Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (161 page)
Read Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set Online
Authors: F. Paul Wilson,Blake Crouch,J. A. Konrath,Jeff Strand,Scott Nicholson,Iain Rob Wright,Jordan Crouch,Jack Kilborn
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Ghosts, #Occult, #Stephen King, #J.A. Konrath, #Blake Crouch, #Horror, #Joe Hill, #paranormal, #supernatural, #adventure
Cody had suffered a few second-degree burns and minor lung damage, but, as he put it, it would have been a lot worse if that Bruce kid hadn’t led them through the blinding smoke.
Wayne glanced at his daughter, wondering whether her halo would come in black or gold.
She looked up from her sketch pad and caught him. “Dad, how did you know I was in 318?”
“I saw you in the window.”
“But you were in the back of the hotel. I was at the front window.”
Wayne started the engine.
She looks a lot like you, Beth.
“Where there’s a demon, there’s an angel to balance it out,” he said. “Or so the theory goes.”
“Hey,” Cody called from the rear of the van. “I thought you were finally a believer.”
“Prove it.”
As he wheeled down the drive to the highway, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the charred bones of the White Horse. He half expected to see Beth’s face, or the smoky shape of a laughing spirit, or perhaps just a hole in the sky that led to heaven.
Nothing.
Just like always.
THE END
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Ghost College
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BOX SETS
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 2
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 3
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Bad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Odd Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
VIEW U.K. KINDLE BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:
The Scarecrow
(Solom #1)
The Narrow Gate
(Solom #2)
Cursed
(with J.R. Rain)
Ghost College
(with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club
(with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood
(with J.R. Rain & H.T. Night)
Spider Web
(with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp
(with J.T. Warren)
Collections
Children’s Books
Bad Day for Balloons
(with Sergio Castro)
If I Were Your Monster
(with Lee Davis)
Duncan the Punkin
(with Sergio Castro)
Too Many Witches
(with Lee Davis)
Ida Claire
(with Lee Davis)
Writing
The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success
Omnibus editions
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Three Ghost Stories
(with J.R. Rain and Aiden James)
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 2
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 3
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Bad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Odd Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
THE FINAL WINTER
THE SNOW WAS JUST THE START...
On the night it begins snowing in every country of the world, an ordinary group of people gather at a rundown English pub. At first they assume the weather is just a random occurrence and nothing to worry about - but as the night goes on, weirder things happen, and they start to realise that something far more sinister is at hand. Something that none of them could ever have imagined.
By the end of the night, not everyone will make it, and those that do will wish they hadn’t.
This book has been written using UK English. Some spellings may vary in other territories.
THE FINAL WINTER
(Special Edition)
By
Iain Rob Wright
Now this was the sin of Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.
The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event
—
J. B. Priestley
Chapter One
Harry sipped his latest beer as yet another news update flashed across the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow. “Good evening,” she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.”
The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.
The reporter let out a breath, which steamed in the air, and then continued. “Major roads have now been closed and the nation’s rail links have been terminated until further notice. Schools are closed, along with most nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist those in need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”
Harry shook his head.
How long are they going keep this up? We get it, the weather’s bad. No need to act like it’s the end of the world.
“Even more concerning,” the television reporter continued, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top-right of the screen and then slowly turned white, representing the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries. Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur. Certain religious leaders are calling this-”
”Rubbish!” Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge
,
threw his hands up in disgust and grumbled in Harry’s direction. “Bloody fear-mongers, that’s what they are. A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”
Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man. He was pointing to the television that was mounted against the rear wall by a pair of rusted brackets.
Harry shrugged his shoulders. “What?”
Old Graham huffed. “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill. Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that
yourtube
or
myface
to tell you about it!”
Harry glanced at the television again. The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered constantly. The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.
Harry returned his gaze to Old Graham. “I agree it’s a bit much, but the fact that it’s snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don’t you think?”
The old man huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy. “You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather? This is a heat wave to an Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”
Harry thought about it for a moment. According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence. But, whatever the cause, Harry wasn’t about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation. The freakish weather didn’t concern him one bit – nothing did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he’d be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger’s piss-n-vinegar all night. It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn his lesson: lonely pensioners had a penchant for long-windedness.
Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen. When he glanced left again, Old Graham was still gawping at him. Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to the guy. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”
“You bet your balls it will.” The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”
Harry rolled his tired eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Old Graham said. “I used to be married.” With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were his parting words as he tottered off toward the pub’s toilets.
Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT ‘N’ SALT crisps against her chest. She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. “He bothering you again, Harry?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. Then he sighed. “He’s okay. Just had too much to drink.”
Steph snorted. “You’re one to talk. What time did you get here today?”
“Noon.”
“Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch. “Nine in the evening.”
Harry smirked. “Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”
“I’ll give you that. Although, I’d like to remind you that you puked on my knee-highs last Sunday. I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!”