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- Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
John and Diane Forrester decide to spend a weekend in Grand Marais, a small, isolated town on the north shore of Lake Superior. Through a series of mysterious encounters, dark memories resurface for John. After waking up in a hospital room, his mind wavers between past and present - until a shocking thruth comes to light.
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Seitenzahl: 194
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Foreword
Someone once wrote, “An easy story is the result of painstaking writing.”
When I start writing a new story, I often find myself already thinking about the next one, without worrying about how well the previous one might do. When writing, it's best to follow your instincts. The important thing is to create a connection with the reader. Suspenseful thrillers and detective novels have long given way to increasingly explicit erotic fiction. Personally, that’s not really my thing, though from time to time, I do include suggestive scenes.
When inspiration strikes and I have a strong idea, I sometimes write for entire days. I draw inspiration from listening to the radio, music, reading books, and watching a vast number of films. The more I write, the more I learn about writing.
When I reread my early drafts, I tell myself I should have made this a habit much sooner. Looking back, it’s an essential step. Before creating a masterpiece like Live and Let Die, Paul McCartney had composed many other songs! Today, I feel much more at ease with the process.
Many people say my stories are a bit short. What they don’t know is that before being published, they were even shorter. I take this remark as a compliment because it makes me feel like I’ve successfully told the story I set out to tell. After all, isn’t it said that the most intense and fleeting experiences are often the best?
Writing a short story requires acrobatic skill and intense, exhausting practice. Intense is the word that comes to mind when I write a story. I would rather write a great short story than a long, tedious one. Having read Agatha Christie, Stephen King, Patricia Highsmith, Robert Bloch, and Dennis Lehane (among others), I have developed a preference for short fiction ‒ short stories. This format is typically fast-paced and packed with suspense. Readers must quickly connect with the characters and be drawn into the heart of the plot right away.
This literary genre emerged in the late Middle Ages. Initially, stories were mostly rooted in reality. While some short stories today are inspired by true events, there are no longer any strict rules regarding themes, which have diversified widely (crime, thriller, fantasy, romance, etc.). For example, Stephen King, the master of fantasy, horror, and suspense novels, has also written short stories, some of which have been adapted into films. However, a few fundamental principles still remain.
Personally, I don’t follow any rules. I feel more comfortable with a text that leaves no room for unnecessary elements. This demands a keen sense of economy and precision, but it also requires the ability to tell a story in a way that keeps readers engaged at every moment.
Nightmare Night was originally a short story of about thirty pages, titled Nightmare. At the time, I wrote stories that came to me in a flash of inspiration and demanded to be written immediately. I had to wrestle with feelings of helplessness, with the persistent fear that I would never bridge the gap between a brilliant idea and its full potential. One day, I reread it and decided to rewrite it.
Synopsis: John and Diane Forrester decide to spend a weekend in Grand Marais, a small, isolated town on the north shore of Lake Superior. Through a series of mysterious encounters, dark memories resurface for John. After waking up in a hospital room, his mind wavers between past and present ‒ until a shocking truth comes to light.
Sommaire
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
1
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
In the summer, the town of Grand Marais, Minnesota, is a completely different place ‒ so different that no one could truly explain it. But the difference mainly lies in the way its residents live, as people have no idea just how secluded they really are. Outside the town center and the harbor, houses are scattered, far apart from one another, and from June to September, people shut themselves in to avoid the tourists.
Nancy Stevens, a woman in her thirties, was hanging out with her boyfriend, Daniel Piotrowski. The day was already well advanced, but Nancy had no desire to go home. She already knew what awaited her the moment she stepped through the door: a suffocating sense of confinement. Besides, it was too early to face her mother ‒ a possessive and overbearing woman.
She leaned into Daniel easily and pressed her lips against him. It took him a moment to react, but she didn’t mind. She needed to kiss him, to touch him. He finally returned her kiss, pressing his lips against hers with unusual fervor. In response, she ran a hand through his hair, but suddenly, she pulled away. Her entire body had tensed.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Why?” Daniel asked, stunned.
