Restaurant manager Vera
Abbot has come to The Inn to embark on the job of her dreams. But
from the day she arrives, her dream turns into a harrowing
nightmare. She hears strange footsteps, sees faceless figures in
the dead of night…and is tormented by erotic dreams in which a
hideous stranger makes love to her.
The past never dies. It only sleeps,
waiting to unleash a new cycle of bloodshed and terror. For The Inn
is a breeding ground for unspeakable atrocities. And now the time
has come for Vera to be initiated into its secret world of
depravity and horror—whether she wants to
or not!
THE CHOSEN
By Edward Lee
Smashwords Edition
Necro Publications
— 2012 —
— | — | —
THE CHOSEN
© 1993, 2012 by Edward Lee
This digital edition © 2012
Necro Publications
Cover, Book Design &
Typesetting:
David G. Barnett
Fat Cat Graphic
Design
http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com
a Necro
Publication
5139 Maxon Terrace •
Sanford, FL 32771
http://www.necropublications.com
— | — | —
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other
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the hard work of this author.
— | — | —
For Jasmine Sailing
— | — | —
The author, though in debt to many,
would like to particularly thank the following cool
people: Adele Leone; John Scognamiglio; Doug Clegg;
Jack Ketchum; and Chara Mattingly (for all the great
names!).
— | — | —
PROLOGUE
Zyra withdrew the ice pick from the
man’s throat. Her big eyes widened, sparkling. She
loved to watch them bleed out.
“Ooo, lover,” she whispered. “That’s
sweet.”
The naked body thrashed between her
legs. Zyra leaned over and pinned him down, to watch
his death throes more closely. Each raving beat of his heart
emitted a thin jet of blood from the puncture, most of
which shot up onto her breasts. She’d timed it just
right—she liked irony: the points of three matrixes
all touching at the same precise moment. It seemed to
give the deed more meaning. It seemed to give it
truth.
“Come on, baby,” she’d said earlier
when they’d come in. A
dump, she thought, glancing around. Lamplight
blazed to reveal smudges on the walls; the room
smelled of grease and old fried food. From a dark
velvet portrait, Elvis sneered.
The redneck burped, fascinated as he
pawed her impeccable physique. Zyra kicked out of her
jeans, peeled off her top, and then hauled his pants
off. She felt excited and hot. She straddled him
right there on the tacky do-it-yourself carpet
tiles.
“That’s right, baby. You just lay back
and let Zyra make you feel real good.”
He beer-burped again, struggling under
her to get out of his flannel shirt. Crooked teeth
showed through his grin as he looked up. “You shore
got yourself one hell of a killer bod,
hon.”
Killer bod,
she reflected. She could’ve laughed.
“Oh, yeah…yeah,” the guy began
blabbering; Zyra promptly reached around and inserted
him into herself. Not very
big, she lamented. In her line of work,
of course, she was used to much bigger, but he’d do.
This was business, after all.
Her spread buttocks slid down,
deepening the meager penetration. She thought of
riding motorcycles as she leaned forward and ran her
hands over his hairy, fat-layered chest.
“Good gawd, hon.” His eyes bulged in
ludicrous ecstasy. A ball of lint filled his navel.
“You shore’s shit feel good. Ain’t had me a scrap like
this in a coon’s age.”
A coon’s age?
She massaged his fatty pectorals as though they
were breasts, while her own breasts swayed before his
stupid, cross-eyed, redneck face. Poor
littlelover, she thought. He
wouldn’t last long; they never did with Zyra. “That’s
it, baby, that’s it,” she cooed.
His big rough fingers fiddled with her
nipples. They plucked and pinched. His hips began to
tremor; his face looked like a twisted balloon.
Not yet, she commanded
herself. He began to groan. Then—
Now.
Zyra’s climax released in a burst of
vivid, hot spasms, when she felt the redneck’s own
climax unleash. Ooooooo, she
thought.
That’s when she jammed the ice pick into his
throat.
He attempted to scream but succeeded
only in gargling. Zyra smiled and held him down—she
was a strong woman. He bucked beneath her like a
just-gelded mule.
From the tiny puncture, the streams of
blood emitted with a considerable velocity—it reminded
her of a squirt gun. Squirt,
squirt, squirt, on and on. This bizarre
synchronicity fascinated her: his ejaculation exiting
in time with his blood…
“Ready for my surprise?” she
whispered. This was not a reference to the ice pick—as
if that weren’t surprise enough!—but just another
aspect of her demented lust. Weren’t writers always
writing about sex and death? Zyra viewed this as a…literary
pursuit…to further her
orgasms as uniquely as possible—during the final
convulsions of his life.
It seemed thrillingly perverse!
When she was done, she whispered,
“Hope it was as good for you as it was for
me.”
She leaned up. Blood dripped off her
nipples. On a silly impulse she placed both hands in
the center of the redneck’s chest and pushed down once very hard.
A thread-thin stream of blood launched out of his
throat and shot across the room. Wow! Zyra thought. The blood drew a
high line along the wall and hit Elvis in the eye.
“I’d love to stay and chat, baby, but
I’m afraid it’s bye-bye time for you.” She jammed the
ice pick deep into the base of his skull and jiggled
it around. The redneck stiffened once, gurgled a final
objection, then died.
Muffled thumps beat from the bedroom.
Zyra smiled when she heard the stifled shrieks. Lemi
was in there taking care of the redneck’s little
girlfriend. They’d come onto them at the bar, some
frowzy hole called the Crossroads. Peanut shells
carpeted the sticky floor; a country and western band
ineptly twanged chords from the stage. “We all’s
swingers,” the redneck had offered after the second pitcher of
Carling. “How ‘bout yawl? Think ya might like ta come
back ta our place fer a little partyin’?” “Sounds good
to me,” Zyra had said. “Sure,” Lemi had
said.
“And it was plumb one rat nass party,”
Zyra now mocked. She was always talking to herself, or to
dead people. “Thank ya much, yawl.” She sauntered
nude into the bedroom. Lemi’s muscles tensed as he
wrapped duct tape around the girl’s mouth. He’d
already tied her hands behind her back. “Christ, Zy.
You sure made a mess of yourself. Get cleaned up, will
you? We’ve got to pop this blow stand.”
Zyra shook her head. “It’s
blow this pop stand, Lemi. Get your quips
right.”
He glanced up from the girl’s shagged
head. “What’s a quip?”
So stupid,
Zyra concluded. All men were. Her pretty bare feet left
scarlet footprints to the bathroom. She showered
quickly, turning her face and breasts into the cool
spray. “Blub, blub, blub—bye,” she gestured, and
watched the redneck’s blood swirl down the crusty
drain.
She put her clothes back on as Lemi
inspected the girl, who he’d lain out on the bed. He
appraised her meticulously, like a housewife fussing
over which melon was the ripest at the Safeway. “Hmm,”
he considered. He rubbed some of her mousy lank blond
hair between his fingers. “What a rat’s nest. We’re gonna have to
do something with this.” Then he patted her
buttocks. “And I’ve seen better asses, that’s for damn
sure.”
“Quit complaining,” Zyra scolded,
buttoning her fancy inlaid blouse. “We’re lucky to
have her at all.”
“And look how skinny she is—Christ!”
Lemi turned her over, frowning. “Practically just skin
and bones.”
“We’ll get some meat on
her.”
“Hope so.” He gave one of her breasts
a squeeze, and seemed more satisfied. “Decent pair of
