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  RECLUSE

  NIKOLAI ANDREW

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  Copyright © 2021

  by Nikolai Andrew

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. 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,

  is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  ONE SHOT

  Like what Nikolai brings to the feast?

  About Nikolai

  1

  Melanie

  “Seriously, I should get an award for not throat punching my boss.” I do my best to not yell into the phone. Looking into the rear-view, I see my face twisted into a knot like I’ve been sprayed by a skunk. “You know what he just told me?”

  My friend Lori’s voice comes through on speaker. “No, what?”

  “He said I’d be better and make more money taking my clothes off than being a social worker.” My jaw pops as I clench my teeth, thinking of his oily face, how he licks his lips all the time when I’m around. “And while he had me in the office, his eyes were on my tits the entire time and, that wasn’t the worst part...one of his hands was in his lap under the desk. I barfed in my mouth.”

  “You should have barfed on him. I would. I would have stuck my finger down my throat and heaved all over his lap. Let him jack off with a pile of vomit on his dick.” Lori is far more daring than I will ever be. “Can’t you go to management or something? I thought government work, especially, like…you know, social services work, you wouldn’t have this sort of shit.”

  I turn the wheel to avoid a pothole but I’m too late and I hit it so hard I think one of my fillings came loose.

  The pine needle-covered road winds through the woods, heading up into the mountains outside of Lewiston. A summer mist hangs heavy here, the air warm and wet, pushing my deodorant to its limit.

  I roll the driver’s side window down the rest of the way, trying to catch a bit of a breeze because my a/c doesn’t work and there are no funds in the budget for car repairs right now.

  The forest scent fills my 2002 Civic and I draw a deep breath, listening to the crackle of static on the radio because the last radio station faded out about a half-mile down the road.

  I bought my little junk heap with the cash I’d squirreled away over the years from my allowance. My parents repo’d my BMW when I told them I was moving to Maine after college to become a social worker. They were on all my other bank accounts as well, so I went from princess to pauper in the matter of a few days.

  Their version of tough love. Only, it wasn’t to keep me from running the streets, doing drugs or running up gambling debts. No. My sin was not staying in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, and marrying the first billionaire my parents could arrange.

  Instead, oh the horror, I got a job.

  In social work.

  In Maine.

  I whisper a little prayer, listening to the engine whine as the gradient of the road increases.

  “Hellooooo?” Lori’s voice brings me back. “I said can’t you go to someone? HR or whatever…”

  “And say what?” I shrug, even though no one can see me. “They won’t believe me, and things could be worse. They love Raymond up there in Portland. According to my co-worker, Nick, they dropped him in here about six months before I arrived to get things running smoothly again. The last guy was a drinker.”

  “Yeah, I remember Nick. He’s hot.”

  “He’s also gay, and very taken. Married for fifteen years, so pull back on your hope stick.”

  “Fine, whatever, but maybe if you went to H.R. he could back you up?”

  “Doubtful. Raymond never says anything in front of anyone else. He’s careful. And, besides, he’s already been on me about some of my misspellings and grammar. I told them I was dyslexic when I applied but now it’s like a big deal, or he’s making it one.”

  I hear Lori huff on the other end of the line. “You should knee him in the balls.”

  “Sure, I should, but I neeeeed this job.” I snort a little laugh at my pun. I should knee him, she’s absolutely right, but I’ve never been that tough, never quite found my backbone, so to speak. I thought getting away from my family, standing on my own two feet, would change that, but not yet.

  “I have six dollars and twenty-two cents in the bank. Rent is already due, I have no idea how I’m going to make it, and on top of that if I can’t come up with close to ten thousand dollars I’m going to have to face facts with Peaches.”

  The little gray and cream calico kitten I adopted a week after I moved started to have seizures two weeks ago. Turns out, she has a brain tumor. Lori is the adoption coordinator at the shelter and that’s where we met. She asked to come by and check on Peaches for a follow up, and from there, we struck up a friendship.

  “At this rate, I might have to start thinking about that strip joint.”

  “All I can offer is a couch, but it’s yours if you want it. Shelter work pays even less that social work.”

  “Well, as long as Raymond is still giving me cases, I’ll keep at it. The welfare check he gave me today is in the middle of nowhere. It’s up the east side of the mountain.” It’s known around Lewiston as one of the least populated and habitable areas.

  “On your own?”

  “Yes, on my own, there’s no budget for more than one case worker per client. It’s some recluse named Weber who lives up here in the mountains and his incarcerated brother is worried because he hasn’t heard from him.”

  “Weber? You know who that is, right?”

  “No, who?”

  “Weirdo Weber.”

  Great. That sounds ominous. “Er, who is Weirdo Weber? Should I turn around and head back?”

