Soul Harvest: Haunted Village Series Book 4
Soul Harvest: Haunted Village Series Book 4
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Subject B will do anything to get his life back. But the dead have other plans…
Kidnapped by the brilliant Professor Worthe, Vietnam vet Marcus Holt is forced to take part in a sadistic experiment. Worthe's game has one objective: to see how much fear a man can survive. Now known as Subject B, Marcus is about to discover the answer to that question… Whether he likes it or not.
Trapped in Worthe’s haunted village, Marcus and his team stumble across Subject H, a frightened young mother eager to reunite with her child. She soon becomes the target of a ghost drawn to her fear and anguish. A wrathful spirit that stalks them all from the shadows, waiting for a chance to wield his razor-sharp knife—to carve out the heart of any mother he can find…
Marcus must call on every ounce of strength and courage to protect Subject H from the terror that hunts her. But even if they can escape Worthe’s latest horror, another enemy lurks in the village… a deadly spirit Marcus has faced before.
This vicious ghost is about to end Worthe’s experiment once and for all… By killing Marcus Holt.
Chapter 3: Westchester Railway Station, Bronx, NY, 1963
Abel stepped off the curb, crossed the street and walked with purpose toward the railway station.
For nearly thirty years the building had sat abandoned but not empty.
After six months of research and investigation, Abel confirmed the presence of at least one ghost, if not two.
In his left hand, the palm of which was sweating mercilessly, he gripped the handle of his black valise. His right hand held a pocket-square, which he used to dab the sweat off the back of his neck.
Fear and desire combined to propel him forward, and only when he reached the fence closing off the old station did he come to a stop. He glanced up and down the street, but at one in the morning, there was no one watching him. No police patrolled the area because no one cared about the station.
There was nothing left to steal in it. Nowhere anyone would want to go in it.
Not even the drunks or the vagrants slept there.
Something’s wrong with the place, people told him when he inquired about the building. Bad news. Stay away from it.
Abel shook his head. It would be easier to tell the sun not to set than it would be for me not to examine this place.
His professor of sociology at New York University spoke of the building, and how it was a symbol of the failures of capitalism to live up to the needs of the people.
Abel knew it for what it was.
A place where the dead might linger.
Once he learned of the station, Abel had spent hours in the Bronx library. Older residents shared their memories with him, and newspapers revealed a wealth of information.
I have to know, Abel thought, if there’s one in here.
Crouching down, he pushed himself through a small hole in the fence and hurried toward a battered piece of plywood that served as a barrier over an old door.
On the previous evening, an examination of the wood revealed the absence of the door and informed Abel as to how easy it would be to gain access to the interior of the station.
At the entrance, he paused, retrieved a pair of leather work gloves from the valise, and put them on. He licked his lips nervously and peered into the bag, the light of a nearby streetlamp offering enough illumination for him to once more take stock of the valise’s contents.
Notepad, pen, salt, candles, matches, and my flask, he thought. The sight of the last object caused a wry, nervous smile to spread across his face. Liquid courage. Too much, though, and the dead will be able to take control. If the folklore is true.
Abel believed it was.
Everything I’ve read has turned out to be true, he thought, pushing the wood aside with a gloved hand. I may need a small nip afterward, but not before. And certainly not during.
Steeling his mind, Abel passed into the station and let the piece of plywood slide back into place behind him.
He was plunged immediately into darkness. For a single moment he was reminded of Annelise, and his body trembled.
She’s locked away, he reminded himself. Locked away, and she cannot get me. I must stay focused. That is all. Remember this.
Taking several deep, calming breaths, Abel closed his eyes, counted to thirty, then opened them.
He could see, although not much more. Enough light filtered in through cracks in the roof so that Abel knew he was in the lobby, but the details of the room were lost.
I don’t need the details, he thought. Abel sat down, opened the valise and removed the salt with a grunt.
It was, by far, the largest item in the bag, and he loosened the tie around the mouth of the salt’s bag. Carefully, he poured a large circle around himself. Then, he set the bag on his lap, took out several thick, tall candles, and lit them.
The floor of the station was an old mosaic, the image lost to time and neglect.
What concerned Abel the most, though, was the salt around him. In several places, the circle wasn’t nearly as thick as he liked, so he added a little more. Finally, with the protection at a comfortable level, he tied off the bag and placed it back in the valise. He removed the rest of the candles, lit six of them, and kept another six in reserve.
Abel nodded to himself, retrieved his pen and notepad, and jotted down the date, time, and location.
Fear knotted his stomach and twisted his bowels. A deep, painful headache formed behind his eyes, and he fought the sudden urge to flee from the station and return to the small apartment he rented near campus.
A scraping sound off to the right drove all thoughts of flight from his mind and pushed the pain into the farthest corner of his consciousness.
Abel turned his attention toward the sound and listened to the scraping grow louder, then pause.
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