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NEGATIVE SPACE
Enigma of Twilight Falls – Book 2
2nd Edition Copyright © 2021 Mike Robinson
(Original 1st Edition © 2013 by Mike Robinson)
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ISBN (EPUB Version): 16225376454
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-764-8
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Editor: Lane Diamond
Cover Artist: Kabir Shah
Interior Designer: Lane Diamond
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
At the end of this novel of approximately 45,500 words, you will find two Special Sneak Previews: 1) WAKING GODS by Mike Robinson, the third novel in this “Enigma of Twilight Falls” series of horror/supernatural mysteries, and; 2) THE BEAST OF ROSE VALLEY by J.P. Barnett, the first book in the multiple award-winning “Lorestalker” series of creature feature horror thrillers. We think you’ll enjoy these books, too, and provide these previews as a FREE extra service, which you should in no way consider a part of the price you paid for this book. We hope you will both appreciate and enjoy the opportunity. Thank you.
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eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Books by Mike Robinson
ENIGMA OF TWILIGHT FALLS
Book 1: The Green-Eyed Monster
Book 2: Negative Space
Book 3: Waking Gods
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Dreamshores: Monster Island
Skunk Ape Semester
The Atheist
The Prince of Earth
Too Much Dark Matter, Too Little Gray: A Collection of Weird Fiction
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Dishonor Thy Father (with M.J. Richards)
The Talisman Chronicles #3 – Hurakan’s Chalice (with Aiden James)
~~~
www.Mike-RobinsonAuthor.com
What Others Are Saying about Mike Robinson’s Books
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THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER:
Editor’s Choice at HorrorNovelReviews.com:
“Among the Top 10 Horror Novels of All-Time”
~~~
“Absolutely magnificent.”
~ Shannon McGrew, Nightmarish Conjurings
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“Literary horror... Every page is full of insight, matched only by the high standard of the writing.”
~ Tom Conrad, The Indie Pendant
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NEGATIVE SPACE:
“Hauntingly poetic.”
~ Jeff Soyer, Alphecca Review
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“What a page turner! ... Robinson is a fine writer, with an enviable gift for the poetic turn of phrase.”
~ Kitty Burns Florey, author of “Solos” and “The Writing Master”
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WAKING GODS:
“A disturbing, bizarre and intensely riveting novel.”
~ Leslie Ann Moore, Bestselling Author of “The Griffin’s Daughter” Trilogy
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“Pick it up and don’t put it down. Have patience. Enjoy the poetic quality. Consume this book.”
~ Sissy Lu, Book Savvy Reviews
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“[review excerpt]”
~ [reviewer name]
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THE PRINCE OF EARTH:
“This author has a way of startling even those who think they can’t be surprised by a plot twist or tangle. The subtleties with which he conveys profound images, thoughts or ideas are often so skillfully crafted, readers will find themselves going back to re-read things just so they can enjoy them a second time.”
~ DragonCat
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DREAMSHORES: MONSTER ISLAND:
“This is a fantastic, nail-biting, fantasy filled, surprise/twists at ever turn book! I can’t say enough of how I loved this book!”
~ Montzalee W.
BONUS CONTENT
We’re pleased to offer you not one, but two Special Sneak Previews at the end of this book.
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In the first preview, you’ll enjoy the prologue of Mike Robinson’s WAKING GODS, the third book in this “Enigma of Twilight Falls” series.
~~~
~~~
OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
YOU’LL FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
Mike Robinson’s Books at Evolved Publishing
In the second preview, you’ll enjoy the First 2 Chapters of THE BEAST OF ROSE VALLEY by J.P. Barnett, the first book in the multiple award-winning “Lorestalker” series of creature feature horror thrillers.
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“Barnett’s plot is clever and irresistible, and his book is a sheer pleasure to read. Horror, thriller and mystery fans alike will find much to their liking in this intriguing story about the unknown. The Beast of Rose Valley: Lorestalker #1 is most highly recommended.” ~ Jack Magnus, Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews (5 STARS)
~~~
OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
The LORESTALKER Series at Evolved Publishing
Table of Contents
Copyright
Books by Mike Robinson
What Others Are Saying
BONUS CONTENT
Table of Contents
NEGATIVE SPACE
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
PART TWO
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Special Sneak Preview: WAKING GODS by Mike Robinson
About the Author
More from Evolved Publishing
Special Sneak Preview: THE BEAST OF ROSE VALLEY by J.P. Barnett
“Never does nature say one thing and wisdom another.”