“I work early tomorrow.”
“Come on! Stay a little longer!”
“No. I'll see you tomorrow night.”
She stroked his cheek and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He saw her smile in the dim light…
Nancy was driving along Gunflint Trail, north of Grand Marais, in a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, heading toward her parents' house. It had started raining in the afternoon, and the asphalt had taken on silver hues, softened by the fading twilight. The warm wind gradually created a sense of vastness and emptiness in this surprisingly flat landscape along the lake’s edge.
She had been driving for about two or three miles when her gaze locked onto a boy standing on the side of the road. She stopped the car, turned off the engine, slipped the key into her jacket pocket, and made sure her wallet was still there.
Her cell phone rang.
“Hello? Daniel? I'll call you back,” she said, immediately hanging up.
She stepped out of the car, and a sudden gust of wind made her wobble.
“Are you alone?” she asked.
The boy looked about ten years old. Tall and thin, with tan skin, he wore a T-shirt and deep blue jeans, as if they were brand new. His sneakers were shiny enough to reflect the headlights. His light brown hair fell over his shoulders, and his eyes were an intense shade of blue.
“Where are your parents?”
The boy blinked. His mouth twisted, resembling that of an angry animal.
“Drive me home,” he said.
She stared at him, her heart pounding with a sudden sense of fear.
“Of course. Get in.”
The boy jumped into the car with an air of casualness, feeling Nancy’s eyes fixed on him.
“Where do you live?”
“At the end of Shoreline Drive, in Robbinsdale.”
“Where?”
“In Minneapolis.”
Confused, she slowly shook her head.
“I guess you ran away from home… You know, a boy your age shouldn't be out alone at night.”
The child shot her a sharp glare and replied:
“I'm not alone. You're here.”
There was something unsettling in his words, vibrating with restrained anger.
“Do you think I’m strange?” he added.
She glanced at him quickly before answering:
“No!”
“Will you take me home?”
She shook her head.
“Uh… That’s not exactly close. I’ll drop you off at the nearest police station.”
The boy turned crimson.
“No! Take me to the Claridge Motel.”
“The Claridge Motel? But it’s closed!”
“That’s where my parents are staying.”
Nancy listened, feeling uneasy.
“Alright,” she conceded.
When she arrived at the motel, her gaze froze again. She turned off the engine.
“See? It’s closed!”
The boy hesitated, staring at her.
“I’ll never go home,” he said.
“What are you talking about? No one lives here!”
He glared at her, hostility in his eyes.
“Where do you live?”
The boy had vanished.
Nancy stepped out of the car to look around.
“Hey! Enough with the jokes!”
Only silence answered her.
“No, really… I’m not leaving you here… Hey!” she called out.
She walked up to one of the motel room windows and peeked inside. The room was charred, nearly empty. There was a large bed, stripped of sheets and blankets. Squinting, she noticed a mattress stained with blood.
As she scanned the room, her eyes landed on a small picture frame sitting on a nightstand. A photo of a man, a woman, and a child who looked eerily like…
Panicked, she bolted back to the car, jumped in, and sped off. As she drove, she struggled to catch her breath. A quick glance in the rearview mirror made her heart leap.
The boy was sitting in the back seat.
“Ah!” she screamed, terrified.
She lost control of the car, which crashed into a tree...
The next morning, Sheriff Douglas Shelby arrived at the accident scene. His deputy, Jacob Piotrowski, and a ballistics expert were already there.
“Did you find anything?” Shelby asked.
“No, Doug. Nothing at all,” Piotrowski replied.
“No body. No signs of a struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints. Nothing. It’s almost too clean,” confirmed the ballistics expert.
Shelby tilted his head, silently studying the car’s crumpled hood.
“This woman, Nancy Stevens. She was engaged to your son?”
