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    I'll Be Damned
    I'll Be Damned
    I'll Be Damned
    Ebook56 pages52 minutes

    I'll Be Damned

    By Andrew Hannon

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Summer, suburban American, the early 1970s. It's Joe Henry's ninth birthday. It's the day he gets a bike. It's the day his older, bed-bound brother hurls himself through his bedroom window, shortly after having attacked and paralyzed a priest.

    And so begins Joe Henry's deviation from what should have been a normal childhood into an epic journey which will take him to some very dark places, in our world and beyond.

    A unique take on the terrifying horror genre of demonic possession from Andrew Hannon, the international bestselling editor of the 13Horror anthology series.

    Enjoy Part One.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAndrew Hannon
    Release dateJan 15, 2015
    ISBN9781310458170
    I'll Be Damned
    Author

    Andrew Hannon

    Andrew Hannon was born and raised in London. He is the contributing editor of the Thirteen Horror anthologies, which have topped the Amazon and iTunes horror charts in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Australia.Andrew is a two-time finalist in the Hollywood Screenplay Contest and is the Competition Director of the 13Horror.com Film & Screenplay Contest. His horror stage play will begin touring in 2019.

    Read more from Andrew Hannon

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      Book preview

      I'll Be Damned - Andrew Hannon

      Part One

      Happy Birthday

      1

      Joe Henry would never forget his ninth birthday. It was the day his uncle Ray gave him a vintage red 1967 Schwinn Stingray. Later that afternoon, his older brother hurled himself through his third-floor bedroom window to his death on the driveway below, shortly after having paralyzed a priest.

      Uncle Ray’s visit that June morning had been something of a surprise. He hadn’t stopped by the Henry residence on Queensbury Road, Riverdale, for weeks. No-one had been stopping by really, not since Michael had started getting really sick and Joe’s mom had asked people to please just stay away until he got better. No-one stopping by, that was, except for Father Clifford and Father Hall, who would arrive at the house already looking flustered and harried and then leave, often several hours later, looking even more so. Michael’s shouted insults and horrible, ratchetty laughter from the top of the house would, more often than not, follow them all the way out the front door while Joe’s mom sobbed and his dad fidgeted uncomfortably with his big, forever greasy, mechanic’s hands.

      The Henry’s kitchen, usually kept meticulously clean by Joe’s mom (but not so much on that Saturday morning... not so much for the past few weeks actually, with the plates sometimes stacking up for two or three days before they got washed and put away), was at the front corner of the house, facing out south onto Queensbury Road and south-east onto one of the Riverdale Police Department buildings through the low branches of the ash tree on the shared corner of Taylor Road. Joe was sat at the kitchen counter that morning, pyjama-clad legs dangling from the high-stool, looking out into the street through bleary eyes while he slowly and unenthusiastically shovelled Buc Wheats cereal into his mouth.

      Joe’s favourite cereal was Boo Berry, but his mom had stopped buying that recently. He knew why. With all the weird stuff happening at home, even the cartoon image of the blue and white Boo Berry ghost, with its red bow tie and its yellow and red hat, was too much for her.

      And maybe it would have been too much for Joe at that stage too, although he wouldn’t admit to himself that that might be the case.

      So it was Buc Wheats for breakfast. Which Joe didn’t really like. But even at eight years old – no, nine, he was nine now, he reminded himself as he took in another spoonful of the maple-flavored flakes - he knew better than to mention it, or God forbid to complain about it. Not now with all that was happening.

      Behind him, Joe could hear someone descending the stairs. He guessed it was his mom because dad had already gone to work a couple of hours ago (he was working most Saturdays back then) and Michael... well, Michael didn’t come downstairs anymore, obviously. Joe turned around to look and when his mom entered the kitchen wearing her faded yellow dressing gown, her hair unkempt and her eyes bloodshot, he offered her a weak smile, which she somehow managed to return. Joe turned back to face the window while his mom moved sluggishly around the kitchen. He heard her turn the tap on and fill the stove top kettle for her coffee.

      You look tired, honey, Joe’s mom said, sounding far more tired than even he felt.

      I’m okay, Joe lied.

      He had barely slept a wink last night on the living room couch, which had been doubling up as his bed for the past few nights, complete with his DC Comics bed sheets. How was he supposed to sleep? The shouting and banging from the top floor of the house had been almost non-stop, from eleven o’clock the previous night until just after sunrise a little before six o’clock that morning with very few reprieves in which sleep was possible. It had been the worst night yet. Even when it finally eased off into a still but ominously pregnant silence, Joe felt sure it would start up again any minute, so he had lain there under Superman and Batman and the Green Lantern, wanting desperately to sleep but just not able to.

      Joe’s dad had come tiptoeing downstairs, Joe guessed at about a quarter to eight, and made himself some toast in the kitchen.

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