From Darkness Read online

Disclaimers

  Though this book does not contain offensive language or explicit sexual situations it does contain violent and dramatic descriptions of Hell along with adult and controversial subject matter and is not intended for young or sensitive readers.

  This book is a work of fiction. All persons and events are a figment of my imagination and are not intended to portray or resemble anyone. If it does resemble you, you really have problems don’t you, so keep reading; it might help.

  I give complete credit to the Lord God Almighty of whom I am a humble servant. Without His guidance, love, and grace this book (and all others) would not have been written. On the other hand; all errors, uh-oh’s, oopses, and boo-boo’s I gladly take credit for.

  Acknowledgements

  For the lost- that they may find the path to the light

  For the found- that their feet may always tread on the one true path

  For the reader- that they may know which path they walk

  From Darkness

  by: Sasha Pruett

  Copyright 2016 Sasha Pruett

  Table of Contents

  Disclaimer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Costly Obsession: Animalize Preview

  From Darkness

  Chapter One

  “Can we get a sound check?”

  “Bane, you ready?”

  “One two, one two.”

  “Go ahead Bane.”

  Bane Bronson set his glass of Vodka on the nearest amp and walked over to the mic letting the intro lull him into that magic place his mind and body went to every time he performed. It was another full day of rehearsals before the opening concert kicking off another six month run across the states and into Europe, and since he had a habit of skipping out the day before the concert, usually only showing up the day of for a quick run through; his way of bucking authority even at his age; he was prepared for a long run well into the evening. He wasn’t elderly by any means, but his sunglasses had long since been replaced by prescription orders, antacids were popped like candy, prostate exams were common place, and a hearing aid rested nearly hidden under his long black hair that was no longer dyed to cover the brown but the grey.

  His head and soul filled with the harsh pulsing melody of the metal rhythms as he entered that space set aside for him and the music, and right on cue he opened his mouth...

  “NO MORE!”

  The booming voice stopped Bane before he could utter a single syllable and he turned to the sound engineer, “What the...” Expletives of all kind echoed over the speakers, not that he ever needed a reason to swear.

  Click, “What was that Bane?”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “That voice, ‘No More’?”

  “Sorry Bane there’s nothing here, is everything alright?”

  Auditory hallucinations were nothing new to Bane, but usually he was smashed at the time. He shrugged it off and the music started again and as he began to shout out the first powerful line in the set, nothing happened. Not a peep, not a growl, not a whisper; nothing. Bane cleared his throat and motioned for the band to start again. The beat, the piercing guitar intro, the first verse, Bane grabbed the microphone and began to belt; silence. Just as before not even a gasp of air escaped his throat. The music wavered and died off while Bronson retrieved his drink, downing it in one great gulp then cleared his throat over and over before giving the drummer the signal to go. After all, the third time’s a charm, or the fourth, or whatever.

  His music, his cue, his silence. This was enough, fury washed over Bane and he ripped the mic from its stand opening his mouth as wide as he could without tearing his flesh, straining over and over desperate to get the words out in whatever form he could, pushing his diaphragm to the extreme before retching onto the stage from the sheer force of it all. Bane wiped his chin with the back of his hand desperately trying to catch his breath, his face red and purple from the anger, the booze, and the gut wrenching strain. Some rushed to help, but others were unsure what to do fearing Bane’s wrath and some just shook their heads thinking, “Here we go again.” After all, this was Bane Bronson and his reputation wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Bane, you alright?”

  Bane righted himself then shoved past the stage manager mumbling something to the effect of, “I’m... fine... do this later.” Then disappeared backstage through the maze of corridors and out the gate to his Mercedes. Ignoring anyone and everyone and leaving the crew to set up and the band to do whatever, he didn’t care.

