Fosgate's Game by David C. Cassidy (most interesting books to read .txt) 📕

right, then left again. He stopped to listen. Trapped in the gloom, he fumbled away from his guest and cursed as he stubbed a knee against a table. He hurried to his writing desk and reached for the lamp, his outstretched hand guiding him like a blind man.

Chadwick felt something whisk past him. Something cold. Something old. He leapt from his seat into the darkness, too late to see a black specter coming for him. It struck him, slamming him back. He tumbled to the hardwood floor, the massive thing falling onto him.

He groaned, winded. Whatever pinned him rolled off, and when he rolled the other way, he realized it was Fosgate.

The hunter was on all fours, breathless. “Chadwick—”

Fosgate raised his head to speak, but suddenly his body jerked back. His monocle popped free. Chadwick sensed by sound it had hit the floor, bobbled twice, and was now swinging from its chain.

Fosgate fumbled for it, his hand sweeping at nothingness. Cursing, his weight shifted, and he grunted as his ample mass slammed to the floor.

Chadwick shivered in his next breath; the room had fallen frighteningly cold. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and whirled right. Something had struck Fosgate, something big.

Paintings, books, Fosgate’s trophies—seemed to slither along the walls. Chadwick rubbed his eyes trying to refute the lies they were surely telling. The objects appeared as a flowing, living force, rippling the way they were. Clearly it was madness, just a trick of the forbidding light.

But no. Not a trick.

Not the light.

The darkness.

It moved swiftly. Deftly. Like a mercenary.

Another sound came, piercing his heart. Cold steel, raging against colder steel. As if someone had drawn a sword.

The darkness moved on Fosgate again. Three pounding footfalls, dreadful and heavy. The stalking of giants.

Still breathless, Fosgate managed to raise his head. A groan escaped him, a slick wheezing sound that made Chadwick wince. “Help meeeeee, Chadwick—”

There was silence then, a lasting one, and at that moment Chadwick believed he might wake from this terrifying dream, screaming, unable to stop, unable to breathe. But then came a stirring rush of air, silenced by a bottomless whoooomp.

Time seemed to still, but in reality only a second had passed before Fosgate spoke. It came, My Gott—Germanic in tone and inflection, as the peculiar man who had sold him this nightmare might have uttered it—but it wasn’t really a phrase, not exactly. It was more a choking sound one might make had their vocal cords been severed in a breath.

Fosgate held still in a sound state of preservation, an overstuffed pheasant of a man. He blinked at Chadwick.

One last time.

Chadwick stifled a scream the moment Fosgate’s head came undone and slipped to the floor. The man’s body slumped in a heap. In the gloom, he heard the head as it rolled along the hardwood, ear upon ear, toward the foot of the hearth. With each revolution came a sharp clink amid a thin metallic sound … the monocle and its chain. Then the rolling stopped.

Chadwick’s heart skipped two beats. Surely he was next. A part of him prayed for it.

But then, there it was, a rippling of the darkness, shifting as it sheathed its weapon. For an instant the light stilled, and Chadwick, disbelieving, saw the horror, saw the madness, and before his heart began to beat again, the thing was gone, scurrying into the black depths from which it had come. All he heard was the slightest rustling in the ceiling … and then nothing.

~

Chadwick held on all fours. His chest ached. His stomach was in knots, threatening to come. The storm had ebbed, the wind dying, yet a crackle from the hearth startled him. He was certain that whatever dark demon they had conjured lay lurking, waiting to slay him.

He turned to the body, turned away in disgust, only to find himself face to face with Fosgate. The chain had caught in his thinning hair, curling over his ear and draping along his cheek. The monocle lay on the floor, drowned in dark, pooling blood. The man’s weak eye was shut, the other wide, the hunter ever stalking.

Chadwick groaned as his ulcer tasked him. He steeled against the pain. He crept to the hearth and curled up, trembling. For the next three hours he lay still, his soul lost. Of itself the darkness bared nothing, yet if it had, he firmly believed he would have fallen insane.

~ 17

Chadwick stirred awake. He had finally drifted off, and now, with dawn beckoning, he supposed he should be on with it. In the faint light, he saw the grim shape of Fosgate’s head and the thick crimson pool around it. He kept his wits about him, holding back the simmering ill in his gut. He struggled to sit up.

His gaze fell to the chessboard. To the white Knight that had finished Fosgate. A thin splatter of dried blood lay at its feet, the spatter just below the tip of the bloodied blade.

Quickly, he gathered the chessmen into the case and slipped the receptacles into his pockets. He set the original pieces on the board, haphazardly enough to make it appear as if a match had been played.

