I do not have the Columbo copyright. This is fan-fiction; the first of a series of short stories, with the emphasis not on the murder, but the final meeting of Columbo and the murderer, when all is made clear; When the Lieutenant Proclaims the Jig Is Up!

If you enjoy this short story, and have any insight as to how one may obtain the rights to publish a Columbo book of short stories, please email me at DW@douglaswentworth.com. I would be most grateful.

And now, my first Columbo short story: It All Comes Out In the Wash

Mary Alyce Albryce was a dainty old lady. Weighing in at eighty pounds, soaking wet, she did not project the persona of a formidable opponent. She spent her days attending to her award-winning garden, writing poetry, then, after an early lunch, she’d faithfully attend to the family laundry. And there was plenty of it, for Mary lived with four grandchildren in a Bel Air, Spanish-Revival home, nestled in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains.

But to Mary’s new neighbor, Glen Sedland, she was a Goliath, a giant to be slayed. For Sedland’s property abutted Mary’s and, hoping to avoid a legal conflict, he had a discussion with Mary, detailing his plans for a new fence and guest house close to their common boundary.

When Mary examined the plans, she explained that, under California law, structures and fences cannot be higher than ten feet, without a specific purpose. She was very apologetic, stating that even though it appeared his proposed structure met the criteria of a ‘specific purpose’, she was afraid it would block the much-needed sunlight for her world-renowned garden. Thus, she would fight the proposal, in court, if necessary. Sedland furiously pondered the best way to handle this refusal. Should he argue with her vehemently? Wait to consult with some high-priced lawyers? Wait a moment, he thought. It will be quicker, and much less expensive, to remove the obstacle: the little old lady that had just dared to say ‘no’.

Sedland assured Mary that he would rethink the structure; that he only wanted to please her. And now it was time to grease the wheels of his plan to bulldoze through her rejection.

On weekdays, when the grandchildren were in school, Glen ingratiated himself into Mary’s daily chores. He’d point out the weeds in the garden, listen with ‘rapt’ attention to her poems, and force himself to not show hunger after eating the standard, sparse lunch of salad and salmon croquettes. And every day, at noon, stating his work was beckoning, he’d bid Mary, adieu.

As Sedland strolled back to his own mansion, he’d review what he had learned; that Mary’s only daughter died two years ago, that the grandchildren left for school at seven in the morning, that they did not return until four P.M., and that Mary did not have daytime visitors; she spoke by phone with her friends after dinner while the grandchildren cleaned house.  But most importantly, Glen had full knowledge of Mary’s security system, for Glen had feigned ignorance of the best system to install, and Mary gladly explained, in minutia, how her security system worked. He almost jumped for joy when he discovered her system’s weakness: the lack of full video and audio coverage indoors (“for the privacy of my grandchildren, you understand”), and the blind spots of the exterior cameras.

By the end of week one, Sedland had the layout of the house down pat, and a twisted plot of murder had formed.

And on the first Friday in July, on a blazingly hot, Los Angeles, day, Mary Alyce Albryce was shot through the heart and died instantly. It would be up to Lieutenant Columbo, of the homicide division of the Los Angeles Police Department, to crack the case.

                                                                                    ***

Three days later…

Glen Sedland walked like a man with a purpose into Mary’s kitchen. He was sick of the accusations that floated under the surface of Columbo’s ocean of innuendo.  He roughly pushed aside a few patrolmen and strode up to the Lieutenant.

“Columbo. Did I not make myself clear that I had nothing to do with this, this murder?”, proclaimed Sedland with controlled anger. “You’ve bothered me at work, at my tennis club, and just interrupted a lunch with a potential client. I’m contemplating a discussion with your superiors. And your dismissal will be my first topic of conversation.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.” stated Columbo as he raised his hand, as if to stop the onslaught of words. Then, with a squint of his eyes and an exhalation of cigar smoke, he continued.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Mary Alyce Albryce.”

Sedland emitted a one-note burst of laughter. “This I gotta hear. You have no proof, no proof at all, that I did anything except spend the first half of the day with her. I left right after lunch. The security tapes prove that.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, sir. The idea of faking a lunch was brilliant. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My wife says I always do that. Please, sir. Take a seat. This has been quite puzzling. Oh, very puzzling indeed.”

The chair that was pulled roughly from the table groaned as Sedland slammed his weight into it. He looked at his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes, Columbo.”

“It may take ten, sir,” said the Lieutenant, grinning sardonically.

“Here’s how I figure it. You knew there were ways to get in and out of this house without being seen. You used that to your advantage. I give you credit for that, sir. On the day of the murder, you showed up at nine A.M., like you always did. You spent some time in the garden, had a glass of lemonade under the gazebo as you listened to some poetry, then you headed in for lunch.”

“No kidding. I attested to that in my sworn statement.”

“But you never had a lunch, sir. Oh, you did a good job faking you had one. But you didn’t have a lunch because you had to kill Mrs. Albryce at 11:00am, to give yourself time to then set the scene and still make it to your office, to get to work, sir.  And you knew that if Mrs. Albryce didn’t eat something, it would show in the autopsy.”

