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    The Mansion on Pike Lane
    The Mansion on Pike Lane
    The Mansion on Pike Lane
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    The Mansion on Pike Lane

    By Tony Masero

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    About this ebook

    A gripping Horror/Thriller from the new master of macabre.
    Three outlaw bikers and their girl find the old deserted Mansion on Pike Lane offers a safe haven to hang out and enjoy some questionable products and party time. Their activities though, are arousing other inhabitants, darker creatures that had first call on the place.
    In the shadowy maze of the ruined rooms, forgotten beings are rising up with a need to hunt for nourishment and propagate if their species are to survive. The unsuspecting visitors will have to avoid a blood bath if they are to escape the grip of the entities whose savage powers are archaic and mysterious. It will require a fully armed force of the outlaw gang if they are to confront the awesome powers of the mythic creatures.... But even that may not be enough.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTony Masero
    Release dateJul 14, 2019
    ISBN9780463519004
    The Mansion on Pike Lane
    Author

    Tony Masero

    It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

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      Book preview

      The Mansion on Pike Lane - Tony Masero

      The Mansion on Pike Lane

      Tony Masero

      WRITING AS HANSEL LYME

      Three outlaw bikers and their girl find the old deserted Mansion on Pike Lane offers a safe haven to hang out and enjoy some questionable products and party time. Their activities though, are arousing other inhabitants, darker creatures that had first call on the place.

      In the shadowy maze of the ruined rooms, forgotten beings are rising up with a need to hunt for nourishment and propagate if their species are to survive. The unsuspecting visitors will have to avoid a blood bath if they are to escape the grip of the entities whose savage powers are archaic and mysterious. It will require a fully armed force of the outlaw gang if they are to confront the awesome powers of the mythic creatures…. But even that may not be enough.

      Copyright © 2019 by Tony Masero

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

      Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

      Cover Illustration by Tony Masero

      Smashwords Edition

      Chapter One

      It was that time of year when the night’s draw in. The dark sky was clear of cloud and allowed the almost full moon to shine brightly and christen the air with a chill bite.

      The sign said ‘A Bright New Future Beckons.’

      But that was a lie.

      The smaller one underneath printed in red was nearer the mark, it read ‘Condemned. Danger. Do not Enter.’ The warning was followed by a string of violation penalties and under that an unnamed Building Department Official had signed it. The notice had looked imposing originally but the shine had worn off over the years and most of the warning was now only a weather beaten relic almost faded into obscurity. Rather like the sad dwellings it reflected upon.

      Ignored and avoided for so long, the houses had slowly crumbled along the deserted dead-end street called Pike Lane but now something unforeseen was stirring under the loosened tiles of The Mansion.

      They had arrived unnoticed early in the sombre November evening and now their row of propped motorcycles popped gently as the pipes cooled. The three cruiser bikes stood racked in the empty road outside the slanted iron gateway to the weed-infested driveway and glittered brightly in contrast to their mouldering surroundings. The Pike Lane Redevelopment Project was on hold as it had been for over fifteen years now. With the economic collapse, investors had faded and interest was lost in what had fast become a liability for the local custodial officers. Now the long lane was completely deserted of human habitation and most of the crumbling homes that had once housed wealthy families had fallen so far into disrepair that only the walls remained. The structures still standing were shuttered and boarded, the status of the old brick built buildings long since deemed unsafe for habitation by the local authorities. The few that still stood intact were empty and desolate and seemed to languish in humble obedience as if they were a long line of melancholy mendicants waiting on attendance to the looming edifice at the far end of the Pike Lane.

      In the 1900’s the mansion had been a spritely place, home to wealthy politicians and privileged industrialists but that had been long ago and now, along with the decomposing homes along the lane, the stark leafless trees that surrounded the forgotten sidewalk were overgrown and un-pruned, their twisted and bony branches clawing skywards plaintively, as if searching for some kind of redemption.

