The Hungry Ones Read online

  Praise for The Nightmare Room

  “Sorensen has a knack for cliffhangers that make you want to start reading the next chapter immediately.”

  —Frank Errington, Cemetery Dance Online

  “…a perfectly paced, well-plotted, and compelling haunted house tale filled with oppressive atmosphere, sympathetic and detailed characters, and only a touch of gore.”

  —Becky Spratford, Library Journal

  “Chilling and forceful, Sorensen's story of family, emotional pain, and suspense will maintain listeners' rapt attention.”

  —AudioFile Magazine

  “The Nightmare Room is one creepy little gem…I highly recommend this fantastic 5 star read!”

  —Horror Maiden’s Book Reviews

  “…a really well written haunted house story that's easy to follow and scary enough to leave the light on or read during the day. I loved it! This is a must have for your horror collection!”

  —Mother Horror

  “The Nightmare Room is one of the best debuts I’ve ever read. It’s one of the best haunted house stories I’ve ever experienced.”

  —Cedar Hollow Horror Reviews

  “I think it’s one of the strongest horror novels I’ve read in quite awhile.”

  —The Shades of Orange

  “Holy hell it’s been awhile since I whipped through a book so fast. And not because I was eager to be done with it but because it was just so good.”

  —GracieKat, Sci-Fi & Scary

  “Simply put, The Nightmare Room is a surprisingly strong haunted house story and a heck of a horror debut for Sorensen.”

  —Michael Patrick Hicks, author of BROKEN SHELLS

  “…I enjoyed the hell out of this book. I cannot remember a book that enthralled me like The Nightmare Room did.”

  —Brian’s Book Blog

  “The Nightmare Room is a very well written haunted house story packed with genuine scares, heart wrenching emotion and strong characters you care about.”

  —Kendall Reviews

  “…I was blown away by a killer twist in the story and I didn’t see the ending coming! This is hands down the scariest book I have read so far this year.”

  — O. D. Book Reviews

  “This is one haunted house that had me running for the door. A must read!”

  —Hunter Shea, author of CREATURE

  “The Nightmare Room lives up to its title.”

  —Laurie, Horror After Dark

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  A Note from Ellen Marx

  About the Author

  Also by Chris Sorensen

  Copyright © 2019 by Chris Sorensen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Chris Sorensen — First Edition

  For My Triumvirate

  Chapter One

  Flashing red lights appeared in Butch’s rearview mirror, and he bit down reflexively, his back molars cutting into the side of his tongue. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

  “Shit!”

  Butch eased up on the gas and guided the old pickup to the side of the road. So, this is where it ended. A DWI stop. He’d refuse the breathalyzer; they’d take his blood. He already knew what the result would be. He’d cracked his first can of beer just after sun up and polished off his last ten minutes ago. The truck was littered with dead soldiers. Impossible to miss. Legal limit? That was for amateurs, and Butch Long was no amateur.

  His front tire grazed the curb as he slowed to a stop.

  How could he have been so stupid? Instead of driving up and down the strip all night, he should have parked in the lot at Heinz’s Grocery or, better still, lain low along some side street. Waited out the last few minutes until midnight.

  But no…his hands had already begun to shake, his throat—down which a trickle of blood from his tongue now ran—itched like mad, like it had sprouted spines.

  Like I swallowed a dead porcupine.

  A night behind bars at the Warren County Jail would do him in. Of that he was certain. There was no way he’d see the next morning. He’d hang himself in his cell before letting his hunger bloom. For that’s what the thing inside was, wasn’t it? A dark flower dwelling deep within him. Waiting for the dead of night before opening. A dark, carnivorous thing that would eat him from the inside out. He would die screaming, pleading until it swallowed him whole. Until it…

  The cop car passed him by, letting loose a deep bleep as it rushed off toward the south side of town.

  Butch exploded with laughter.

  Not tonight, you sonofabitch! Not tonight!

  His violent guffaws caught in his throat, giving way to a hacking cough. The tang of blood was back, and he reached for the rearview mirror and twisted it his way.

  He barely recognized the fat man who stared back at him. Eyes drowning in a flabby face. The patches of facial hair were due to neglect, not design, and the sour sweat that beaded on his pasty brow made him look like what he was—a middle-aged drunk.

  His lips were wet and crimson with blood. Gingerly moving his tongue from side to side, he could feel the ragged edge where he’d taken a chunk of flesh. He reached a finger inside his mouth and touched the angry spot. Nerves lit up from jaw to ear.