The Lieutenant paused and shook his head, sadly.

“So you forced that kind, gentle old lady to take a few bites. We found a fork with her prints and, oh yes, we found plates in the sink, covered with some crumbs of salmon croquettes and bits of salad. But you know what we couldn’t find on them, sir? A second set of fingerprints. We could only find one set! And yet you stated that Mrs. Albryce would take the plates from the shelf, place them on the counter to be filled with food, and placed on the table for you to eat. Yet all we can find are one set of prints!”

The one-note burst of laughter again, but this time continuing like the machine gun fire for a full minute.

“Columbo, you old fool,” cooed Sedland as he wiped tears away from his cheek. “You need to find a “Detective for Dummies’ book or something. You just said it. She took plates from the shelf, she placed them on the counter, she loaded them with food, and she alone placed them on the table. I never touched them, that’s why you only found Mrs. Albryce’s prints on the plates.”

Columbo put his hand to his forehead; cigar ash falling to the floor. “Oh, I’m not talking about Mrs. Albryce’s prints.”

 “You’re not?” Sedland’s mouth suddenly became very dry.

“No, oh, no, sir. We didn’t find any of her fingerprints on the plates. We found one set of her grandchildren’s fingerprints on the plate. You see, sir, after dinner, the grandkids would clean up and put the day’s plates in the dishwasher. In the morning, before leaving for school, one of them, in this case, Amy, would take the dishes out and stack them on the shelf, depositing one set of fingerprints, the ones we found. But if Mrs. Albryce served you lunch, her fingerprints would’ve been on them also. And they weren’t. And do you know why, sir? Because you were wearing gloves when you staged the lunch scene.”

Sedland’s lower lip began to shake involuntarily. “She, uh, well, uh, she had her gardening gloves on. Yes! That’s it, her gardening gloves. Whew, Columbo you had me going for a moment, but you still have nothing.”

“Oh, I may have something, sir. May I go on? After you forced a defenseless woman to eat some food, you shot her. Even though you used a silencer, some of the outside cameras still picked up a slight sound, at exactly eleven ten A.M. You were hoping the extreme heat of the day would cloud the time of death; as the body would still be very warm at two P.M., the time you were hoping we would peg as the time of the murder. The time you would have a rock-solid alibi by some unsuspecting client, in your office, ten miles away.”

“But I do have that alibi. The client swears to it.” Sedland stood up so fast that his chair slid back about five feet; crashing into the stainless-steel refrigerator. “When you can refute that, you know where to find me.”

Sedland made toward the back door. A uniformed officer stepped in his way. Fuming, Sedland turned toward Columbo.

“Lieutenant, if this man doesn’t move out of my way, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“I promise you’ll be leaving here in a few minutes, sir. Now, where were we? Yes, after shooting Mrs. Albryce, you now had to make it look like she did her Friday afternoon laundry. Now, I know you’re not a homemaker, Mr. Sedland, so I can’t fault you for the mistakes you made here on out with the laundry. I probably would’ve made them also.

“Columbo, I hardly believe that you, or your wife for that matter, have ever seen a washing machine, much less used one.”

Columbo’s eyes narrowed. “Say what you want about me, sir, but I can tell you this, my wife never would’ve made the dumb mistakes you did.” Columbo looked around the room. “Let’s go look at the washing machine. What do you say, fellas?”

Two patrolmen, one on either side of Sedland, guided him into the laundry room, where recent models of both a washing machine and dryer are placed against one wall. 

“I have to hand it to you, sir. Mrs Albryce must have told you over the last three weeks, that she would strip the beds and take the sheets and pillowcases down to the laundry room, collecting all the white towels in various rooms, along the way. Friday was the day for washing whites only. You got that part right, I’ll give you that.”

Columbo walked over to the washer machine and pointed at the display.

“You know, when we arrived on the scene, around ten past four, the first thing I noticed, when I knelt down to look at the washer, was that my hand was resting on the dryer, and yet it wasn’t warm. I opened the door and felt the clothes. Dry as a bone, sir! But not warm. Later, when one of the grandchildren explained Mrs. Albryce’s laundry habits, I learned she usually placed clothes in the dryer around three P.M., and the cycle didn’t finish until around four P.M., and that when the kids took the laundry back to their rooms, it was still warm. As soon as I heard this, I knew that something out of the ordinary had happened.”

“Columbo, people’s habits change all the time. Maybe a neighbor rang the bell for a visit, maybe she made a phone call…”

“No, sir. We checked with the neighbors and the phone company. No, it wasn’t that. May I show you the other mistakes you made?”

If dagger-like eyes could kill, the Lieutenant would’ve been a dead man.

