David Wood, Alan Baxter
Dark Rite
Praise for Dark Rite
“Wood and Baxter have delivered a stunning tale that reminds of an early Stephen King’s talent for the macabre with a pinch of Graham Masterton’s flair for witchcraft and terror. A sinister tale of black magic and horror — not for the faint hearted.”
Greig Beck, bestselling author of Beneath the Dark Ice and Black Mountain
“When Grant Shipman returns to Wallens' Gap for his father's funeral, he discovers a curious book and a supernatural relic hidden from the malevolent townsfolk, who shelter generations of malignant secrets. After his friend Cassie is kidnapped and his own life increasingly threatened, Grant must confront the powers of darkness, a demon summoned for the ultimate sacrifice.
With mysterious rituals, macabre rites and superb supernatural action scenes, Wood and Baxter deliver a fast-paced horror thriller.”
J.F.Penn, author of the bestselling ARKANE thriller series
"Wood and Baxter have taken on the classic black magic/cult conspiracy subgenre, chucked in a toxic mix of weirdness, creepshow chills and action, and created a tale that reads like a latter-day Hammer Horror thriller. Nice, dark fun."
Robert Hood, author of Immaterial and Fragments of a Broken Land: Valarl Undead
Works by Alan Baxter
RealmShift
MageSign
The Darkest Shade of Grey
Ghost of the Black: A ‘Verse Full of Scum
Dark Rite (with David Wood)
Works by David Wood
Dourado
Cibola
Quest
Icefall
Buccaneer
Atlantis (forthcoming)
Freedom (Origins Series)
Into the Woods (with David S. Wood)
Callsign: Queen (with Jeremy Robinson)
Dark Rite (with Alan Baxter)
The Zombie-Driven Life
The 7 Habits of Highly Infective Zombies (forthcoming)
You Suck
Bite Me (Forthcoming)
The Silver Serpent
Keeper of the Mists
The Gates of Iron (forthcoming)
Dedication
Dedicated to our loyal ThrillerCast listeners.
Chapter 1
The unrelenting blanket of green shrouded the world as far as the eye could see. Only a sprinkling of snow atop the highest peaks broke the monotony. Somewhere in this wilderness was the turnoff to Wallen's Gap. At least, that's what the map promised, though the GPS had other ideas. If the device was to be believed, the little town sat isolated between two mountains to the west with no means of ingress or egress. It was as if the forest had wrapped its arms around the town and refused to let it go.
His cell phone vibrated and he took it out, surprised he actually had coverage in the middle of nowhere. Voicemail. He must have caught a brief moment of reception. He punched up the message and pressed the phone to his ear.
Grant, it’s Suzanne. I was hoping you’d answer. Listen, I know this is a bad time and all, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you before you left. I mean, you just found out about your dad and all.
Long pause.
I think we need to take a break.
A longer pause.
No, I can’t drag this out. I’m moving out. I’ve put up with your stupid dreams long enough. You never finish anything, Grant, ever. You start something, it gets tough, you quit. We both know this music thing is just going to end up as another of your failures. You’ll do it for a while, something will go wrong, or you’ll get discouraged, and you’ll be moving on to the next pipe dream. I want to be with somebody who’s actually going somewhere in life. There are things I want and you can’t give them to me. Anyway, I really am sorry to tell you this way. Hope things go okay in Virginia.
Grant ended the call and tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He stared ahead, stunned as the trees zipped past on either side. Three years together and she couldn’t even tell him to his face. What the hell? Maybe she was right. Perhaps a college degree and a safe career choice would be better for his future. He had a vision of himself trying to teach anthems to hormonal teenagers in a high school band and the very thought made him itch all over. He was a damned good musician and he would make it. Screw Suzanne. She’d be sorry when she saw him rocking out arenas. Besides, he’d loved his guitar a lot longer than he had loved her. But the coldness of her message shocked him. His GPS flickered and he cursed. He rapped on it twice before realizing what was really going on.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror and with them came the icy feeling in the pit of his stomach that always accompanied a traffic ticket. “Haven't seen a damn soul for miles and the first person I meet is a cop.” Could this day get any worse? He hadn't been speeding but, with all the attention he'd been paying to his phone and GPS, he had doubtless had trouble staying on his side of the center line on the winding mountain road.
He scanned the roadside for a place to pull over but there was precious little space. The mountain rose up to his right at a steep incline and to his left fell away into a dark valley. The cop was riding his ass now, and cold sweat trickled down the back of Grant's neck as he wondered if the guy was getting impatient with him for not pulling over right away. What was he supposed to do? Stop in the middle of the road?
He was about do to that very thing when he spied a turn-off to his right. He winced as the encroaching shrubs scraped the paint job on his '68 Camaro. Finally far enough off the road to feel safe, he killed the engine and, careful not to make any sudden moves, took his wallet from his back pocket.
He turned to roll down the window and gasped, jerking involuntarily and dropping his wallet. A dark shaped loomed in the window, gleaming teeth bared. Heart pounding, he blinked and the image came into focus. A man in a beige uniform, mirrored shades, and a wide-brimmed hat. How had the cop gotten to Grant's car so fast?
Still grinning, the cop tapped the window with a yellow fingernail.
“Sorry,” Grant called, cranking the handle for all he was worth, wishing for an automatic window. “I'm a little lost and I was trying to look at my…”
“Just get your license and hand it to me, son.” The cop had a nasal voice with a touch of mountain twang, but his big hands and authoritative manner chased away any feelings Grant might have had of city superiority. His name tag read “J. Barton.”
He handed over his license, proud that his hands weren’t trembling. Biting his lip, he waited for a chance to explain himself and possibly ask for directions, but was hesitant to be the first to break the silence.
Barton held the license up. “Grant Shipman,” he read aloud. He pursed his lips and tapped his chin. “You Andrew's boy?”