Summon the Nightmare Read online

  Summon the Nightmare

  A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

  A novel by

  J. J. Carlson

  The following is a work of fiction and contains content that some readers may find disturbing. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 J. J. Carlson

  All rights reserved.

  Visit www.brightinthedarkbooks.com

  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

  Chapter37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  “I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away.”

  -Harriet Jacobs

  1

  September 2nd

  Moffat County, Colorado

  This wasn’t paradise, this was hell. The sand beneath Cameron’s feet had been raked clean of rocks and vegetation, allowing residents of Holy Mountain to walk barefoot wherever they pleased. There were no rattlesnakes, either. Specially-trained dogs would search the grounds every night and alert a pest-removal team if they found anything dangerous.

  Unfortunately, those same dogs were trained to alert the security staff if anyone was caught prowling the mountain after curfew. If they found Cameron, one dog would pin him down while the other raised the alarm. He knew this from experience—he’d been “arrested” more times than any two people on the mountain. His mother was among Wisdom’s most devoted followers, and her influence occasionally spared him from the whip, but not always.

  Not if, but when he was caught tonight, he would pay dearly.

  Following a carefully chosen path, he darted from shadow to shadow. Because of the floodlights, there weren’t many hiding places, but Cameron had spent weeks planning his route. If anyone could get a message to the outside, it was him.

  And there was so little time—the Apotheosis was just three days away, on the eve of his fifteenth birthday.

  He ran a hand over his bristly mohawk, held his breath, and sprinted to the greenhouse. He slid like a runner stealing third base and came to a stop behind a whitewashed wall. The scent of flowers, herbs, and damp earth washed over him, and he wondered how long he had before the dogs smelled his scent on the breeze.

  “You can do this,” he whispered to himself. “You’re almost there.”

  In the distance, a dog began to bark. Cameron swore and bolted forward, heedless of the floodlights. He reached the edge of a water-treatment facility and cut to the right, crossing another patch of open ground before reaching Holy Mountain’s outer wall.

  The wall had been built with HESCO barriers—massive, steel-encaged containers that could be filled with soil to form nearly impenetrable building blocks. The wall was fifteen feet tall and just as deep, and it was topped with a steel walkway so the guards could patrol the entire perimeter on foot. When questioned by the Moffat County Permit Office, the elders claimed such an imposing wall was necessary due to high winds that regularly damaged buildings in the mountaintop community. More lies, Cameron thought as he grasped at tiny gaps in the steel cage and began to climb.

  He kept his body compact so he could hide within the shadow of a communications tower. His fingers ached and burned from the strain, and his toes slipped on the smooth steel. When he was halfway up, he stopped to shake out one hand, then the other. Before he could resume his ascent, something crashed into the wall, inches below his feet. It was one of the dogs, leaping and snapping—aiming for the hem of his pants. Cameron dug his toes in and threw himself upward, catching hold and crying out in pain as the steel bit into his fingers.

  “On the wall!” someone shouted. “He’s climbing the wall!”

  Cameron had studied the spacing of the guards for nearly an hour before setting out. He had, at most, one minute before one of the guards patrolling the wall reached him. He curled his fingers into the underside of the steel walkway and let his feet dangle. The pain was almost unbearable. Clenching his teeth, he reached up with his other hand and gripped the walkway’s outer lip. He pulled upward, easily lifting his one hundred and forty pounds, then hooked his ankle over the walkway and squeezed in below the railing.

  Rolling onto his back, he took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of vapor into the night air. His entire body shook—a side effect of the adrenaline coursing through his veins—but he jumped to his feet and began waving his arms.

  “Help!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Someone, help me!”

  Footsteps thundered closer and closer against the grated walkway, but Cameron didn’t stop. “Please, help me! Don’t let them hurt me anymore!”

  Titus Thatcher, a twenty-five-year-old municipal policeman and true believer, lifted Cameron off his feet and slammed him against the walkway.

  “What are you doing up here, Cameron?” Thatcher snarled. “Risking a beating to shout at the rocks?”

  Cameron winced and worked his jaw, trying to breathe.

  “Get your head on straight. There’s nobody and nothing out there for you.” The policeman slapped Cameron’s scalp. “I hope your little stunt was worth it, because they won’t let you off easy this time.”

  Finally, Cameron’s lungs cooperated, and he took a ragged breath. He rolled onto his side and hid his smile from thatcher as he took one more look at the desert wilderness. Deep down, he knew someone was watching. Every day for the past week, a man had arrived at the front gate and demanded to see one of the residents. Cameron had heard him shouting—claiming to be a private investigator. So far, the man had not been allowed inside. But Cameron was willing to bet his life that he was out there, watching from beyond the reach of the floodlights.