“You made two mistakes with the wash. You see, when I looked at the washer, I noticed a small light on the panel was lit. I had to check the manual, I found it right over there, sir.  And I found that light was the ‘Suds’ alert, meaning too much detergent had been added. You might not know this, sir, but these new machines, oh, they’re not like the old ones! Like the ones I grew up with. Oh no. With these new ones, you don’t need to add detergent! Oh, you do, but not all the time. There’s a container built into the machine, built into it, sir! You fill the container with liquid detergent, and the machine will release the proper amount for every load. You didn’t know this. How could you? So when you added powdered detergent, you inadvertently overloaded the machine.”

The Lieutenant glanced over at Sedland, who was now chewing his lower lip. Sedland’s reply dripped with contempt. “Go on. Let me hear the rest of your fairytale.”

“Oh, just one more thing, sir, one more thing.  When I opened the washer, I noticed something.”

“Pray tell, what was that?”

“There was no smell of bleach.”

Glen looked heavenward. “And what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, sir. When you wash whites, at least when Mrs. Albryce did, she added bleach. You know, to sanitize, to kill the germs! You can’t miss the smell, sir. When my wife does the whites, oh, you can smell bleach everywhere.”

A gleam of hope leapt into Sedland’s eyes. “Wait a minute, Columbo. I can see it from here. Yes, there! There it is! A ‘sanitize’ setting on the washing machine’s control panel. I bet she used that! Shove that in your stinking cigar and smoke it.”

“No, sir,” said Columbo contritely. “She never used that setting.”

Sedland exploded. “Now how the hell do you know that?”

“We had a technician come onsite, sir; to confirm that bleach wasn’t used, and to confirm that too much detergent had been added. He told us, sir. He told us the sanitize setting was never used.”

“And what was he, Nostradamus, or a Ouija board expert?

“No, sir, just a technician. He showed me the washing machine’s app on Mrs. Albryce’s smart phone. Can you believe it, sir? Your phone can talk to these new washing machines! I couldn’t believe it, but there it was, plain as day, the time that you ran this particular wash. It was at eleven twenty A.M., sir. The same time you claimed you were both eating lunch.”

Columbo looked Sedland straight in the eye. “You killed her, set up a fake lunch scene. Ran a wash cycle. You then left the house, purposely taking the route that showed clearly on an exterior security camera, so it would look, for all the world to see, that you left here right after lunch. We have clear video of you, in T-shirt and shorts, leaving the premises.”

“I told you that.”

“But we know that you came back later. You had to, sir. You had to throw the wash in the dryer, so it would look like Mrs. Albryce finished the laundry. And when you came back, you were wearing a suit, you were dressed for work. But this time, when you came to the house, you took a back route that cuts through the garden, a route with no security cameras. You came into a door you had previously unlocked, threw the clothes in the dryer, started it, and left by the same route. You then got in your car and drove to work.”

Sedland stared at the ground, unseeing, for a full minute, then lifted his head. He slowly rotated it, left to right, looking at everyone in the room. “I just thought of something. If I were a juror, I may believe your cock and bull story, but I still wouldn’t have any hard evidence that Mr. Glen James Sedland, came back to this house, after he was clearly seen leaving it.”

The Lieutenant slapped himself on the forehead. “That’s my fault, sir. I forgot to mention one thing. Remember when I came to your office that afternoon, told you about your neighbor’s murder? You even stated that you knew when I told you about Mrs. Albryce’s death that you would be a suspect, as you had spent time with her every weekday for the past month. Well, remember when I saw your suit jacket hanging up, and I touched the sleeve and told you I’d never felt such comfortable cloth?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, sir, I had noticed a fragment of a cream-colored petal on your sleeve. I couldn’t miss it! I see those types of petals all the time. My wife. My wife, sir, she loves sweat pea flowers. Purple, red, pink. Oh, you name it, sir, my wife has them. And I’m always cleaning up petals. And I saw one stuck to your cuff.”

“Columbo. When you entered my office building, did you happen to notice we have commercial grade planters in the lobby and common areas?” Sedland waved his hands all around. “For God’s sake we even have planters in this room! There loaded with all types of flowers!”

“Oh, yes, yes, sir. I noticed all the various plants in the planters, yes. But the fragment on your sleeve, sir, I had that examined.” The Lieutenant reached into his pocket and pulled out a small polyethylene bag. “I have it right here, sir. See that petal fragment, in the bag? That fragment, it’s from a particular flowering plant, the Ventura Marsh Mikvetch.”

“So what?”

“It only grows in three places in California, sir. Three places! That’s how rare, how endangered it is!”

The fight has drained out of Sedland. “Three places?”

“Oh yes, sir. The other two are hundreds of miles away.  Mrs. Albryce’s garden won an award because of it. She probably mentioned it to you, sir. But your mind wasn’t on endangered flowers as you stood in that garden, the past three weeks, was it?”

Sedland shook his head. “A perfect plan ruined by a dying breed of flower. What a waste.”

“Oh, I agree with you, sir. You wanted to build on your land so badly, that you wasted the life of a lovely old lady and ruined the lives of four devoted grandchildren.”