  Butch reached for a discarded beer can, then another, hoping for a last mouthful of brew to swish his mouth clean. No such luck. The cans were bone-dry. Further evidence of his drinking proficiency.

  Fuck this.

  Butch gunned the engine and threw the pickup into gear. It lurched, upset with his rough touch as he steered it back onto the road.

  Fibber’s Liquors closed at midnight, but old man Fibber would sell him something after hours.
Liquor laws were bendy for Fibber. Once, Butch had rolled up around three in the morning and found the old fellow in his office, two bottles into a case of wine. Fibber would hook him up.

  He’d better.

  The shakes were back with a vengeance, so much so that Butch grabbed the wheel at ten and two like a student driver.

  In an hour or so, he’d be right as rain. Floating on air. Dancing the hokey-pokey. But getting from here to there would be tough. There was no getting around it. He imagined himself splayed out in the truck bed, staring upward, all his worries washed away in the Church of the Summer Sky.

  But not if I’m shaking like a goddamn pussy.

  The scent of approaching rain was heavy in the air as he rolled down Main Street, passing Ecklund’s Pharmacy and the burned-out remains of Charburger Castle. The humidity was high, warning of an impending downpour. Butch hoped it held off until he had finished his business.

  The flickering Fibber’s sign blinked out as he approached.

  “Oh, come on,” Butch spat. He pulled over in front of the store, cut the engine and jumped from the truck, clipping the side of his tongue with his teeth in the process. “Shit!”

  Fibber’s sported big glass windows in front and on one side, allowing for better viewing of its liquid treasures. The overhead lights were dimmed to about one-quarter of their usual brightness—a level at which they would remain until Fibber opened up the next day.

  Butch gave the door a yank and was surprised when it swung open. A loud bling sounded from within followed by a yelp. “We’re closed!”

  A scrawny, young man in a Corona t-shirt bounded out of the darkness and stalked toward the door. He waved both hands in front of him as he approached as if warding off evil spirits.

  “Where’s Fibber?” Butch asked.

  “Hospital. Broke his ankle.” The young man grabbed the door handle opposite the one Butch feverishly clutched. “You mind?”

  Butch licked his lips. “See, he usually lets me…I’m a regular, comprende?”

  “Then you know we close at twelve.”

  “Oh, come on!” Butch felt heat rise up from his gut, felt his face go flush. He rattled the door, rattling the young man’s arm as well. “Come on!”

  The young man took a step back. “Dude, I’m just part-time. I don’t need this hassle.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t wanna call the cops.”

  “I said okay!” Butch let go of the door and raised one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other. The young man tensed until Butch pulled out a wad of tens and twenties. Pilfered from Grammy Long’s dresser—her bingo money. “You sure we can’t work something out? Like I said, I’m a regular. Fibber and I go way back. How’d he break his ankle, by the way?”

  “He was mowing and stepped in a gopher hole.” The guy’s eyes never left the wad of cash.

  “That’s tough.” Butch peeled off a ten, paused and peeled off another. His hands had suddenly become remarkably steady. “What’ll twenty bucks get me?”

  “Lot less than thirty.”

  “Thirty?”

  “You don’t like it? Go on down to the Blind Rock and get yourself a twenty dollar six-pack.”

  “Fine. Thirty,” Butch grumbled and added another ten.

  The young man deliberated a moment, loosed a deep breath and gingerly took the money. “Gonna have to be a bottle from the bargain bin. Fibber don’t keep track of those.”

  “Sounds good. Lemme just take a peek—”

  The guy in the Corona shirt held up a hand, ordering Butch to stand his ground. He stepped to a large galvanized tub with a hand-printed sign that read Bargain Booze, grabbed a bottle and handed it to Butch.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  With that, the man pulled the door closed. Butch heard the metallic click of the lock.

  He looked down at the bottle in his hands. Root beer schnapps.

  Little prick.

  By the time he turned the key in the ignition, Butch had already downed three large mouthfuls of the sickly sweet stuff. It burned his wounded tongue something fierce, but it made the itch in his throat stand down. It would do. It would get him through.

  Emboldened by the booze, Butch pulled a U-turn rather than take the loop around the square and was soon heading north on Main Street, the lights of downtown receding behind him.

