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    Fosgate's Game
    Fosgate's Game
    Fosgate's Game
    Ebook78 pages55 minutes

    Fosgate's Game

    By David C. Cassidy

    ()

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    About this ebook

    * 4-time ReadersFavorite.com 5-Star Selection

    "Eloquent and eerie ... this is how a story should be written." - Amazon Reviewer

    "Move over Twilight Zone ... David C. Cassidy may have you beat." - Amazon Reviewer

    "This one will curl your hair." - Amazon Reviewer

    "Deliciously scary." - Amazon Reviewer

    Given the choice, he shouldn't have played Fosgate's Game. Given the choice ... he should have taken death.

    Award-winning author David C. Cassidy invites you to light up a candle and curl up in your favorite reading chair on a cold, blustery night. In this chilling tale of supernatural horror where reality meets The Twilight Zone, nothing is ever as it seems—and nothing can prepare you for the evil that lurks in the hearts of men. Eerie and sinister, Fosgate’s Game is a haunting tale of greed, dark magic, and murder.

    IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY KNIGHT.

    For Chadwick Harlow, a peaceful, easy-going Englishman, after-dinner drinks with his business partner—a ruthless, hard-edged hunter—is a weekly affair. But when casual conversation takes a mysterious and menacing turn into the supernatural, his wits are put to the test in a deadly challenge. Clinging to life but praying for death, Chadwick must summon the will to survive, before all is lost in a terrifying descent into madness.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid C. Cassidy
    Release dateApr 20, 2013
    ISBN9781301586448
    Fosgate's Game
    Author

    David C. Cassidy

    David is an award-winning author, the twisted mind behind several chilling books of horror and suspense. His supernatural thriller, The Dark, won the Independent Book Publishers Award and ReadersFavorite.com Award in horror fiction. If you love horror with unforgettable characters in epic stories that draw you in and won't let go—stories that haunt you long after the final page—then check out his incredibly rich storytelling.A busy little bee, this Canadian writer is also an accomplished photographer and Photoshop wiz—and a half-decent juggler. An avid amateur astronomer, he loves the night sky, chasing the stars with a telescope. Sometimes he eats.

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      Book preview

      Fosgate's Game - David C. Cassidy

      ~ 1

      Given the choice, he shouldn’t have played Fosgate’s Game.

      Given the choice … he should have taken death.

      ~

      The devil’s hand, Chadwick Harlow whispered.

      He stood at the tall windows overlooking the east lawn. He was anxious. His gastric ulcer had been acting up, and was certain to grow worse should things regress outdoors. Storms had a way of upsetting him, and by the grim sound of the rising thunder, he’d be racing for the lavatory by night’s end.

      He checked his flap pocket and produced a small container of antacids. Upon considering one, he slipped them back and patted them reassuringly. Five left. They would have to be enough.

      His eyes bolted to the southwest window. A lasting burst of lightning lit up the expansive study, illuminating an impressive library and an equally impressive array of rifles and pistols in glass cabinets. Above the weapons, mounted and morbid, lay eternal testaments to their lethal hand: heads of Canadian elk and grizzly; trophies of lion and buffalo from the Luangwa Valley in Zambia; fifty-five pound tusks from an elephant hunt in the Matesti area of Zimbabwe; a leopard from South Africa. It mattered little that he had seen them countless times. In this stark late-evening light they were even more grisly than in the comfort of the day. A peaceful sort, he had never understood how anyone, least of all educated men, could muster the will to take an animal’s life. Hunting for food he could appreciate. But for sport? It was criminal.

      Don’t lose your bottle, Fosgate Harrod grumbled. He looked quite comfortable in his black leather chair by the glowing hearth. Sadly overweight but still fit despite his years, he could likely wrestle a tiger to the ground. Certainly he possessed the demeanor.

      Fosgate’s fat fingers hugged the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe. You’re sixty-six, old boy. You’d think by now you’d be over such boyhood nonsense. As he drew on the curved stem, his fleshy jowls stirred. His olive right eye, a dark thing that had always frightened Chadwick even as a child, twitched behind a thin monocle. The eyepiece was more affectation than utilitarian, an admission of which Fosgate would never submit.

      Chadwick shifted along the window and made an effort not to get too close. Thunder and lightning were unpredictable beasts that terrified him, so much so he would purposely switch channels during weather reports on television, or pop in a compact disc in his Mercedes’ sound system should the need arise. If there was anything more unsettling than actually being caught in a thunderstorm, it was the unnerving strain of the impending event. Another flash of lightning sent him quickly to his chair.

      He turned to his host. I don’t believe my father, God rest him, would appreciate your lack of respect for nature’s power. If he were here—

      We’d share a fine laugh at your expense, Fosgate snapped.

      Chadwick kept silent. Rebuttal was fruitless, for it wasn’t the first time they’d sparred over his phobias. Surely it would not be the last.

      Fosgate rose and drew heavily on his pipe. Chadwick studied him. The man held that spark in his eye, the one he had seen—and feared—in innumerable get-togethers: the cold stark stare of the hunter. Still, it seemed fitting, given the tack the evening had taken. The old bugger had been positively mad. He had chalked it up to the cognac, but a part of him still wondered if this bizarre chatter was serious.

      Fosgate exhaled, the robust aroma of his English blend overpowering the immediate vicinity. Chadwick detested the foul smell.

      Do you disagree? Fosgate baited, getting back to this strangest of conversations. Come, now. Admit it. You’re positively seething beneath that dry exterior.

      Chadwick hesitated, as his constitution dictated. He checked the clock on the mantel. How he longed to leave this nonsense behind. Do you take me the fool, Fosgate? This strains the absurd.

      "Hear me out. There are men of this Earth … naive men … who would have us believe we’re all playing on the same pitch. That we’re all bloody equal. Do you truly subscribe to that?"

      Chadwick sipped his cognac. The conversation had taken its eventual bad turn. It was now just a matter of course that Fosgate would work himself into a mild frenzy over the Muslim and Jew.

      Fosgate turned to Willoughby, his faithful manservant of thirty-four years. Leave us. He motioned with his pipe. And be sure to lock the front doors on your way. Missed them last night, eh?

      The valet freshened their drinks, capped the cognac and returned it to an attractive cabinet

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