence filled Peter’s ears.

Furious, Peter ripped the headset off and threw it against the wall, and it was then that he saw that the door to the bedroom was indeed open.

Confused, he strode across the room and peered out into the hall.

He found himself looking down a long hallway, a dull gray runner traveling from the doorway of the room to a set of stairs at the far end. Glancing down, Peter saw he was barefoot, and he retreated into the bedroom.

Bet there’s glass or something, he thought angrily. Bet he took my work boots.

The accusatory thought trailed off when Peter saw his boots were under the bed, heels out and his socks tucked into the throats, like always. His jeans were on the rocker, as was a worn black shirt and his green Dickie’s sweatshirt.

Confused, Peter quickly dressed, laced up his boots, and stuffed his keys and wallet into his back pockets.

Feels like a damned horror movie, Peter thought, his jaw working nervously as he stepped out into the hallway. Maybe it’s a practical joke. Yeah, I bet that’s it. Mulligan or someone, maybe Davies. Got the girl to get me drunk, moved all my crap out here and got one of their college buddies in on it.

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