Fallen Stones

 

 

Fallen

Stones

 

 
 

 

Thomas M. Malafarina

Fallen Stones

Copyright © 2012, by Thomas M. Malafarina

Cover Copyright © 2012 by Sunbury Press, Inc.  Cover designed by Lawrence von Knorr.

NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A West Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or [email protected].

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (855) 338-8359 or [email protected].

To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at [email protected].

FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

October 2012

 

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-116-9
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-117-6
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-118-3

Published by:

Sunbury Press

Mechanicsburg, PA

www.sunburypress.com

 

 

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania   USA

 

This book is dedicated to my incredible wife Joanne. Thank you for being you.

 

Introduction

 

One thing, which never ceases to amaze me no matter how many times I experience it, is the creative process. This may sound a bit strange coming from someone whose entire life has been spent engaged in one form of creativity or another whether art, music or writing. Nevertheless, the creative process still manages to fascinate me to no end.

Producing something from where there was once nothing provides such an amazing and exhilarating feeling that it is practically addictive (or perhaps "practically" is not correct - it is very addictive). To take for example, a blank sheet of paper, representing the absence of everything and turn it into a song, or a poem, or a sketch or a story is an amazing feeling akin to nothing else as far as I am concerned.

The same could be true of taking an empty pan or pot, adding ingredients without the aid of a recipe and coming up with new meal or desert concoction. I have absolutely no skill whatsoever when it comes to cooking or baking but I truly appreciate the creativity it takes to do either properly. For example, every time my wife JoAnne comes up with one of her delicious "inventions" as she calls them, I encourage her to write down the recipe so she can either make it again or perhaps someday turn it into a cookbook. But she has no interest in doing so. For her the thrill comes from making something new from nothing and that satisfaction is enough for her. Although she might disagree with my assessment, I consider that creativity. The same is true with any imaginative endeavor you can envision.

A while back I was interviewed for an Internet author's radio program and I explained to the host, "Creative people don't create because they want to... they create because they have to." Although that might seem a bit exaggerated, it is actually quite true. Even though the creative process brings pleasure and is something one might desire to do, it is something the innovative person must do. The inability to express oneself artistically can be devastating to a creative person, as the ideas back up like the waters behind a dam, unable to be allowed to flow freely at their desired rate. Eventually the ideas have to be permitted to escape or the dam will break. Expressing one's originality is a pressure release valve like no other.

This book,
Fallen Stones,
is a good example of the creative process in action. In early 2011, my publisher, Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press contacted me and asked if I would have an interest in co-writing a book with him sometime. He had a very rough concept for a ghost story. I was finishing up my short story collection
Gallery Of Horror
with artist Nunzio Barbera and was planning to start another novel.
 

I told Larry I would be willing to put off starting my new novel and work with him for a time if I was motivated enough to come up with some good imaginative ideas. I asked him for a summary of what he thought the novel should be about. Little did I realize at that time I would be working on the book for more than a year and a half and would end up hijacking the novel and writing the entire thing myself.

At this point in the discussion, I should point out the reason why I ended up writing it myself. It was not because of any lack of desire to participate on Larry's part but because when it comes to my creative endeavors, I can be a bit of a control freak. I should apologize to Larry for that sometime. Also once my creative juices start flowing, I just write and write and write like a maniac and can't stop. This leaves little time for as they say "playing well with others", so fortunately for me Larry was extremely magnanimous in allowing me to take his crux of an idea and carry on by myself. In the back of the book is a list of what suggestions Larry gave me on the day I agreed to work on the story. You might not want to read them until you have finished the book however, because they could spoil things for you.

This is where the creative process comes into play. From those eleven lines of story suggestions, which constitute Larry's overview of the book, an entire novel of close to 150 thousand words evolved. That is the beauty of the creative process, and what still amazes me.

When you do read Larry's overview, you will notice that I took a few liberties with the original concept and went off in a variety of directions. But if I am correct, you will likely shake your head and wonder "How the heck did he get all of that from those eleven lines?"

That, my friends, is the creative process in action and why I love to do what I do.

Enjoy the book and thank you for your continued support.

 

Thomas M. Malafarina

September, 2012

 

Prologue

 

Scarcely a sound could be heard in the dimly lit chamber, save for the gentle rustling of papers, the almost silent breathing of the room's sole occupant and the occasional dripping of water from the faucet; a noise which seemed to echo loudly in the otherwise soundless space.  The quiet was both serene yet at the same time somehow ominous, as if to suggest a sinister, evil presence might be lurking somewhere just beneath the all-encompassing cloak of silence.