  He took another long draw of schnapps and swallowed fast, willing himself to empty the bottle before he reached the traffic light, seven or eight blocks ahead. He polished it off in two.

  Butch pulled off Main into the asphalted area in front of the Crossroads Motel. The place was a throwback to the 1950s when a motel was an oasis to weary traveling salesmen. Now, it was a glorified flophouse. Work clothes hung from makeshift clotheslines strung along the railings of the second floor. A sedan missing both its rear tires took up two parking spots. And the whole place, every sprawling inch of it, was painted a dirty, Band-aid beige.

  It sat at the crossroads of highways 34 and 67, hence its truly original name. Main Street became 67 once you crossed 34, and Main/67 split Maple City in two, halving the town into east and west. East was where all the action was—most businesses, most stores, the college; west was all schools and parks and homes.

  The small, two-bedroom house Butch shared with Grammy sat in the southwestern quadrant of town, squatting alongside Sudso’s Laundromat next to the tracks.

  A Mickey-D’s had sprung up across the street from the motel, and cattycorner was the Gas-4-U where he’d won a hundred bucks on a scratcher. He’d dumped the hundred back into the till and come away with a case of PBR, cigarillos for Grammy Long and a stack of lotto tickets. The beer was gone by the next day, the house stank of cheap tobacco and he’d won a whopping fifteen bucks on the tickets. Story of his life.

  Set apart from the block of motel rooms was the office. A broken neon sign kept secret whether or not the Crossroads had a vacancy. Beyond the office but attached was what had at one time been a steakhouse, as evidenced by a large, plexiglass steer propped up on the roof. Held fast by cables, it stared down on the scene in dumb disapproval of the place’s dilapidated state.

  Butch pulled up parallel to the old restaurant, switched off the headlights but let the engine idle. If all went well, he’d be in and out before he knew it.

  He turned back to the shotgun in the rack and froze the instant his hand touched the stock.

  What am I doing?

  It would be easy, he’d been told. A walk in the park. Over before you know it.

  Easy. No big deal. A piece of cake.

  The words rolled around in his head like balls in a bingo cage.

  B4!

  He had stolen money from Grammy Long.

  G56!

  She had caught him.

  N45!

  Caught him rooting around in her drawer. Searching through her underwear. Looking for the cash.

  I27!

  She had slapped him. He had hit her.

  N35!

  Again and again and again.

  O63!

  And now, here he was. Shotgun no longer in its rack, but in his grip. Extra shells in his pocket.

  N31!

  Striding toward the office because he’d been told to. Ordered to. Kicking in the door.

  O68!

  Greeting the night clerk with a blast. Decorating the wall with his guts. Exiting the office and heading straight for the first room on the first floor. Catching a glimpse of QVC on the television and spotting the steam curling up from under the bathroom door.

  BINGO!

  Barreling into the room. Pumping to reload. Determined to claim his prize.

  Butch stood in front of his pickup in a fog. Blood trickled from his nose. The shotgun felt hot in his hands.

  Heat lightning lit up the night, punctuated by the wail of an approaching siren—a mournful, accusatory sound.

  “What…what…?” he stammered, a million miles from forming a coherent question.

&n
bsp; A floodlight flickered overhead, and he glanced up. The plexiglass steer on the roof blinked on, off, on, off in the staccato of the faulty spotlight, a cloud of mosquitoes swarming around it.

  The cow’s painted eyes were locked on his, and Butch felt anger welling up inside. Anger at being tricked, for well and truly tricked he had been. He’d gone from door to door, firing away, snuffing out life one room at a time. And for what? Nothing! He saw that now. No prize, no reward. Tricked!

  “But…you promised…”

  Butcher, they’ll call you in the papers, the cow crooned. The Butcher of Maple City.

  “Shut up!” Butch screamed as the dark flower bloomed inside him and began to feed.

  It practically writes itself. Moo-oo!

  He raised the shotgun, eager to blast the cow’s damn head off.

  At the last second, he settled for his own.

  Chapter Two

  Jessie Voss stood at the edge of the empty pool and stared down into the deep end. A swirl of snow scooped up a cluster of dead leaves and whirled them about, fall and winter caught in a wild waltz.

  The wind rattled a metal sign attached to the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool area. The sign had once read Swim at Your Own Risk, but thanks to some graffiti genius it now read Swim at Your Own Dick. The base for a diving board remained, but no board was in sight. Off to the side sat a shallow kiddie pool in which a soiled mattress lounged.