  He slid into the leather haven confused, concerned, and just a little scared though he did his best to repress the fear. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, at least not that he could remember anyway. Of course there were chunks of his life that were gone for good or at least hidden so far away in the depths of his mind he was pretty sure he’d never recover them. Others have told him that he’d had a great time, too bad he couldn’t remember it. Oh well, that’s life and that’s what happens when you “enhance” your day, but this wasn’t like that. He was sober, what little bit of alcohol he’d had was barely enough to release the tension in his neck let alone cause whatever this was. He tested his voice “One... two... three,” yeah he could talk. He tried his lyrics softly to himself... nothing. Dead silence. A chill ran through him. A cold or the flu, that must be it, he’d strained his voice and now he had the chills he must be coming down with something that’s all. He’d get back to his hotel, take something and drown the germs with some alcohol; eighty proof should do it. As for that voice... reverb probably, or some open mic somewhere and if worse comes to worse, if nothing else, it could’ve been a false trip. He’s had them before. It was just another part of life after the drugs, they liked to sneak up on you for a surprise trip every now and then, especially when he’s stressed and with the new concert tour it’s no wonder.

  His hands slowly stopped shaking, funny; he hadn’t realized they had been and the chills subsided. It was time to go home and pass out. He’d call Larry, his manager, when he got back to his suite and started the car pulling out of the vast, empty Oracle Arena parking lot and onto Interstate 880. At first he headed for the hotel then changed his mind and made his way to I580 and the six hour drive to his house. If he was coming down with something he wanted to be at home in his own bed. He cleared his throat and tested his voice, but stopped shy of attempting his lyrics. The chills were back.

  “Stop being paranoid.” His pep talk wasn’t easing the nagging in his gut so he decided to drown it all out. His demo cd was in the center console, at least he could still work. He’d thought of upgrading his system, just because he refused to give up his baby to a newer model didn’t mean he couldn’t get her some new toys. This car held a special place in his heart and he’d kept her in perfect condition, they may have to bury him in it.

  The single was already up and running ready for distribution, but the full album wasn’t set to be released for another few months. The single would coincide with the opening of the tour and the album would fuel it on to its finish, one helping the other. As the newly familiar rhythms bounced through the car he opened his mouth and started to sing, but stopped short of the first syllable, better not push it. He listened to the bass, the melody, the percussion, the keyboard, picking apart each piece in his
mind for problems as he wiped the moisture rolling down his face on his sleeve. How he’d gone from chills to sweating was beyond him. It must be the flu. In a matter of minutes he’d grown so warm he’d begun pouring with perspiration and it felt like a sauna in his car. He turned the ac on high, but instead of the refreshing icy blast he was expecting he felt as though he was being breathed on by his Saint Bernard Barney. He looked at the controls wondering if he’d pushed the wrong button or if his wife had fiddled with his settings, but everything was just as he’d left it. Something must have gone out, so he turned it off and opened the windows.

  Warm air rushed into the vehicle and he turned up the volume to concentrate on the music, but the heat only intensified pulling his mind back to it. Bane checked both the inside and outside temps, seventy six. Strange it felt like over a hundred. He pressed button after button, something was wrong, it shouldn’t feel this hot. Then it dawned on him, he could have kicked himself as he reached for the seat warmer controls. He must have hit them at some point when he got in the car, but they were off and he could swear he smelled the acrid hint of burning plastic. He looked at the dash expecting to see warning lights and smoke pouring from under the hood as he pulled to the shoulder feeling like his whole body was on fire.

  That’s when he heard it, that same voice as before, “No More! No more will you corrupt my children! No more will you do his will or you will face the fire!”

  Then he saw the smoke, but it wasn’t coming from the engine it was coming from the stereo. Pouring out in great clouds from the slot as it spat out a melted disc. Bane sat there shaking desperately trying to convince himself that he was having a bad flash trip when he heard a tap on his door frame. He snapped to and peered out the open window.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  “Uh, well,” he looked over at the warped disc, “having a little problem with my stereo.”