Columbo motioned to one of the patrolmen. “Officer.”

The patrolman already had the cuffs in his hands.

The post Columbo: It All Comes Out in the Wash appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

In January, 2021, my wife and I watched ‘Race for Life’, (an episode from the TV series, KNIGHT RIDER) in which a young patient is overjoyed to meet, and speak, with K.I.T.T., the crime-fighting, supercar.  I thought it would great to bring a K.I.T.T. replica to my place of work, Boston Children’s Hospital, and have it meet and greet patients. I realized children may not be familiar with K.I.T.T., so created a video of K.I.T.T.s most impressive stunts, and it will play, in a loop, on an iPad, situated next to K.I.T.T. when on display. Plus, with a new movie now in the works, K.I.T.T. will soon become famous all over again.

For now, to see some of K.I.T.T.’s great stunts, you can view a great video by Mahesh Walatara which I’d like share:

I thought it would be wonderful if I could have the original voice of K.I.T.T., actor William Daniels, record specific lines for this endeavor. So I contacted his manager, Sandy Joseph, and she set everything in motion that resulted in Mr. Daniels generously donating his time and talents to record the voice of K.I.T.T. once again. All I had to do was pay for the recording session, which I proudly and gladly did. Once those voice files were in my possession, I set out looking for a car that could be transformed into K.I.T.T., which was based on a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am.

After weeks of searching, on March 30th, 2021, I purchased a 1990 Pontiac Firebird, to act as the ‘donor’ car. Here it is being delivered on April 3rd, 2021.

You can see a video of the car here:

Thank you to Coty LeBlanc, of Driven Auto in Hudson, NH. Not only did Coty sell the car at a very fair price, he took the time to bring it to my mechanics (shout out to everyone at Silver Arrow Service, one of the best service centers you’ll ever find) for the pre-sale inspection, and again for some needed repairs. Coty even delivered the car to me in Wakefield, MA, and, on top of that, he donated a very generous sum to this endeavor.

While waiting for all the body parts to come in, I noticed the car was stalling constantly. Luckily, Steve at Automated Transmission in Methuen MA, diagnosed the problem and the car now runs beautifully.

I must take this opportunity to thank Albrecht Auto Group and Woburn Foreign Auto Body, for providing thousands of dollars worth of paint and body work, without which, K.I.T.T. would not have been within my financial boundaries. 

And I would like to thank FinishMaster, for donating thousands of dollars in paint supplies.

I am forever grateful.

The reason for this campaign is simple. I’d like to keep K.I.T.T. meeting hospitalized children for years to come. And though I’m taking all precautions to keep K.I.T.T. in tip-top shape (security cams, GPS alarm system, rear back up and cross traffic alert system, a roped off display area, so fingernails, rings and watches won’t mar the paint, etc.), the cost of keeping a vintage vehicle on the road, over time, will be significant. Any little bit of help would be appreciated.

And thank you to the other companies that helped make this K.I.T.T. a reality.

– KRW Enterprises (TurboCaps, Nose, Scanner, Blackouts, Deflectors)

– Automotive 12v Specialists of Wakefield, MA. Top notch installation of alarm, rear camera, cross traffic alert, and will be installing the scanner and sound boards.

And thank you to the employees of the following organizations that have been so helpful.

– Hawks MotorSports

– The Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles

– Sacchetti Insurance

– Knight Industries of Kentucky

Thank you in advance for your donation!

https://www.gofundme.com/f/KITT4KIDS

The post KITT4KIDS: GoFundMe.com/f/KITT4KIDS appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

His debut novel, STRANDED, (written under the pen name of Douglas Wentworth) won the 2012 Independent Publisher Book Awards-Gold Medal in sci-fi/fantasy. Producer Lane Shefter Bishop, of Vast Entertainment, believed the book had very strong potential to be adapted to the screen. The associated screenplay, co-written with David Hogan, was a finalist in the Stage32 4^th Annual Sci-Fi/Fantasy Competition and optioned by Broadway’s Kenneth Teaton. Frank’s second book, CarnEvil, was the top-rated horror novel in the 2014 Book Pipeline Competition. As Carnival of Evil, it is now a front-facing story for Radish Fiction’s push into the horror genre. Frank’s first short horror story, The Tower, was the Adult Category Winner of the 2015 Saugus.Net Short Horror Story Contest.

Don’t forget to visit the downloads page. There, you’ll be able to view video trailers, download wallpaper, and download free chapters of both novels free.

The post About the Author appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

CarnEvil T-Shirts

CarnEvil Temporary Tattoos are vibrant, full color tattoos that apply easily with water. Kid safe and manufactured with FDA approved ingredients.  Tattoo is 3” x 4”.

Please email dw@douglaswentworth.com for prices and availability.