~ Juvenal, “Satires”
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“What really interests me is whether or not God had any choice in the
creation of the universe.”
~ Albert Einstein
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“That I eat and drink is a spectacle for the great authors and schools.”
~ Walt Whitman
PROLOGUE
Arondale, California, 1971
“Get away!” his mother screamed. “Get away from my house!”
The face stared in from the window, a horrible face slicked by rain and shadowed by a night, allowing only glimpses of its distorted features.
Candlelight quivered in the storm-darkened house, causing shadow patterns on the wall to bob, images and sensations for which the potent nightmares of Max Higgins’s seven years had ill-prepared him.
“Mom,” he uttered.
No answer. Cynthia Higgins threw frenetic glances at the window.
“Mom... can you call people?”
Those were his first words in an hour. It felt weird to speak. For much of the storm, he’d been immersed in the drawings now scattered about him.
“Phone is dead,” said his mother. “Phone is dead but baby God is here with us and we need no one else.”
God is here. God... the face in the window?
No. God comforted. This demon of the watery darkness provided no comfort.
A crack came against the window, spidery, something thrown, followed by a voice.
“Hey!” a man yelled.
“Go away!” his mom yelled back.
In one of the sleet-covered windows a figure emerged, as if sired by the storm itself, and rapped firmly on the glass.
“Max, take my hands.”
“Mom—”
“Max, just do what I say. Take my hands.”
He obeyed.
“Hey!” the man outside shouted. “We’re fucking dying out here!”
Things would only get worse. If his mother didn’t open the door, the man would surely find some other way in.
“Dearest Lord Jesus,” his mother began. “We pray, in this time of fear and desperation, for you to comfort those in need, to guide them....”
As she prayed, his mom closed her eyes, but Max could not. He worried that the darkness might grow hands to strangle him if he took his eyes off the world, or however much of the world was left to see.
The man moved to another window and rapped harder. He banged and shouted.
“...give us your love, oh Lord, and sweep these devil waters a
More banging.
Max clutched the gold cross, hung around his neck for the first time when he was three.
“Bitch, please!”
How many more are out there? Are they bothering other people, like Mrs. Olsen next door? Are we supposed to let them in? Will God be angry if we don’t?
That which you do to the least of my brothers, so you do to me.
Thunder grumbled, and Max’s gaze fell to one of his drawings, one of his many Lone Ranger sketches, then moved up to a crucifix hanging on the far wall, scarcely illuminated by the candlelight.
His mother squeezed his hands. “You remember the story of the Ark, don’t you?” she asked. “Noah’s Ark, and all the animals?”
Max nodded.
She tried to smile. “This isn’t much different. God is washing the world of its sinful creatures.”
“Is that what happened to Dad?”
“I don’t know, Max, but if the Lord had a good reason for taking him away from us, then we mustn’t question it, mustn’t give it too much thought.”
“Hey!” came again from outside.
The weather continued its assault.
“Mom—”
Suddenly, glass shattered, and Max felt the merciless cold of the storm winds on his face. A window... a window had been broken.
Another one shattered somewhere on the other end of the house.
“Get out of here!” Cynthia Higgins shrieked. She turned to Max and started to move away, keeping her eyes on him. “Honey, you stay put, you understand me? Don’t move.”
“Where are you going?”
She scurried to the kitchen.
Max ignored her request and followed her, watched her shuffle through dark cupboards, listened to the clatter of dishes and pots and pans as prayers dribbled under her breath. Somewhere close, he heard voices, deep and grumbling.
“Max, get over there.” His mother frantically pointed behind the counter.
This time, he obeyed. He peeked around the corner, one eye cast toward the shadow-dance in the rest of the house.
His mother sidled up against the wall, beneath the Felix the Cat clock, next to the archway leading into the living room. The frying pan trembled in her hands.
Over the sound of the storm, Max could hear the movement of strangers in the house, toward the dining room.
His mom heard it too, and moved accordingly, huddling over to the kitchen’s entryway.
Max watched as a face emerged from the blackness—dirty, wild, unclean. He thought of the stories his mother had told him of lepers, and of demons.
The face smiled, clearly delirious. The figure drifted closer, drawn from the murk.
Shuddering, Cynthia Higgins wrenched from her position and sent the pan straight into the man’s primal grin with a metallic crack.
A cry rang out, immediately overtaken by thunder. In the white disclosure of lightning, Max saw the man on his knees, a hand clasped over his gushing face, his eyes shut in agony. Blood and drool dripped from his chin.