Piotrowski shivered slightly, rubbing his nose.
“Yeah. They were supposed to get married in September.”
“How did Daniel take it?”
“I don’t know. He’s putting up posters to try and find her.”
Shelby gently placed a hand on his shoulder. The truth was, Piotrowski had never liked Nancy. He saw her as one of them ‒ the rich. She wasn’t humble or struggling like his son. She was a rich girl, the kind who had always got everything she wanted, and she had the looks to match.
“You had a similar case last week, didn’t you?” said a voice suddenly.
Shelby’s eyes widened, and his face darkened with anger.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Holloway,” the man replied, flashing his badge.
Shelby frowned.
“Your badge says you’re with Minneapolis Homicide Squad? What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”
“I’m on vacation, Sheriff.”
Shelby eyed him with contempt.
Clark Holloway had light eyes, chestnut hair, sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and a straight nose. His face was unremarkable, but the natural grace of his movements drew attention.
“You had another case like this, didn’t you?”
Shelby took a deep breath of the warm summer air, then turned toward his car.
“I asked you a question, Sheriff!”
“Yes, that’s right. About a mile and a half up the road.”
Holloway, intrigued, noted that Shelby’s deep, raspy, and slow voice contrasted with his imposing build. There was also a slight Southern twang to his accent.
“You knew the victim, didn’t you?”
Shelby took a step back.
“Yeah. In this town, everybody knows everybody.”
Holloway observed him closely. Shelby met his gaze calmly before speaking again, cutting off his train of thought.
“Are there any connections between the victims?”
“No, not that I know of,” the sheriff replied with a slight shrug.
Holloway nodded.
“What’s your theory?” he asked.
“I don’t have one.”
Holloway gave a faint smile, nodding skeptically, as if he wasn’t sure he believed him.
“I don’t know… A kidnapping? A serial murder? An abduction?”
Holloway studied him, trying to gauge whether he was joking, but Shelby looked serious.
“I didn’t expect such bullshit from a sheriff,” Holloway shot back. “Thanks for your time. Goodbye.”
Half an hour later, on Broadway Avenue, Holloway came across the victim’s fiancé. He was putting up flyers with Nancy Stevens’ photo.
“Daniel Piotrowski?”
The young man turned his head, pushed up his glasses with his thumb, then went back to what he was doing.
“Lieutenant Holloway,” the lieutenant said, flashing his badge. “I’m looking for her too.”
Daniel, now more respectful, stepped back and looked at him as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure.”
They sat at a table in Java Moose, a coffee bar just across the street.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose, where his glasses had left a small red mark, and answered:
“Yesterday. Then I called her cell. She was on her way home. Suddenly, she said, ‘I’ll call you back,’ and she never did.”
“And she didn’t say anything strange or unusual?” asked Holloway.
Daniel shook his head firmly, then replied:
“Not that I can remember.”
Holloway nodded casually before steering the conversation back on track.
“I’ll be straight with you, Daniel. Nancy’s disappearance is strange. So, if you’ve heard anything…”
The young man frowned. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
“What is it?” Holloway asked.
“I can’t tell you anything else.”
Holloway fell silent, watching him closely. Daniel seemed torn between speaking up and keeping quiet. He raised a hand to his temple. Holloway followed the movement of his fingers as he rubbed his head.
“Headache?”
Daniel shook his head, grimacing slightly.
“It’s just that… with these disappearances, people talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“It’s kind of a local legend… A month ago, a couple was killed at the Claridge Motel. They say their eleven-year-old son hitchhikes at night. And anyone who stops to pick him up… vanishes forever.”
Holloway stared at him, speechless. Daniel’s eyes ‒ so gentle when he spoke about Nancy ‒ now glowed with a hard, flinty sharpness.
2
Minneapolis, Minnesota.