  Cameron closed his eyes and thought, I know you’re out there. Please…don’t abandon us.

  Eric Larson left the camera running long after the man and the boy had disappeared behind the wall, but he turned off the laser-microphone so he could review the audio.

  He listened to the desperate pleas through his earbuds. The boy’s voice was heartbreaking, but it unleashed a surge of optimism in Eric. By the simple act of calling for help, this boy had cracked the foundation of Holy Mountain.

  Pushing away from the ground, Eric sat back on his knees and began stowing his gear in a black rucksack. Once he’d accounted for all of his equipment, he slung the bag over his shoulder and picked his way through the darkness until he reached a gravel road. After he rou
nded the first switchback, he dialed a number on his satellite phone and held it to his ear.

  A woman answered, her voice scratchy from sleep. “Hello?”

  “I’ve got him, Kayla. I have something we can use to nail this bastard to the wall.”

  There was a shuffling noise, and the woman suddenly sounded wide awake. “Digital evidence?”

  “Yep. Audio and visual. A kid managed to get up on the wall and cry for help.” He took a deep breath and flexed his jaw. “Made me want to climb that wall and kick those perverts in the teeth. Or put a bullet in every one of their demented brains, or—”

  “I get it, Eric. But this isn’t Fallujah; we have to play by the rules. Can you be at the courthouse by eight?”

  The big man twisted his wrist and tapped a button on his watch. “If I push it. The truck’s suspension might need some work when I get there.”

  “Do what you have to. And Eric…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. This guy needs to pay, more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Eric paused, thinking about the legal challenges that still lay ahead. Finally, he said, “I’ll make sure he does, one way or another.”

  2

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  On a hill overlooking the turbid Catawba River, a shadow flitted between the trees. The soft rustle of leaves or a subdued snap of a twig was the only sound accompanying the dark figure, and they were drowned out by the songs of insects and frogs.

  Mitchel Weber knelt at the edge of a clearing and studied the silhouette of a ranch style home. His heart thrummed a steady rhythm in his chest, and his hands were dry beneath his taut leather gloves. Louis Pasteur once said, chance favors the prepared mind, and Weber had memorized every detail of the property before stepping foot on its grassy borders. He approached from the west to conceal himself from late-night drivers on the road and to avoid the motion-sensor lights on the north and south ends of the home. During his mid-day visit, when no one was home, he saw no signs of a security system, and he knew the family dog had passed away months ago. Using a fake social media profile, he had befriended both of the girls sleeping inside, then hacked their cell phones using tracking apps so he would always know where they were. The girls were friends—juniors at the same high school—and right now, they were all alone.

  A smile tugged at his lips. His weeks of careful planning, preparation, and effort had paid off. It was time to collect his reward.

  Rolling forward on the edges of his feet, he crossed the yard and placed a hand on the master bedroom window and lifted. It didn’t give. Unperturbed, he moved to the next room. He had studied the interior rooms using an old real-estate listing, so he knew the layout of the home as if it was his own. He imagined the girls would be sleeping on the couches in the living room or family room. If he was lucky, he’d find them snuggled together on Hailey’s bed. The thought made his thighs twitch.

  The third window, at the edge of a formal dining room, yielded to the upward pressure of his palm. He smiled—it was always a welcome surprise when his victims left a door or window unlocked. He popped the screen loose with a rubberized pry bar and lowered it to the floor. Then he boosted himself up and floated through the gap with the grace and confidence of an Olympic gymnast.

  Once inside, he paused to cover his shoes with a pair of polypropylene covers—the kind professional painters used. The covers served two purposes: to muffle his footsteps and to hide any trace of his footprints. He moved to the living room first and found it empty. The family room was at the far end of the house, so he checked Hailey’s room next and was disappointed to find it deserted. There was a soft murmuring at the end of the hallway. He cocked his head to listen, then nodded. The girls had left the television on.

  When he stepped into the family room, his heart leapt at the sight of them. Their photos didn’t do them justice. The girls were drop-dead gorgeous.

  Michaela was sleeping with her head against Hailey’s breast. They both wore thin t-shirts and shorts, and the flickering light illuminated the curves of their nubile bodies.

  He glanced at the television and pondered for a moment. He could turn it off and plunge the windowless room into total darkness, but the sudden silence might wake the girls as easily as a stern shake. Crouching low, he circled the room, ensuring his shadow wouldn’t land on his prey. As he drew nearer, he saw a case of empty wine-coolers on the floor and did a quick mental calculation. The alcohol would interact with the sedatives he had brought along, enhancing their potency. But he’d dealt with the issue before, in previous victims, and he felt confident he could sedate them without accidental overdose as long as one girl hadn’t consumed all six bottles on her own.