At the study doors, he stopped and turned. He drew a long last look at the remains, shame and anger sweeping through him. Twenty minutes and two antacids later, he was driving along the Thames in his Mercedes.

As the sun came up, he reached the Thames Estuary and chartered a vessel. Two miles from the mainland, he killed the engine. The icy sea rolled gently, a fine mist glowing along the horizon.

He moved from the cabin to the rear of the boat. The January cold made him shiver, yet it served to invigorate him. As far as his weary eyes could take him, they told him what he needed to know. He was alone.

He took up the case and fought the urge to toss it overboard. As he opened it, he reeled at the grim odor. The vile stench of death.

He removed the white King. Hideous. How he loathed it.

He flung it as far as he was able, grinning at the splash. He did this with every piece.

The case sank quickly.

He drew the receptacle from his left pocket. The dark one. He removed the top and drew out the slip, the name printed there unmistakably of Fosgate’s hand. He chuckled, and it felt oddly good.

You’re a lucky man, Argyle.

He tossed the container and its cap, relieved to see them gone. The paper fluttered free as he released it to the frosty wind.

He drew the white receptacle and removed the cap.

The sea swallowed the ashes.

Swallowed the receptacle.

A rush of relief swept him. He looked down at the seat beside him, at the Greater London telephone directory. Save the single patch of blood splattered on the binding, it could have passed for new. For the real thing, quite rightly, a duplicate of the original that lay beside it. And so it should.

Computers. They’d revolutionized the publishing industry. It was amazing what one could accomplish these days, even if—especially if—you had to do it yourself. It was just as easy printing a telephone directory—even one as unique as this—as printing some trashy tabloid.

He picked up the directory. It had been easy, swapping it for the old one. If only he’d done it sooner. If only.

He had come to the estate the day after Christmas, around three. Fosgate was in the country all week, making merry with old friends, and Willoughby had been most accommodating. After a pleasant chat under the pretense he had papers for Fosgate to sign, he had let himself into the study, his valise stuffed. He had left with just as heavy a burden.

He flipped the big book open, somewhere in the middle. The wind turned a few pages.

Despite his guilt, despite the insanity of it all, he managed a small smile at the names. Page upon page.

All Fosgate Harvard Harrod … and naturally, the phone number and address.

To narrow the variables.

The variables. There seemed a great many now, yet he told himself he’d not worry about the police. They’d question him, certainly. Let them. The facts, as far as he was concerned, were clear. He’d overindulged at the party, had retired around two after some spirited chess, and as much as he knew, Fosgate had been fast asleep in his bed when he left at the dawn. He was just as shocked as they were.

He looked far across the sprawling sea, for answers he knew would never come. He wanted to believe he was no more “Phonebook Phantom” than Fosgate, that in the end, they themselves were merely pawns. It was a good lie.

He played his last move. The directories sank quickly.

Trembling, he fought the guilt that threatened to consume him. A deep breath calmed him as he let the fat globe of the sun warm his soul.

His heart ached. He would see his dear Eydie soon; slip into bed and spoon. He might falter, might yet surrender his days to the darkness, but he would spend what he owned with her.

A cold tear slid down his cheek. The game finally won, he headed for home.

~ a final word

Thank you. I hope you enjoyed this little diversion. A short road trip into madness.

Fosgate’s Game was inspired by my earlier days of playing chess, and my constantly wandering mind. During a particularly slow game against one of my brothers, I had become quite bored waiting my turn, and as luck would have it, I imagined a darker version of the game we were playing. He ended up winning that game. Lucky for him.

Until next time, my friend. Be well.

David

April, 2013

~ dedication

For Tina—and some hot chocolate by the fire.

~ acknowledgments

Cover design by David C. Cassidy (Illustrator)

eBook prepared by David C. Cassidy

Author photograph courtesy Tina Forgét

Cover, Artwork and Photography

Copyright © 2019

~ about the author

Award-winning author David C. Cassidy is the twisted mind behind several chilling books of horror and suspense. An author, photographer, and graphic designer—and a half-decent juggler—he spends his writing life creating tales of terror where Bad Things Happen To Good People. Raised by wolves, he grew up with a love of nature, music, science, and history, with thrillers and horror novels feeding the dark side of his seriously disturbed imagination. He talks to his characters, talks often, and most times they listen. But the real fun starts when they tell him to take a hike, and they Open That Door anyway. Idiots.

David lives in Ontario, Canada. From Mozart to Vivaldi, classic jazz to classic rock, he feels naked without his iPod. Suffering from MAD—Multiple Activity Disorder—he divides his time between writing and photography, reading and rollerblading. An avid amateur astronomer, he loves the night sky, chasing the stars with his telescope. Sometimes he eats.

www.davidccassidy.com