On a quiet night, the street slept peacefully, bathed in moonlight reflecting the crimson glow of the setting sun. The faint glow of an old, rusty streetlamp illuminated a two-tone brown and beige 1973 Chrysler Town and Country parked in front of the Forrester house.
The family owned a medium-sized, two-story home built of red brick, following the architectural style of Victorian houses in New England. In the front yard, a small stone path led to the porch steps, which opened onto the entrance. Past the threshold, an oak staircase, intricately carved with twisted patterns, led to the upper floor. If one looked up, they might have caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure appearing in the frame of an oval stained-glass window.
Diane woke up with a start. It wasn’t a disturbing noise that had pulled her from sleep, but a thought. She opened her eyes, and the haze of slumber clouding her mind was swept away by a rush of excitement. Her head rested on her husband's upper arm, trapped in his embrace.
“Wake up, John!”
“Huh? What?”
Diane’s hands were caught between her chest and John’s torso.
“Get up. I heard something.”
“Probably just the house settling,” he mumbled.
“No! It was more than that! Like moaning… almost a chuckle.”
She stopped, afraid to say too much. John hesitated between being annoyed and amused. He finally chose the latter.
“And what do you think it was? Your father Roy playing ghost?”
She shot him with a deadly glare.
“Sorry, honey,” he said.
“I’ve never heard my father moan, let alone sob like a damned soul.”
That was the end of it until a second incident occurred half an hour later.
“I heard noises again, John.”
“Honey, please! We must get up early tomorrow.”
Diane had heard dull thuds, muffled sounds, then a horrible buzzing. After that came a scraping noise, as if something were trying to get out.
John finally admitted that something strange was going on. He got up quickly and walked down the hallway toward the stairs. A sense of unease crept over him. The peaceful feeling that had cradled his sleep was gone.
As he descended the steps, he thought he heard footsteps moving away from him. He approached the living room and froze in front of the slightly open door.
“Andrew! What are you doing up in the middle of the night?”
His eleven-year-old son was playing with a toy car and figurines, yelling “Boom!” as if reenacting a crash. He liked playing alone, without an audience, which seemed normal to his parents. They respected his need to play undisturbed and occasionally overheard snippets of his games, which made them smile.
That night, seeing the boy playing on the floor, John was nonetheless surprised. He wondered if he was truly awake.
Diane had followed him, standing in the doorway, wearing one of his shirts.
“Can I sit with you?” she asked, stepping closer to Andrew.
“I don’t think there’s space for two,” he replied.
She stopped in her tracks and looked at him, her face calm.
“It’s time to sleep now.”
“I’m not done yet.”
Diane noticed a fleeting expression of resignation in Andrew’s eyes.
“You can play again tomorrow. Come on, sweetheart.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Okay.”
He suddenly seemed eager to leave. He stood up quickly, kissed his mother, then climbed the fifteen wooden steps and disappeared into his room, leaving the door open behind him.
Diane peeked through the doorway.
“Good night, sweetheart,” she said in a soft, loving voice.
“Wait, Mom! Read me a story.”
“Sleep now!”
The next morning, a clear blue sky without a single cloud promised a beautiful day. To celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary, John and Diane had planned a weekend getaway to Grand Marais, a small town on the northern shore of Lake Superior.
Leaning casually behind the wheel of his Chrysler, John studied the road map. His piercing, light-colored eyes gave him an air of mystery. His tanned skin, fine features, round face, and heavy limbs made him appear imposing. He ate so little that his complexion had turned pale, his cheeks hollow. At thirty-one, he was a writer and actively collaborated on the programming and adaptation of plays performed at the Guthrie Theater.
Diane, who had just turned thirty, was full of grace. Her blonde, lustrous hair, her forehead, and her face shone brighter and more golden than wheat. Her eyes sparkled so intensely they looked like comets. She had no idea how much she drew attention and compliments ‒ one might say people could see their reflection in her. Well-educated and highly cultured, she was neither a libertine nor a radical, yet she remained an unpredictable woman, sometimes funny, sometimes mysterious.
