After conversations with my lovely wife and my brother, I've landed in what I think might be the best title for this little thriller Novell.
I hope this is the first of finished story projects I've had for years. I have four little stories sitting in my google drive that I never got to finish, believe it or not.
Anyways, as I did with the previous chapters. Here's the link to flip back the pages.
Hunting the Monster - Chapter 3 and 4
Chapter 5: Skeletons and Sermons
Sun sliced through the blinds, stabbing Robbie’s eyes as he groaned awake. The clock showed 2:00 pm; red digits mocking him. Something crinkled under his chin—a note, taped right to his shirt. He ripped it off, squinting at Janine’s shaky handwriting: Josh called. He’s expecting you. Go see him, Robbie—for me. Her car keys sat on the nightstand, glinting like a dare.
His fist crumpled the paper. “Snitch,” he snarled, voice raspy from last night’s pills. Josh, that sanctimonious prick ratting him out after catching him in the alley? He swung his legs off the bed, the room tilting briefly. Pastor Josh, my ass, he thought. I’ve got dirt on you too, buddy. Flashbacks flickered—Josh giggling through a cloud of weed smoke, passing him a joint behind the bleachers. That Josh couldn’t play holy now.
He yanked on yesterday’s jeans, the stale stench of sweat clinging to them, and took off in Janine’s old sedan. The church loomed ahead, its steeple stabbing the gray sky. Robbie barged through the front doors, boots thudding on the hardwood, fists clenched like he was itching to swing. “Josh!” he bellowed, storming toward the office.
The door was cracked open. He shoved it wide—and froze. Josh sat behind a cluttered desk, elbows propped on a Bible, while Melissa perched across from him, her face streaked with drying tears. She jolted upright, swiping her cheeks with her sleeve. Robbie’s snarl faded, his shoulders relax as the air shifted.
Josh stood, slow and steady, his voice smooth as polished wood. “Melissa, we’ll finish this later. Don’t worry.” He nodded at her, eyes flicking to Robbie. “I’ll take care of it.”
She grabbed her purse, offering Robbie a tight, watery smile as she slipped past him. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a heavy silence. Robbie’s pulse still thumped in his ears, but the fight in him had faded, caught off guard by her red-rimmed eyes.
Josh leaned back in his chair, hands clasped. “You look like hell, Robbie. Sit. Please.”
Robbie stayed standing, glaring. “You called my mom? What’d you tell her, huh? That you caught me scoring last night?” His voice cracked, sharp and jagged. “Don’t act like you’re above it. I remember you—high as a kite, laughing like an idiot. You’re no saint.”
Josh didn’t flinch, just met his stare with that maddening calm. “I didn’t tell her anything. Just said I wanted to see you.” He tapped the desk, a faint smile tugging his lips. “We’ve both got pasts, man. Difference is, I’m not running from mine.”
Robbie’s jaw tightened, words clogging his throat. He wanted to smash something—Josh’s smug face, that Bible, anything—but Melissa’s tears lingered in his head, throwing him off. He spun on his heel, boots scuffing the polished floor, and left without another word.
Robbie’s hand was on the car door, keys biting into his palm, when footsteps crunched behind him. He whipped around, ready to snap, but Josh stood there, hands raised like he was calming a spooked horse.
“I didn’t say a word to your mom, Robbie. I swear it.” Josh’s voice was low, steady. “I asked you here for this.” He reached into his jacket, pulling out a creased envelope, yellowed at the edges, and pressed it into Robbie’s hands. “Something you should read.”
Robbie’s fingers hesitated, tracing the faded ink—To Robbie—in a scribble he hadn’t seen in years. His gut tightened. Dad. He tore it open, the paper crackling like dry leaves, and unfolded a single sheet, cramped with shaky handwriting.
Josh lingered a beat, watching Robbie’s face change. “When you’re ready,” he said softly, then turned, his shadow stretching long across the ground as he walked back to the church.
Robbie leaned against the car, the metal cold through his shirt. The words blurred at first, but they sharpened as he read:
Son, I messed up. Father, husband—name it, I failed. Booze owned me, turned me into someone I hate looking back on. Took me six months sober to see clear, after the doc said cancer’s eating me up. Josh got me off the bottle, helped me patch things with your mom. I tried calling you—God, I tried. Wanted to say sorry, be your dad again. Then the prognosis went south I stopped. Figured it was God kicking me for all I did wrong in life.
Josh is good people, Robbie. Listen to him. Be better than I was. I love you, always did, even when I couldn’t show it. – Dad
The paper trembled in his hands, ink smudging where his grip wrinkled it. His chest heaved, a sob clawing up his throat—ugly, ragged, unstoppable. Tears splashed onto the letter, streaking the words as he slid down the car, knees buckling. He pressed his forehead to the fender, snot dripping, tiny rocks biting into his shins. Everything he’d buried—Dad’s slurred rants, the wheelchair creaking, that lake swallowing him whole—cracked open, spilling out in gasps.
The church loomed silent behind him, the afternoon sun sinking low. He didn’t hear the birds, the wind, nothing—just his own choking breaths and the echo of a dead man’s voice.
Chapter 6: Fragile Things
Robbie’s eyes cracked open to a gray dawn seeping through the blinds. Nine a.m.—early for him, the pill haze still tugging at his skull. He shuffled downstairs, socks snagging on the worn carpet, and froze. Janine stood by the kitchen counter, pinning a black hat to her hair, her dress a stark shroud against the peeling cabinets. Her hands trembled as she smoothed her skirt.
“Mom?” His voice rasped, dry as dust. “Why’re you all in black? Someone die?”
She turned, eyes welling up. “Yes, Robbie. Mike Johnson’s little boy—last night.” Her voice broke, a whisper. “Poor Mike. Can’t imagine losing a son… so young.”
Robbie felt ill. Mike—greasy fries, ketchup on a kid’s chin, just days ago at the diner. That toddler hadn’t looked sick, not a cough, nothing. “What the hell?” he muttered, but Janine was already grabbing her purse, the door clicking shut behind her.
He sank onto the couch, the springs groaning under him. The room spun slow—Mike’s kid, gone. Life’s a damn thread, snap, and it’s over. His dad’s letter burned in his mind: Be better than I was. He rubbed his face, stubble scraping his palms, and grabbed his jacket.
Gotta see it myself. No way it’s Mike’s kid. The church wasn’t far, but his boots felt heavy like they were cemented. He couldn’t shake the diner memory—Mike’s laugh, that kid kicking the booth. A mistake, just had to be.
At the church, he didn’t go in. His ripped jeans and stale shirt weren’t fit for this. He crouched by a window instead, breath fogging the glass. Inside, Mike hunched in a pew, shoulders shaking, his wife clinging to him like she’d collapse otherwise. Their sobs cut through the hymns, sharp and jagged. A few rows back, Janine knelt, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving in silent prayer.
Robbie’s throat tightened, a fist squeezing his chest. Mike—wild Mike, who’d torched a dumpster once just to watch it burn—broken. And Mom, praying like she’d prayed for Dad, for Alex, maybe for him too. His knees hit the dirt, the cold seeping through. She’s not burying her son too. The thought sliced clean through the fog—sober, good son, alive. He pressed a hand to the window, smudging the frost, and made a promise before God that day.
to be continued...
Thanks for reading
MenO