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 “Talberts Plunge” is a short horror novel about a writer named Talbert Massey, most call him Tal, whose wife gives birth to a child whose soul is owned by Satan himself. The child, ironically named Christian, was born prematurely his birthing process was altered by an evil man named Mishok. Tal rejected by the child’s mother, Ruthie, at the hospital and from that cold February night forward experienced many strange and horrifying events. One in particular occurred in the infant’s bedroom before mother and child arrived home from the hospital. The room became a deep freeze and a creature was laying the baby’s crib.
Mishok grooms young Christian for replacing him as a Crosser. A Crosser is an individual chosen by evil that crosses between this world and the Netherworld. Mishok teaches Christian not only how to cross, but he also teaches the young boy how to be a shape shifter. Christian loves his new purpose and his new talents. He chooses to change into a Hyena. Not your garden variety of Hyena, but an ancient variety that tolerates frigid weather and loves to rip the entrails out of other creatures.
“Talbert’s Plunge” takes many twisted paths to reach its crescendo. The ending leaves the reader with a bitter taste of evil in his/her mouth.
INTRODUCTION
The river poured itself into another as I sat on my raggedy porch chair and watched the sun creep its way into shadows. This is my third porch chair in as many years. I call it a porch, but really it’s just a salvaged piece of 5/8 inch plywood settling itself below the back door of my trailer, just another jewel embedded in the riverbank. My back porch floated to my little cove about two months ago and the natural law of river residents is finders keepers.
My trailer is one of those HollyHill models from 1949. The tires are flat and I don’t recall when they weren’t flat. Char and I live in the second trailer of three. When I look out my window I see a HollyHill wagon train obtusely placed just off the flood zone of the Wabash River. My neighbors are mirrors of me. James Wilter on the east and Bunky Hall on the west. I’ve known Bunky since high school and James I don’t know at all. I say I don’t know him, but I do. I just haven’t known him for very long, maybe two years. Two years on the river is only a pause.
Char sniffs at the heavy river air, perks his ears, and curls deeper within himself. He is a contortionist like most cats. His predecessor, Greaser, used to sleep upside down on a nearby tree stump, rotted now, with one eye on the local squirrels and one eye closed, engaged in some sort of cat dream. Bunky has an old black Labrador, Earl. Has to be fourteen-years-old, that dog. James says he "ain’t got no use for a fuckin’ mutt." I say James ain’t never got use for anything except the Jerry Springer Show. Bunky swears James gets off on watchin’ those lesbians slug each other in the tits. Me, I just think James likes a good fight of any kind.
I suppose you’re like everyone else. You want to know my story. What wild crock of shit do I plan on trying to feed you? Thing is, it’s not a crock of shit. It’s the god-awful truth and it all began 47 years ago when my wife Ruthie gave birth to our son Christian. Ironic that his name was Christian, because what I’m about to tell you has nothing Christian in it. It scares me to tell it and after you hear it you’ll be scared too.
You’ll wish you never heard any of this. You’ll pull the covers of your bed over your head and you’ll hide from the night. You’ll hide from the horror of reality, from the horror, cat-like and creeping up your spine. I think Char knows such horror and I’m sure Greaser knew it too, he was there. He saw the blood and felt the vibration that only death can leave surging through your body after you’ve seen it, after you’ve smelled it.
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