  To be sure, he leaned over Hailey and smelled her breath, then did the same for Michaela. They both smelled of alcohol. Holding his own breath, he uncapped a vial and held it beneath Hailey’s nose for five seconds. Then he held it beneath Michaela’s nose for four—she was ten pounds lighter than her friend and required less of the sedative. After capping the lid, he moved to the hallway before taking a breath. It wouldn’t do for him to breathe the same fumes; he wanted to be clear-headed when he reaped the harvest of his labors.

  He checked his watch, waited another minute, then returned to the room. He flipped the light switch and turned off the TV, but the girls didn’t stir. The inhalant would keep them asleep during an earthquake—at least for the next five minutes or so. But he had a special concoction that would allow him to draw out the fun for hours. Standing over the girls, he dumped measured doses of finely ground powder into their mouths, sprinkling the white substance under their tongues.

  He took a step back and admired his work. His victims looked exactly as they had when he arrived, which was how he liked it. Any idiot with a crowbar and a handgun could break into a home and rape everyone inside. To Mitchel, the thrill was in leaving no trace. His victims woke up with a bitter taste in their mouths and perhaps mild soreness in one body part or another, but they would eventually move on with their lives, never knowing what had happened.

  His thumb and forefinger toyed with the condom in his pocket, and for a moment, he considered taking a turn with the girls before he summoned his companion. But no, he had promised to let Kristopher go first. Unlocking his phone, he sent an obscure text message: Lights on. Refrigerator is open. Food in back.

  The code had been Weber’s idea, who was infinitely more cautious than his partner in crime. Basically, the message meant the coast was clear, the girls were unconscious, and he should enter through the back door. Weber reached the back of the house, switched off the motion-sensing light, and unlocked the door. Two minutes later, Kristopher stepped inside, wearing a huge grin.

  “You’re a miracle-worker, my friend.”

  Mitchel frowned and pointed at the floor. “Booties, remember?”

  “Right. Sorry.” Kristopher pulled the blue coverings over his boots and rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get started.”

  Mitchel turned and started toward the family room, watching his companion with his peripheral vision. As two men went, Mitchel and Kristopher couldn’t be more different. Mitchel was subtle and intelligent; Kristopher was stupid and heedless, but powerful. And lately, Kristopher’s intensity had bordered on recklessness.

  They had met at a house party under unusual circumstances. Mitchel had just finished his time with an unconscious girl and was about to leave when Kristopher forced the locked door open. Mitchel hid in the darkness with practiced ease and watched as Kristopher savaged the young girl. It made Mitchel sick, but as he tried to sneak out the door, Kristopher caught sight of him and pulled him back in. The larger man was enraged and looked prepared to kill him. But Mitchel held up his hands and declared that they were the same. He admitted to sneaking in, drugging the girl, and raping her before Kristopher ever arrived. He even provided the soiled condom as proof.

  After that, they became partners. Kristopher chose targets and
provided transportation, and Mitchel did the delicate work—breaking in and drugging the victims.

  But Kristopher was a violent sadist, and his cravings couldn’t be satisfied by his partner’s timid approach; Mitchel knew it, but he was afraid Kristopher would kill him if he tried to end the uneasy relationship. So, he put up with Kristopher’s escalating behavior—the stolen panties, then the pictures, then the rough sex, then the clumps of hair kept as trophies.

  On the bright side, it forced Mitchel to refine his skills. And he secretly enjoyed having an audience—someone who knew what no one else in the world was capable of proving.

  “Here they are,” Mitchel said, holding out an open hand. “Unspoiled, as promised.”

  Kristopher crossed the room and stood over the girls, watching them sleep. He gripped Michaela’s knee and shook it, then tugged on Hailey’s hair.

  “You don’t have to do that. I promise they won’t wake up. It’s the same recipe I always use.”

  Kristopher looked back and raised his eyebrows twice as if to say, is it?

  Mitchel crossed his arms and glanced down the hallway. “We should get started. The sun will be up in a few hours, and I want to be far away from here when they wake up.”

  “Just hold on a second.” He dug his knuckles into each girls’ sternum, and Hailey let out a soft groan.

  The floor beneath Mitchel’s feet seemed to sway from side to side. He swallowed, shook his head, then said, “I—I don’t understand. I followed the plan perfectly.”

  “Keep your shit together. You didn’t screw up; I cut one of your doses with baking soda. I wasn’t sure who would get it, but that doesn’t matter. Now I get to do things my way. At least, with one of them.”

  Mitchel crossed the room and seized Kristopher’s arm. “We need to get out of here. If she wakes up and sees us—”

  “She’s going to wake up and she’s going to see us. That’s the point. I get one girl, you get the other. And don’t worry, you won’t have to clean up the mess—I’ll make sure she disappears afterwards.”