      It was a place where nobody came to walk amongst the dead leaves except those in need of secrecy.

      Klingon was the coolest of the three men in the gloomy room.

      Always dressed in his patched leathers with the torn and greasy bikers jacket hung around his slender frame as a mark of esteem. His pinched features were bulked out only by a bushy beard and frizzed hair that surrounded the hooded and hard eyes. Skinny ankles poked out from his torn jeans and filled a pair of heavy black work boots. There was something scarecrow about him but appearances can be deceptive. A quietly spoken man, normally with an aura of careless indifference, he somehow managed to carry the mantle of both born leader and dangerous predator all in one loose package.

      They were in the deserted and melancholy building set alone at the furthest point of the dark lane. Once it had been a mansion of sorts and elements of its ancient splendour still lingered in tired corners where now, skeletal lathe showed through ruined plaster and damp patches slid across the walls in ugly shades of festering brown.

      The stale air inside was rich with a fug of marijuana smoke and the four occupants lounged dreamily in the haze.

      Out of habit or some sense of comfort, they gathered around the fireplace in what had once been a large drawing room. It was a relic of collective memory, this hugging close to an empty fireplace. A genetic impulse from prehistoric times still lingering in their modern minds. Dead now, the black fire bed had once hosted logs of gargantuan size and the surround was an elegant pale-white Adam’s style marble fixture with a wide sill that was littered with an array of dusty rubbish.

      Dripping stalactites of used candle stubs, empty beer cans and upended cork tipped cigarette butts populated the shelf, standing like rows of mourners in silent memory of past debauches. The moribund objects inhabited a territory where once, now long gone, a great golden ormolu clock had methodically ticked away the minutes of an idle and wealthy existence. A huge mirror hung above, fixed to the wall by its Rococo style cast-iron frame, the gold veneer had flaked away and almost given in completely to the rust bubbling up from below. The silvering behind the glass was spotted and ravaged by age so that now the reflection of the few burning candles in the room was a mere misty simulation. The iron frame and inch-thick plate glass were set into the wall deeply and had proved too heavy and too difficult for past visitors to carry off, but vain attempts still scarred the empty walls in crude white gouges that marked the plaster.

      Right now, the red haired hanger-on nicknamed ‘Copperhead’ was foolishly taunting Klingon. Copperhead had that way when he’d smoked a little too much and snorted a few too many lines.

      Klingon fixed his pallid blue eyes on Copperhead where he lounged on a stained mattress garnished from one of the other rooms.

      ‘The trouble with you, Copperhead,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Is that you just want to be hurt.’

      ‘Who me?’ sneered Copperhead with a huff of laughter. ‘By you?’

      Cartridge, the third biker, watched the others with mild interest. Another leather jacketed and faithful follower of Klingon’s and to all appearances a Nordic warrior from some Viking past. With his full pale blonde beard and long head of yellow hair, he followed his leader as dutifully as any loyal devotee, in a role in which he secretly saw himself as trusted lieutenant.

      Cartridge had experienced Klingon’s ability for cool authorship on many escapades in the past. Although not too bright, he recognised Klingon’s astute mind and was grateful for the help he had received from him when things had gone awry with the darker forces in the drug world they both inhabited. He knew now, from all that experience, that behind Klingon’s apparent calm a dangerous pinpoint of anger was stirring. Yet his interest was no more than mild, as he already knew what the outcome would be. Idly he watched the foreplay and toyed with the belt of empty brass cartridge casings that circled his waist and gave him his nickname.

      ‘Hurt by you, huh?’ Copperhead pressed. ‘Is that what you mean?’

      ‘By anybody,’ replied Klingon calmly.

      The thin girl on Copperhead’s shoulder sniffed her runny nose and snuggled closer, wrapping her arm through his and curling her legs up under herself. She was young, a pale creature with ratty, luminously green dyed hair and a tattooed and emaciated body that was for sale to anybody with

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