The outermost areas of the room were cast in darkness. The time was just after midnight on a moonless, cloudy late April night. However, even had the moon been full and bright, the thick hand-blown leaded antique Italian glass windows along the ceiling would not have allowed for much additional illumination to enter from the world outside. What meager light was present came from the center-most section of the room, where numerous tapered candles, perhaps twenty or more, of the variety one might normally find in a candlestick or candelabra, surrounded most of the rim of a refurbished pearl-white claw-foot bathtub. The design of the fixture's four claws was representative of the talons of an eagle grasping firmly onto a round ball; a typical design used in many tubs of that style and early twentieth century period.

The large cast-iron tub was elevated atop a three foot high polished imported gray marble rectangular platform, with a set of three stairs surrounding it on all four sides, giving the feature the appearance an ancient sacrificial altar, which ironically and unknown to the current occupant, it would soon even more closely resemble.

A man soaked inside the porcelain-recoated tub with steaming water filled high, close to his chest level. He reclined as if relaxing against the back of the tub, although relaxing was the furthest thing from his mind.  With his thin right leg bent at a forty-five degree angle, he was provided with a resting place for his reading material, although he was not actually reading the document any longer. He stared at the paper through red-rimmed dark-circled sunken eyes for a few minutes at a time, occasionally absentmindedly turning the pages, yet he was much too preoccupied and unable to concentrate sufficiently enough to actually read and comprehend its contents. He appeared to not be acting completely of his own volition, as if to suggest he was being coerced into a situation not of his own choosing. The skeleton-thin man looked exhausted, beaten, fatigued like he had finally lost a long and futile battle and had simply surrendered to what he saw to be an inevitable conclusion. His eyes left the document yet again and locked onto one of the flickering candle flames, which danced peculiarly on its wick.

He had fastened each of the individual blood-red candles to the rim of the tub with melted wax, and as they burned, more of the substance dripped slowly down their dwindling lengths, which were now shortened to half of their original size; an indication of just how long he had been soaking there, waiting.  Although the man who was named Emerson had no recollection of doing so, he had refreshed the continuously cooling bath water on several occasions during that time.  He would drain off several inches of the tepid water then once again turn on the faucet to replenish the tub with new, steaming hot water.

The wax of many of the candles had dripped down past the surface of the tub and some of the wax had oozed further down along the inside faces of the tub, slowly and perhaps symbolically making their way toward the water's surface resembling rivulets of coagulating blood.

A cell phone and a straight razor lie on the floor next to the tub. The gleaming silver blade of the razor shone in the candlelight. It was most definitely an antique, perhaps eighty or more years old, encased in an ivory handle, engraved with three initials DCL.  Emerson Washburn had found the razor in an old wooden cigar box in the cellar of the main farmhouse shortly after moving in along with several other trinkets, equally as old. These included a set of gold cufflinks, bearing the same three-letter monogram as the razor.

Washburn had carefully sharpened and used the blade often since then. In fact, only a few moments earlier he had given himself an excellent shave with the old-fashioned implement. Had Emerson been able to think more rationally, he might have realized most of his current problems had coincided with the discovery and subsequent use of that particular straight razor. But his days of thinking clearly had passed many months preceding.

Emerson Charles Washburn broke his transfixed stare away from the dancing flame and looked absently about the room, appearing somewhat anxious, as if in anticipation of someone's arrival; someone of great importance. He still held the document in his now slightly-trembling hand but seemed to pay little attention to it. He no longer had any need to read it since he had practically known its contents verbatim, which was not at all surprising since he had written most of the text himself. After that he had handed it over to his local attorney for re-writing, in order that the lawyer could add of all of the mandatory legalese or “mumbo jumbo”, as he was often fond of referring to it.

He had used a different attorney back when he lived in New Jersey, but that now seemed a lifetime ago, as if to suggest the person he once was no longer existed and the person he had become during the past year was someone entirely different. Washburn had once been tough, a fighter, a real brawler to be more precise, someone who took no lip from anyone. He had been a man in charge.

Now, however, he was a frail, thin, pale, weak shell of a man; a ghost of his former self, barely capable of functioning on his own. It was frightening how his health had declined over the past year. In his heyday, Emerson Washburn had beaten and actually killed many men with his own bare hands. He understood if enemies from his former life were able to see what a pathetic, wretched physical wreck he had become they would no doubt take great pleasure in his decline. Some might even seize the opportunity to pay him back for his past misdeeds. He had thought about this on several occasions, but in his weakened condition and obsessed mental state he could do little but hope no one had taken the time to track him down.