“Thanks. We really needed these three days,” Diane said, hugging her mother, Rose.
Suddenly, she remembered something and pulled a handwritten note from her handbag.
“Here. These are the instructions for Andrew’s medication.”
Rose nodded knowingly.
“Will you be okay with the TV?” she asked, turning to her father, Roy.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. John explained everything to me.”
Ready to leave, John honked the horn to call his wife. Diane turned to Andrew and whispered, “I love you.” The boy, standing in the doorway, gave a timid smile before stepping back inside.
Andrew was the perfect blend of his parents: his mother’s chestnut hair and blue eyes, and his father’s round face. At his age, most children developed wisdom, tolerance, humor, enthusiasm, and empathy. But Andrew remained shy, withdrawn, closed off, showing no apparent awareness and no signs of puberty.
John honked again.
Diane quickly kissed her mother before jumping into the car.
The Chrysler sped off and disappeared at the end of the street, leaving behind Robbinsdale, a charming haven northwest of the city and the oldest suburb of Minneapolis.
3
At 9:30 AM, the temperature had already reached 77°F. The air was hot and humid. Allergic to air conditioning, John instinctively rolled down the window to breathe in the fresh air. He looked like John Garfield, an American actor of the forties, with his brown hair blowing in the wind and a slight pout.
He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror.
“Didn’t Andrew seem a little off this morning?” he asked.
“I think he was just sad to see us go,” Diane replied.
Her voice betrayed nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. It carried a mix of detachment and self-assurance, an inheritance from her father.
“You think so?”
“Don’t worry! He’s always gotten along well with my parents.”
“I don’t remember what I was like at his age.”
Diane almost burst out laughing.
“Oh, I do… You were into the girls at your middle school.”
“I was shy at his age!” John protested.
He looked at his wife with quiet, joyful confidence. He admired her strength and the way she cared for their son.
No doctor had been able to pinpoint the cause of Andrew’s condition. His troubling behavior unsettled Diane, sometimes leaving her feeling helpless, powerless, unsure of how to properly support him. She would wake up in the night to give him medication for his insomnia. Before bed, she would read him a story or give him a bath. Her maternal instinct had led her to give up her job as a reporter at the Star Tribune to stay by his side. She knew that one day, she would have to acknowledge her limits and hand over his care to a specialized institution ‒ one that could detect warning signs and anticipate his reactions.
As they drove past St. John’s Child Care, the school of his childhood, John’s face stiffened. He recalled the days when he would pace back and forth in the schoolyard, always following the same path…
Reaching a wall, he would pivot on his heel and walk back the other way, repeating the same movement over and over again.
At 4:30 PM, his mother, Veronica, had come to pick him up.
“Your father drank again last night,” she said. “I’m so unhappy.”
Little John had looked at her, weighed down by guilt, unable to help.
“What am I going to do? You need a father, and I must work to support us.”
He looked at her again as she glanced around nervously. Two parents nearby had lowered their heads, likely embarrassed to have overheard their conversation.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m eleven. I can take care of myself.”
Veronica turned just as a police car pulled up. Behind her, the two parents continued their discussion.
“I promise…”
The words stuck in her throat. She swallowed, licked her lips, and tried again.
“I promise to take care of you, whenever I can.”
John’s parents had left Duluth, his hometown, to rebuild their lives in Minneapolis. Their constant arguments often drove John to take refuge in his room, where he would spend entire nights watching black-and-white films.
During the day, after school, he liked wandering through bookstores with Stella Stevens, a classmate, discovering new books. She was the one who introduced him to the great authors of American realist literature. He immersed himself in the worlds of Horace McCoy, John Steinbeck, Henry Miller, as well as poets like Edgar Allan Poe and Dylan Thomas. Their works, filled with emotion, anxiety, and mystery, fueled his hunger for reading.