The post CarnEvil T-Shirts and Tattoos appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

His debut novel, STRANDED, (written under the pen name of Douglas Wentworth) won the 2012 Independent Publisher Book Awards-Gold Medal in sci-fi/fantasy, and the associated screenplay, co-written with David Hogan, was a finalist in the Stage32 4^th Annual Sci-Fi/Fantasy Competition. His second book, CarnEvil, was the top-rated horror novel in the 2014 Book Pipeline Competition. As Carnival of Evil it is now a front-facing story for Radish Fiction’s push into the horror genre.

Frank’s first short story, the nail-biting tale, The Tower (available for free on this site) was awarded top prize in the 2015 Saugus.net Halloween Horror contest.

Don’t forget to visit the downloads page. There, you’ll be able to view video trailers, download wallpaper, and download free chapters of both novels free.

The post About the Author appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

CarnEvil T-Shirts

CarnEvil Temporary Tattoos are vibrant, full color tattoos that apply easily with water. Kid safe and manufactured with FDA approved ingredients.  Tattoo is 3” x 4”.

Please email dw@douglaswentworth.com for prices and availability.

The post CarnEvil T-Shirts and Temporary Tattoos appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

Stranded, the sci-fi thriller screenplay that was co-written with David Hogan, has just been named a finalist in the Stage32 Sci-fi/Fantasy Screenwriting Contest. A shout out to Dave and to Andrew Bell, who inspired Dave and I to write the script.

The post STRANDED screenplay is now a finalist. appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

December, 2007

“Well, what do you think?”

I directed that question to my wife, Jenn, as we stood on the floor of the New England Auto Show. It was a cold, dreary day, but I had been looking forward to the debut of the new 2008 Saab SportCombi Aero XWD, and there it was, gleaming under the lights of the Boston Exhibition Center.

“It’s a wagon,” lamented Jenn.

“But it has an incredible all wheel drive system,” I retorted. “And it has over a hundred more horsepower than our current Saab. Just wait until you drive it!”

As we walked around the car, I took pictures of it from various angles using my iPhone. When we looked at the sticker price, our hearts sank.

“Forty-seven thousand dollars,” my wife exclaimed. “We could never afford this!”

I walked away, dejectedly. But just a few months later, Saab went out of business, and we purchased that car for almost half price. And little did I know, that that car, and the iPhone I used to photograph it, would someday play a part in the most terrifying night of my life.

It happened in January, 2016. Back then, I would drop my dogs off at daycare on my way to work, and Jenn would pick them up on her way home. Since I would arrive home first, I’d use my iPhone’s ‘Find my iPhone‘ feature to track Jenn’s journey. And once I knew her Subaru Outback had turned onto our street, I’d run outside, meet her, and help take the dogs inside.

Well, one night, with the temperature hovering around 32 degrees, and the sky black as coal, I stepped outside to wait and checked my iPhone’s map. The blue dot, representing the Subaru, approached the entrance to our street, then shot past it. At first, I thought Jenn must be heading to a gas station, but when I noticed she passed a few of them, I called her iPhone. No answer.  I watched her head yet farther north, and called again. No answer.  Now she’s miles away from home, distance increasing by the second. The first seed of worry planted itself in my gut.  Something’s wrong. Was she carjacked or something?  No, that’s ridiculous, the dogs are in the car….or are they?

I called the doggie daycare. The dogs were picked up an hour go, they explained. Your wife seemed fine. I hung up. That seed of worry in my gut had now taken root. I called Jenn again. No answer. I bit my lip, then turned and looked at my car. My mind started calculating…

The Saab is equipped with a 280 horsepower, turbo charged engine. It’s a beast; a silver beast that catapults you down the road when the turbo kicks in, yet will navigate turns like it’s on rails.  My wife’s 2010 Subaru Outback, on the other hand, mustered only 170 horsepower.  As a seasoned driver of both cars, I knew that the all-wheel drive systems were comparable, thus I was confident that the Saab would not only catch up to, but be able to overtake, the Subaru, if necessary.  So I jumped in the Saab, placed my iPhone in its mount, and took off.

Once on the secondary road, when it was safe to do so, I brought the turbo into play until I saw the two dots on my iPhone (my car and my wife’s car) begin to inch closer together. Every time I’d pass a crossroad, I’d fear blue lights would appear behind me, forcing me to pull over. Valuable time would be lost. So I’d reign in the Saab when nearing intersections, then give it her head on the open road. Finally, on a deserted stretch of winding black asphalt, I saw the two dots on the mapping screen overlap. Wait a moment. How can this be? There are no other cars on the road!  But I looked to my right, at a small, dark side road. What the hell? There was our Subaru, it’s black hulk parked oddly by side of the road. There weren’t any sidewalks, and the two left wheels were on the edge of a wooded gully; the entire car listing to the left like a boat taking on water.

I pulled over, ran to the car, and found my dogs in the backseat, still belted in. The driver’s door was wide open, but no sign of Jenn. I called her name in every direction. Nothing. Okay, time to call 911. I told the dispatcher what had transpired: abandoned car, wife missing, etc. I hung up and examined the ground by the driver’s door, where I found one of Jenn’s gloves, and her right boot’s heel mark, facing away from the car. Footprints!  If I find others nearby, then maybe I can ascertain if someone forced Jenn from the car! Unfortunately, the leaves, twigs, and sticks, that protruded through the snow, negated that idea. Damn it. Oh well, at least I had a direction to follow, so I engaged my iPhone’s flashlight and started into the dark gully.