  “Moved here about ten years ago from what I’ve heard, built himself a cabin in the woods. Comes into town for supplies every six months or so. He doesn’t talk to anyone. They say he eats roadkill and kidnaps virgins for his sacrificial altar.”

  “Yeah, well he’s probably starved to death then and on bad terms with his gods. I doubt many virgins wander all the way up here. And roadkill? I don’t think anyone’s used this road since it was built.”

  “Whatever. I’d volunteer to be his virgin sacrifice. I’ve seen him. He’s built like a bear. I bet he’s packing…”

  “You?” I ask, incredulously. “A virgin?”

  “Oh honey, to get my hands on those shoulders I’d be whatever he wanted me to be.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll be sure to mention that if he tries to kidnap me.” As I ease farther up the mountain, the phone connection starts to break up. “I’m going to have to go. I’m losing the signal.”

  “Well, seriously though, be careful up there. There are more dangerous things in those woods either way. If I don’t hear from
you by tomorrow morning, I’m calling the cops.”

  “I’ll be fine. Gotta go.”

  With a sigh, I end the call and shove the phone into my work satchel stuffed with papers and files for my current cases.

  I laugh at the thought of sacrificial virgins, since I am one. Not sacrificial, just a virgin.

  Ten minutes later, after bouncing around on the rough road, it ends in a huge iron gate, padlocked and secured to a fence that runs off into the trees on either side. A hand-painted sign has been tied to it with thick metal rope, reading, Keep Out in blood red.

  I look around, realizing I’m going to have to walk the rest of the way. I climb out of the car into the stifling humidity.

  Pulling on the padlock does no good but the chain isn’t that tight, so with a shrug I drop my bag onto the other side, suck in my gut and push through under the chain like the gate is birthing me. Head first, shoulders, then the rest of me slips through.

  I’m pretty proud of myself for a second and appreciate that my work style isn’t high heels and tight skirts. I’m more of a Timberland hiking boots and khakis sort of girl, which is serving me well today.

  I think of what my mother would say, seeing me trek through the woods for a paycheck that barely covers the rent. From the moment of my birth, I was groomed to be the perfect trophy wife and the memory of the men from the club or that came to dinners at our family estate, wagging their tongues at me, makes me shiver.

  My mom was Miss South Carolina ‘96, and married my dad a year later. That’s where the Crawford business empire is, and where I was expected to stay, not move hundreds of miles north to godforsaken Maine.

  You’ll be back.

  My mother’s parting words come back as I glance nervously into the tree line.

  And immediately freeze.

  An enormous grizzly, on its hind legs, comes into full view as I stumble back. Paws as big as my head are brandished like weapons as my heart thunders and I try to remember the trivia from a board game about how to survive an attack, how to make myself look like more of a threat.

  My mind races then, I squint. Looking…

  It’s not moving. Not making any noise.

  I focus and realize, even as my adrenaline pumps, it’s carved out of a tall, cut-off thick old pine tree. It’s so lifelike it scared the bejesus out of me.

  Heart rate returning to normal, I can’t help admiring the workmanship. It’s stunning, intricate and lifelike. Must have taken someone weeks or months to complete. I come up close, touch the carving, tracing a finger over the rough indents of fur, and wonder how many strokes of the knife it took to create such a masterpiece.

  I notice as I move forward through the brush, there’s a fallen log that’s been carved to look like a panther, stalking the forest floor.

  Continuing on the path, I come across more carvings. Some are smaller, some more intricate, though none quite compare with that bear. Growing more confident and starting to enjoy myself, like a little girl wandering through an enchanted forest, I laugh as I spot a unicorn rearing up on its hind legs, and a branch made to resemble two birds, sitting side by side. A little further on, there’s the beginnings of a dragon just starting to take shape in a fallen log.

  The artistry is awe inspiring.

  Finally, covered in sweat and panting from the steep incline of the path, I leave the edge of the trees and find myself in a wide clearing, where a short, shallower incline leads to what looks like a neat, compact log cabin.

  But as I reach the top of the path, what I see has me rethinking everything I’ve assumed about “Weirdo Weber”.

  This is not a neat, compact cabin. It must have cost millions, or at least be worth millions. Invisible from the edge of the clearing, the true scale of the house sprawls low, before rising to a second story near the rear, all made of logs that I guess were cut from the surrounding forest. Even the Crawford mansion back home would be embarrassed by the size of this place.

  “I guess sacrificial virgins get the princess treatment before they meet the altar,” I mutter to myself, drawing a deep breath.

  There’s the sound of birdsong all around, along with the gentle cluck-cluck of chickens somewhere around the side of the house, and mixed with the scent of pine needles I can smell a loamy, earthy scent like on a freshly-planted farm.

