Tealock (The Abducted Book 2)

Book summary

Alfred appears normal to everyone, but within him lurks a growing darkness driven by perverse desires. His quest to find the perfect victim begins with a series of failed attempts, each one escalating his need. TEALOCK is a chilling psychological thriller that explores the depths of human depravity and the monsters hiding in plain sight.

Excerpt from Tealock (The Abducted Book 2)

The ringing of ball peen hammers hitting steel mingled with the mechanical humming of dozens of hydraulic presses working at full capacity. The noise echoed through the large warehouse almost painfully. Occasionally, a foreman's booming voice could vaguely be heard in the distance, barking orders at some poor worker not pulling his weight.

Even back in the shipping dock, the noise was thunderous. But after nearly six months since the military had converted the farm equipment warehouse to produce ammunition and rifle barrels for the war with Japan and Germany overseas, he had learned to drown it out with his deep, pondering, and calculated thoughts.

At twenty-three, most men his age in this area had been drafted for the war. But he had been the youngest of three, and both his brothers had volunteered to fight. Their father had passed two years before, leaving the three brothers to look after their lone mother, who was nearing her sixties. But with his two brothers gone, he was the sole male and had to look after her and the small farm.

Not that the farm produced anything anymore with no one to tend it. Now it was merely sixty acres of weeds and rocky soil that once grew clover for horse feed. The land was worth far more than anything that could be grown on it now anyway. But his mother was bound to hold onto it until her dying breath.

It had been a free pass to avoid going to war. Not that he was a coward and would not have served his country in its time of need. But he certainly had no notion he would be a great soldier. He was below average height, skinny, and not athletic at all, more preferring books and things of mental fortitude. He highly doubted he would have been able to pass the physical entrance test anyway. So, he had accepted his good fortune without complaint.

Now, he was doing his part for the war in a different way.

He was vastly different from most men, had been his whole life, had learned this early on. Once he had accepted it, he had learned to live with it and prospered mildly because of it. Not all men needed to be brutes, thick arms and chests, quick to fight and fast to drink. No, he was quicker to use his wit and senses and relied on them to avoid the trouble that being noticeably smaller and weaker often brought him.

"Hey, Robert," a gruff voice called out, "are those pallets labeled and ready to go on the truck yet? The driver is getting annoyed at waiting. Says he is already an hour behind schedule."

Alfred rolled his eyes; the forklift operator knew he hated his first name, named after his father, who had been an abusive prick. He went by his middle name as often as possible, but upon getting hired for this job, they had printed his first name on his coveralls.

Scribbling his final initials on the forms, he stapled the copies to the last wooden crate to be loaded this night. "Good to go." He gave the thumbs up, though the thought of using his middle finger crossed his mind.

Glancing at the clock as the forklift began the loading process, he was glad to see it was almost quitting time. It had been a long night, and he would be happy to be off soon.

He rubbed the grit from his eyes, making his way to the filing cabinet to file his paperwork. Night shifts were hard but provided him with perks to his—outside life. While others were working, most of his mornings were spent—observing.

A loud buzzer went off throughout the whole factory, signaling morning shift change.

***

The black 1938 Buick Coupe pulled up to the tree line, just off the dirt road, hidden behind a screen of thick bushes and tall elms. A quiet, secluded place where one would not be disturbed this early in the morning. Most men were already an hour or more gone from their homes and working hard by now at their respective jobs.

Alfred looked at his pocket watch; it was a quarter past eight. He killed the engine and took out a cigarette. He was not really a smoker, except in instances like this. This was a special time, and in this time, nothing else really mattered, just a bizarre enjoyment he had discovered some months ago. Something he knew was off and that he had to keep hidden from everyone, which somehow made it even better at times.

But also frightening.

If he were caught in the act, he knew there would be mass ridicule and possibly time spent in jail or a looney bin. But he was smarter than most. He had his routine that he followed. Steps he took to ensure no one would ever find out.

He took a long hard drag, holding it in for several long moments before blowing it out in two streams from his nose. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he pulled out his tin flask and took a deep swig of the lukewarm whiskey. Again, he was not much of a drinker, but he found the burning sensation in his stomach heightened the experience. And that was what this was all about.

Reaching over, he opened the glove box and pulled out a pair of binoculars. It would not be much longer now. Carefully he inspected the lenses, making sure there were no smudges or dust. It would not do to have his view hindered by something so easily remedied.

He tossed the cigarette out the window after a final drag, which he held in his lungs almost until it hurt. He released it slowly and grinned at the head rush it gave him mixed with the heat of the whiskey.

His heart began to beat faster as his anticipation for the moment rose. It always felt this way; it was always such a rush, such blissful excitement. It was like a drug now, something he thought about often, craved—needed, like an addiction without the damaging cost. A free rush at the expense of no one—at least no one that knew.

Licking his lips, he slowly sighted the binoculars, bringing them to crystal clarity upon the backyard below, just as the sliding door opened and a mother and young daughter stepped out.

On-time, almost like clockwork, nearly every weekday that wasn't raining.

The mother was casually dressed for light gardening in her many flower beds, and the daughter wore a bright yellow polka-dot sundress, sandals, and a purple bow in her curly blonde hair, and she went straight for the sandbox.

Alfred felt his blood stirring as he watched, his hand slowly unzipping his work trousers so he could free himself from its confines before it became uncomfortable.

The daughter, who he discovered was named Amber, began to build a mountain, dragging her unicorn figurines out from the sand so they could climb the small mound to the top.

A hand slid beneath his zipper, and he gripped himself as a shudder ran up his spine and down into his legs, nearly numbing his toes.

A light breeze teased Amber's hair as she played, unknowing that she was being watched; he pretended it was him who had touched it. How he wished it were. She would love it, would gasp and giggle as he tickled her neck playfully. She would say his name as he touched her, and in return, she would touch him. She would do what he asked her to do—whenever he asked her to.

The binoculars quivered in his hand, and he groaned with a deep sigh, the deed was finished once more. So quickly. Exhilaration flooded through him at the release; he felt lightheaded and devious. Fulfilled and alive!

The moment passed swiftly, as it always did now, but it happened faster than the time before and the time before that.

Shame—guilt—disgust…

What kind of man did this? What kind of fiend watched children from a distance and pleasured themselves?

He was a deviant—a fucking pervert.

Throwing open the door to his car, he scrambled out, falling to his knees as he heaved, and feared he would vomit again. Drawing in ragged breaths, sweat dripped from his chin while he stared down at the dried vomit from days before.

"What is the matter with me?” he whispered. "Who am I? Who does this? Why do I enjoy this so much?"

Slowly he pulled himself up and climbed back into his car. He packed the binoculars away, almost wondering if he should throw them down the cliffside, but he knew that would not help. He had done that three times already, even smashing a pair with a hammer. But hours later, he would find himself buying another. The guilt and shame went from him, only to be replaced by his need to watch and feel release one more time.

It was a strange addiction that had dug its claws in.

The car came to life, and he pulled out of his hidden spot, knowing he would be back tomorrow.