I remember it being dead quiet, except for the crunching sound of my feet breaking through the layer of iced snow that had fallen a few days previously. Some light from the main road filtered through the tree-tops, but not enough to brighten the ground. I yelled out Jenn’s name, not expecting a reply, and not receiving one. I trudged onward, the iPhone’s light illuminated an area about ten feet ahead of me. All of a sudden, I spied a dark mass on the ground entering the far edge of the cone of light. What the hell is that, a dead deer or something?  I walked closer…

This is the part that still gives me shivers. It wasn’t a dead dear on the ground; it was my wife. She was laying on the ground spread-eagled on her back, eyes wide open, unblinking, like the lifeless, painted orbs of a dime-store mannequin. Her mouth hung slack, like a stunned boxer’s after taking a jarring hit to the jaw. Her mouth’s position, combined with her opened eyes, resulted in a look of horrific surprise, as if her last thought was ‘What is happening to me?’. I thought she was dead, strangled, then flung aside by the carjacker conjured by my imagination.

I watch many police dramas and procedurals. Heck, the very first script I ever wrote and sold was for Peter Falk’s Columbo detective series.  And my books are ‘who done it?’ thrillers.  Yet, instead of thinking this may be a crime scene, and trying to protect any evidence, instinct took over (I didn’t take any pictures to document the scene until later). I ran forward, dropped to my knees, checked Jenn’s neck and coat for blood, then reached under and lifted her torso; her face now inches from mine. I will never forget those unblinking eyes, staring right at me yet not seeing me. How long had she been laying in the snow? I gently placed her back down and called the police again. This time, instead of a cruiser, I needed an ambulance. The dispatcher asked if she was alive.  I told them I did not know. Okay, he said. Sit tight. Help will be there soon.

I hung up the phone, my heart gripped with horror. Jesus Christ, just a an hour ago, I had been at home, working out, casually waiting for my wife and dogs to arrive, now I’m here in some woods holding my wife’s body? What the hell?

My fingers were cold…and that gave me an idea. They would feel warmth! I touched Jenn’s cheeks and neck. Yes, some parts of her skin were still warm. Was she suffering some kind of catatonic seizure? Then check what you can, damn you! Put your finger in her mouth! Check the tongue, did it fall back? 

When my finger slid past her teeth, she gently gnawed it, like a baby with a pacifier. She’s alive!  But not responsive. Where the hell is that ambulance? Suddenly, I heard the faint sound of sirens, and soon the trees came alive in a kaleidoscope of red and blue lights. I ran towards the main road, hurdled the guard-rail, and waved down the approaching, fire, police and rescue trucks.

The first responders navigated their way down the gully. The next few minutes are a blur. Scissors cutting off Jenn’s coat, EMTs working on her methodically. They had to consider all scenarios; maybe the Subaru had hit something, broken my wife’s neck, causing her to eventually collapse when exiting the car. They took precaution placing her on the stretcher, traversing it up the gully, over the guard-rail, and into the ambulance. It seemed like an eternity but the ambulance finally sped off towards the hospital.

The police handed me Jenn’s coat, cut to shreds. Her iPhone had been in a pocket. I distinctly remember holding the iPhone tightly and whispering a prayer of thanks. Without the iPhone’s tracking capability, God knows how long Jenn would’ve been laying in that snow before somebody found her. A day? A week? I hate to think about it.

I had two cars at the scene, two dogs that were scared and cold, and only one of me to drive both cars home. One officer, realizing that I wanted to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, kindly offered to follow me home, and then drive me back. We looked over the Subaru carefully, making sure nothing had gone wrong mechanically when it went off the road. The left side tires were on shifting dirt, covered in snow, but it backed out easily, and I headed home.

Once I was able to scurry the dogs into the house, I placed food and water down, packed a bag for Jenn, and ran out. The waiting officer took me back to my Saab. I thanked him, started my car, and set course for the hospital.  I called ahead, and was told that they had to intubate Jenn, as she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Wait a minute, I said, are you talking brain damage or something?  We don’t know yet. All right, I’ll be there as soon. I hung up with a feeling of dread, and prayed that the vivacious person I knew and loved, would pull through unscathed. My heart broke for what the future may hold for her.

I called Jenn’s brothers; they would meet me at the hospital. When we arrived, Jenn was still unresponsive and intubated. After numerous tests that ruled out physical trauma, it was determined that it must’ve been a type of catatonic seizure.