  Heading down the wide, flagstone path, I tap lightly on the front door and wait. When there’s no answer, I try again, a little harder. There’s no doorbell, which makes sense. He probably doesn’t get many visitors, if any, and it’s pretty obvious that’s by design.

  But I don’t exactly have a choice. It’s either find him and make sure he’s okay or call the local cops if I think there’s something more serious at play.

  Stepping back, I glance around this side of the house, but all seems quiet, so I follow the path towards the sound of chickens.

  “Hello? Mr. Weber?”

  Seeing the chicken enclosure, with them all pecking at the ground, looking healthy and well fed, gives me hope. As I round the corner I see rows of planted vegetables and corn stalks about knee high.

  “Hello?” I try again. “Mr.—”

  I freeze when I see the outline of a dog in the shadow of the house, my brain trying to work out if it’s real or just another carving. My pulse races. It’s huge, otherworldly huge. I’m praying with every ounce of grace I might be owed it’s a carving, because dogs and me…we simply don’t get along. I’m deathly afraid of anything canine. Even little dogs make me cower and run.

  I’d rather stare down a grizzly.

  Dogs only grow this big in horror stories, I tell myself. But when it raises its head I realize, it is the horror story.

  Cujo.

  “Good doggy,” I murmur, trying to keep calm as I step back. “Stay there.” As I back away, under my breath I add, “Please, God, stay there.”

  I’m nearly at the corner of the house before it lumbers to its feet, even bigger than I first thought. He stands, nose to the breeze, and I nearly pee my pants, then he lets out a single, loud bark, and there’s a cacophony of wings as birds flee from the nearby trees.

  And I’m done.

  “Oh, God…”

  My heart races as I turn and flee around the corner, hearing the dog start to chase after me. I stumble on the path, my fingers sinking into the soft ground at the side as I struggle back to my feet, my bag tugging around my neck, heading for the flagstone path, but unsure where to take cover. Maybe I could climb a tree...

  I’m nearly at the top of the incline, when my toes catch, and I lose my battle with gravity. I fall to the side, landing in the soft grass on a grunt, but I know I’m not going to get to my feet again before Cujo’s on top of me, ripping out my windpipe.

  I curl into a ball, sobbing and waiting as I hear him run up behind, and brace myself as he lets out another single, low bark that makes the ground tremble beneath me.

  Then feel something wet on my hand, then my arm, as he nuzzles to get to my covered face.

  I’m spluttering and trying to pull away as the world’s biggest dog tries to lick me to death with a tongue that feels more like a large cut of beef. I clutch my head with my arms, like I’m ducking low for an air raid drill, curling into a ball.

  “Bear, heel.”

  The low voice is barely more intelligible than the dog’s bark. But it’s commanding, trembling inside me on a wavelength that seems designed to make my lady parts vibrate. I draw a breath as the canine love attack ends and the dog immediately backs off.

  “Thank you, I—” My voice shakes as I try to right myself, hearing his footsteps coming closer from behind where I’m lying.

  “Who are you?” His voice rumbles, making the ground feel like it’s vibrating under me. “Why are you here?”

  “Are—are you Vincent Weber?” I squint, turning over, barely releasing my arms from my face, making sure the dog isn’t coming back. When I see the four-legged monster standing next to the man, I open my arms and try to press m
y hair back off my face.

  “Who sent you?” he demands, no politeness or welcome in his voice.

  Rolling over the rest of the way, I look up into a face like an angry thunder God. A thick, dark scruff covers his chin, while dark eyes pierce through every defense I’ve ever put up against men. A crooked nose, jagged deep scar on his cheek and skin darkened from working outside, thick but tidy hair swept back over his head, and a rush of heat storms through me.

  Lori was right when she said he was built like a bear. He must be six foot six or ten, with shoulders that make me believe he carried each log that built this house himself.

  But he’s far from the wildman of the woods. He’s clean and neat, wearing blue jeans and a navy sweater, dressed more like a CEO on his day off than a backwoods recluse.

  “Hi, I’m…” I start, straining to get to my feet, but I fall silent and stall as my heart speeds and his expression changes.

  His hard features shift as if he’s seeing a ghost. He rubs his hands down his face like he’s in pain, bending at the waist for a long moment, mumbling something I can’t understand. I’m not sure what to do, maybe there is something wrong with him. A mental illness, psychosis…paranoid? And then he takes a single step back and my mind races, stomach tight, reminding me how inexperienced I am at my job.

  He lowers his hands, looking down at me like I’m a mirage and he’s been crossing the desert for a lifetime.

  He breaks the heavy silence, his voice low as if he’s speaking to himself, and says, “It’s you.”

  2

  Vincent

  Melanie.

  Crawford.