  The officer peered into the car and the odor of burnt cd hit him. “Wow, looks like you do. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, yeah just a little shaken up.” No way was he going to tell him the truth; he was freaking out.

  “Good to hear it. Is your vehicle alright?”

  Bane looked at his dash, no warning lights. “Seems so. I think it’s just the CD player, everything else looks okay.”

  “That’s good. Do you need any assistance? Do you think you can get to...?”

  “Home, I’m on my way home. No, I think I’m alright.”

  “Glad to hear it. It’s fortunate you were able to get off the road without incident. Looks like it could have been real nasty if it had caught on fire. I guess somebody up there likes you.”

  Bane stumbled over that thought and his words, “... somebody... yeah...”

  “Well, if you’re confident that everything’s alright.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ll probably just sit here a moment and catch my breath, let the car air these fumes out a bit.”

  “Smart idea. If you need assistance do you have a way of contacting anyone?”

  “Sure, I have my phone and the car has its own thing. Help at the push of a button.”

  “Okay then, have a good day Mr. Bronson.”

  “Yeah thanks, you too officer.” With that he was alone. The smell of exhaust fumes from the freeway were nearly as bad as the burnt plastic and he reached to roll up the windows. A lot of things occurred to him in that moment. First of all he couldn’t roll up the windows because the car was off, he didn’t remember that. Pulling over; yes, but he had no recollection of putting it in park let alone shutting off the engine. Second, he was no longer burning up. There was no heat and no sweating either and lastly it was nearly two hours since he’d fled the stadium that he was now only fifteen minutes from at most. It had all been a flash trip, nothing more, just another stroll down ‘out of his head’ lane, but there was the stereo.

  Bane picked up the disc, it was cool to the touch and had hardened into a distorted visage of itself. So was it the sound system or the disc that had been the problem? He started the car cautiously turning on the radio and prepared to bolt if flames shot out, but instead of smoke and flame he heard the chorus of, “Open the eyes of my heart Lord, won’t you open the eyes of my heart...” and he quickly changed the station to one of his favorites, but here was only static. Maybe there was damage. He pressed through the saved stations, but more than half were nothing but static, white noise. So the stereo was shot at least to some extent, but what about the CD player and he grabbed the nearest disc and slipped it in. The irritating tones of some Wiggle Woo’s or whatever his seven year old son called them assailed his ears, but the player seemed to be working fine. He waited a few minutes for any sign the thing was going to blow up or destroy another disc, but after the second song his sense of musical decency could no longer handle any more verses of ‘Fuzzy Doodle’ and he switched to one of his favorites deciding the risk was worth it. He was rich, he’d just buy another one, but no sooner than the stereo queued up the first song he began to burn.

  Just like before it grew so hot he felt like he was on fire and he quickly ejected the disc. The burning stopped. He slid it back in and began to burn. Eject, comfort. Play, burn. Something was seriously wrong, but he wouldn’t; couldn’t admit it. He tried another disc, then another and other. Every cd he could scrounge out of the car which fortunately had become a repository for unused discs in favor of iPods, he tried. One by one he would stack the discs in one of two groups, the one that played normally and the ones that... didn’t. He studied the piles, what was it about them that set off such a drastic effect? Was it psychological? Every disc that caused the extreme heat varied from metal to rap, alternative to rock and pop, but he couldn’t see a connection. All the discs in the ‘normal’ pile seemed to be just as varied, kid’s tunes, classical, oldies, rock, and pop. He just didn’t get it.

  The only thing... wait... one picture caught his attention as he scanned the stack of problem discs. Quite a few of them featured the same rectangular box with two words inside ‘explicit lyrics’. In fact most of the discs in the pile were labeled ‘eighteen or over’ and the ones that weren’t, well back in the day parents either were or would be rallying over them. What was going on? He pulled back onto I580, his mind struggling to put things into perspective not even noticing when he pulled into his own drive hours later and parked the car. He’d left the stereo off the entire time.