Over the next few hours, Jenn’s eyes would seem to focus on us; but we weren’t sure if she had suffered from lack of oxygen. She didn’t respond when I asked her to squeeze my hand, but over time she did and started to slowly come out of the trance-like stupor. Eventually, she was able to talk and, since we all thought it best to transfer her to a hospital with round-the-clock neurological staff, they prepped her for the move to a major Boston hospital. Her family followed her there while I ran home to check on the dogs. When she arrived at the medical center, a doctor called me, said she was looking better and that I should stay home and get some sleep, and If I didn’t hear from him, that would be good news.  

Early the next morning, my iPhone rang, rousing me from a troubled sleep.  It was Jenn, calling from her iPhone that I had left in her possession. The doctors ran tests that came back negative and she was being discharged…could I come pick her up? 

I started the Saab a few minutes later, placed the iPhone in its mount and asked Siri to display the fastest route. And there was the little blue dot of my wife’s iPhone, but this time, instead of it kicking off a night of terror, the dot was at the end of the route, at the hospital, where Jenn was safe and sound. I backed out of the driveway, and glanced at the still dark sky. Dawn would be arriving soon, the prelude to what promised to be a beautiful day.

 ***

Every night, as we lay innocently in our beds, deep in our nonsensical dreams, The Grim Reaper shuffles his Deck of Death, then deals each of us our cards for the coming day. How will our hand do against The Reaper’s?  Will we win or lose?  Live or die?

On that cold evening in January of 2016, my wife had an ace up her sleeve, a trackable iPhone, and she played it for all it was worth. This gave her the equivalent of a royal straight flush, and she beat The Reaper at his own game.

***

Frank D’Angeli’s first script, Columbo: Murder by Suicide, was purchased by Studios USA, at the bequest of star, Peter Falk. His second script, Columbo: Now You See Him, Now You Don’t, was awarded top honors in the American Accolades Movie of the Week Screenplay Competition. His debut novel, Stranded, (written under the pen name of Douglas Wentworth) won the 2012 Independent Publisher Book Awards-Gold Medal in sci-fi/fantasy and was picked up by Vast Entertainment. The associated screenplay (co-written by David Hogan) was optioned by a trio of producers. Mr. D’Angeli’s second book, CarnEvil, was the top rated horror novel in the 2014 BookPipeline Competition, and it was optioned by New England Capitol Pictures. His short story, The Tower, was awarded top honors in the international Saugus.net Halloween Horror Story Competition.

The post How the iPhone Saved My Wife’s Life appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

Here’s what Matt Misetich – Director of Development at Book/Script Pipeline, had to say:

Regarding ‘Stranded’: “A claustrophobic read, in a sense. And in the best of ways. Stranded has the cinematic potential to achieve what many of its predecessors have laid the groundwork for: a futuristic, sci-fi thriller driven, not solely by plot and mystery, but by a very grounded, human element that speaks to our own future of filmmaking—one that eschews superficial devices and takes a deeper look into purpose and meaning under the guise of a thriller. It’s where the film and TV industry is inevitably headed, as we can only sustain so many massively-budgeted projects per year. In the vein of Gravity or Ex Machina, at least in terms of its methodic approach at storytelling, Stranded hits an ideal zone between high-stakes action and a study in humanity, compelling us to ask questions bigger than the narrative itself presents. And shouldn’t that be the goal of any story? Definitely a book ripe for adaptation.”

And here’s what Matt had to say about ‘CarnEvil’:

“Like a lost incarnation of an early Stephen King novel, CarnEvil gives us a “classic” horror story devoid of a supernatural cop-out. The ridiculously macabre backdrop of a forgotten carnival sets up a disturbing journey into a sort of diorama of death. A dream (or perhaps lovely nightmare) story for a horror film director to adapt.”

The post CarnEvil and Stranded, both Book Pipeline Finalists! appeared first on Frank Dangeli.

I now present, ‘The Tower’…

Patty Frayne slammed the book shut, blotting out the words that had elicited the denunciation of her favorite author. Why did I ever buy this book? I hate horror. Patty shook her head. The novel she had just finished was the author’s first attempt at the horror genre (his debut novel was an award-winning thriller) and the gory images that now filled Patty’s head were seared there forever as if by branding iron.

The book’s cover; that’s what made me buy it, thought Patty. She was first exposed to it in a series of tweets. The author had taken stills of famous horror movie characters and digitally inserted his book into their hands. Above the altered photos, he pasted blurbs: What Drove Norman Psycho?, What Gives Freddy Nightmares?, What Did Saw See?, etc.

Patty, a junior marketing executive, appreciated the author’s implication, that his book is what sent those iconic monsters over the edge. And the more she looked at the book’s cover, the more she became intrigued by it, for the design was demonic yet inviting.

The title, CarnEvil, was set in a font that evoked carnivals of yesteryear. The letters were weathered and gray, like the sky before the storm. But it was the image below the title that caused the hairs on her head to stand just a bit straighter.

A white, Venetian Mardi Gras mask was the focal point of the design. But Patty found it loathsome, for the proportions were all wrong. The artist had elongated the jaw, thus altering the mask’s neutral smile into something much more sinister; a venomous sneer exposed two rows of menacing fangs, bloodstained like the teeth of a shark after a feeding frenzy.