Max’s mother stood over him, her breath heaving, her skin no longer the home of Cynthia Higgins but of something as wild and unclean as the man upon whose head she now unleashed strike after strike. Pummeling.
Max could see the pulpy chunks fly, could see the dark liquid rush toward the linoleum, and he tried not to think about what it was.
More lightning flashed, and the shadows appeared. More of them had come, a black and tattered battlement.
“Get out of my house!” his mom screamed.
He had no idea how many there were, but there couldn’t be as many as he first saw. His imagination had exaggerated their numbers.
Yes. That was it.
They closed in.
“Don’t worry, girlie,” one said. “We’ll be gone in the morning.”
It all happened so fast, like one of those cartoons where characters move so quickly that they just become blurry blobs.
His mother flailed with the pan but missed.
One of the men’s hands caught her wrist while another took her around the neck. Yet another went for her legs. There was a tearing of fabric as they engulfed her.
She shouted, “Max baby get out of here please oh please—”
One of the men lunged toward him, but Max eluded him and tore through the house. He burst from the back door and into the yard, clambered across the lawn and past the fence, onto Clover Street and beyond. The wind and rain sliced into his skin, whipping him as he ran and ran, soaked and directionless.
***
Eventually, the clouds moved on, like muscle-bound bullies satisfied with a job well done. Max squatted in some mud, surrounded by wet brush, shivering and waiting. He wondered if he was going to die, a concept he’d barely begun to grasp.
If I’m going to die, does that mean I’m going to meet Jesus? Did Jesus created all this? The massive trees, the gross bugs scuttling on my arms and shins?
He didn’t want to move. Mom had once told him that if he got lost not to move, because that would only make him more lost. He said nothing, too, as he heard his name bouncing through the woods, issued over rain-darkened pathways. He heard the voices and he heard dogs barking. Somehow, he’d forgotten how to speak, or was too afraid to. Too much other-ness haunted this forest, even though, far down in his young mind, it seemed like home.
The voices calling his name drew closer and closer, as did the barking dogs, loud and raucous.
Footsteps. Crunching. Closing.
His teeth chattered, and his lips shook so much, he thought they might squirm away.
Then the brush parted and he saw them: police officers, wearing wet raincoats and drenched hats. The foremost officer smiled, and let out a long exhale.
“Hey there,” said the officer, extending his hand. “Got a little wild man here.”
PART ONE
“Art, as far as it is able, follows nature, as a pupil imitates his master. Thus your art must be, as it were, God’s grandchild.”
~ Dante
Chapter 1
I
Los Angeles, CA, 1992
Okay, that’s interesting, thought Norman Ritter. A dump with a doorman.
An aged building, it squatted on the outskirts of downtown Los Angeles, older than many of its towering neighbors. In the blood-colored bricks, in the skeletal creak of the fire escape, one could probably glean some vague history of the whole city, a history so fast and full, stuffed into mere decades.
The man at the door looked homeless. Or, it was just an act. Ritter had seen plenty of the latter but usually dwelling coast-side, across the sands of Venice or Santa Monica. The beach-bum-hippie façade, often put on by middle-class white kids.
As he drew closer, though, this man seemed authentic. Shorter than average, he wore a brown trench coat, frayed at the shoulders. From the thin shadow of a derby—right out of old slapstick shorts—stared eyes sunk in a dwarfish face, a face certainly wise with the dark avenue.
He watched Ritter approach.
“Who’re you seeing?” asked the man, holding open the door.
“Um, Max Higgins.”
A mucus-clicked laugh. “He’s all anyone comes to see here.”
“Would make sense.” Ritter entered and the man spoke after him.
“Elevator’s broken, buddy,” said the man. “Gotta use the stairs.”
“Thanks.”
Goddammit.
Breath came heavy as he made his way to the fourth floor. A subtle nudge from God, he supposed, to get some exercise. Unfortunately, a broken elevator was bound to be as futile as the numerous hints and articles Angelica thrust at him.
He reached the door and knocked.
From inside. “Yeah?”
“It’s Norman Ritter, Mr. Higgins. From Direct Canvas. I’m here for the interview.”
“Hold on.”
Shuffling inside. Norman adjusted his glasses, clutched his notebook tighter.
The door opened. Save for the packet of hot sauce jutting from his lips like some square plastic raspberry, Higgins looked exactly as Norman had seen him in the occasional photograph. Hair droopy and dark blond, like dry grass. Complexion pale. Blue eyes watery and bloodshot. A long-sleeved flannel shirt hung loosely on his frame, and his jeans were streaked with paint. From his neck dangled a small gold cross.