Beneath the mask was a tagline: ‘Step Right Up…Then Run Like Hell’. Patty pictured a barker, top hat in hand, standing on a soapbox and inviting the five joyriding, Maine teenagers (she had gleaned that from the book’s description online) into his carnival of evil.

Patty became obsessed with the book. She showed the tweets to Sam, pointed out what intrigued her. Should she buy it? In a way it revolted her. But then again, it called to her. What should she do?

“Jesus Christ,” cried Sam eventually. “Just buy the goddamned thing.”

And so, a little over a week ago, Patty placed her order for the printed book (she abhorred ebooks) and this afternoon, when she returned from work and walked into her foyer, she saw the white Tyvek envelope announcing its arrival. She grabbed the parcel and turned off the foyer light, for she always followed her mother’s advice, that ‘trick or treaters’ avoided darkened doors on Halloween.

After one last glance to see if any costumed celebrants had followed her up the front stairs, she twisted the rods to close the venetian blinds that bracketed the door. The house shut its eyes tightly to life on the street before it.

Patty climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment, passing the doors of the brownstone’s other four units that were now empty. It was strange how the knowledge of a unit’s inhabitants, or lack of them, altered the perception of doors. These four, inanimate, wood panels were once like living things, springing open unexpectedly and pouring out happy, smiling people. Now they were dead, empty. Patty felt that if she opened one and stepped inside, she’d be standing on the other side of a false front, like on a studio lot. But she knew better. These were high-end units, worth a fortune in today’s market, and once the building was purchased and the money was a foregone conclusion, the other tenants had packed up and left.

We should’ve moved by now also, thought Patty. Every day that Sam spends working in that damn glass tower, means one more day side-by-side with that slutty receptionist. Was Sam’s promise true? Was the affair over? Patty’s hand trembled as she put the key in the slot and unlocked the door. Unlocked! Now there’s a joke. Just looking at it could open it. Sam keeps promising to fix it before the new tenants move in. Luckily, we have a few days. But, goddamn, why does Sam procrastinate? Yes, my ‘incessant nagging’ may be a turnoff, but if I don’t push to get things done, who will?

Patty flicked on the lights (those that would not be seen from the street), grabbed a bottle of wine, an appropriate glass, and sat down to read her book. She was drawn into it from the very first page. At times, her knuckles were white as she gripped the sofa’s arm with fear. Every now and then she’d ask herself if she should keep reading. Yes, she thought, I have to finish it. So Patty plowed on, reading chapter after chapter, until she finished the book, drained the bottle, and had slammed the book closed.

Patty unfolded herself from the couch. She stood a bit unsteadily. Though she had a problem focusing her eyes, she glanced at the windows and noticed the sliver of sky that framed the shade was now black as ink. A shiver of fear ran through her. I should’ve read this by day, or at least waited until Sam came home. And why did I drink so much? It makes me paranoid.

After a quick trip to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of cola, she approached the front bay windows that faced Marlborough Street. She was in darkness and was confident that no Halloween stragglers would see her. As she tilted her head back to take a swig, she looked over the opposite row of Victorian brownstones. Rising above them, just a few hundred yards away, stood the tower where Sam was, hopefully, hard at work. “You better not be messing around”, Patty said aloud, slurring her words.

Patty remembered the day, over ten years ago, when she and Sam had arrived in Boston. It seemed like every other college student had picked the same day, for they were stuck in gridlocked traffic. This gave them plenty of time to stare at the tower, over fifty stories of mirrored glass. It was taller than any building in their Maine hometown. The tower became a symbol of their ‘making it’ to the big city. After graduation, Sam scored a high-paying job on its fortieth floor, and they celebrated accordingly.

The smile of that memory on Patty’s face was erased by another one; the day she told her mother about Sam’s affair. Her mother had insisted that humans weren’t designed to live and work in glass and steel structures, breathing the thin air of tall buildings that smelled of the glues and poisons used in prefabricated furniture, industrial rugs, and man-made furniture coverings. “That tower’s the evil one, not Sam,” her mother had said. “All those fumes and stuff getting into people’s heads, causing all that violence and whatnot. Tell Sam to quit that job, sell your place then move back here.”

And that’s what Patty had set in motion. Sam was against it at first, but eventually came around after her relentless pleading and badgering.

Patty turned her head from the tower in disgust, took a sip of cola, and looked toward the corner of Marlborough and Clarendon Street. She spit up and choked for air. No! It can’t be! Patty pressed her face against the glass. Yes, standing at the corner alone, looking up here! “Why are you staring at me?” screamed Patty. “Why are you here?” Patty sobbed as she stared at the costumed figure. Why won’t it go away? What does it want from me? And why is it wearing that CarnEvil mask?

***

The masked figure, standing on the sidewalk, shifted her gaze away from Patty’s window, headed down Clarendon Street, and took the first left. This brought her to the alley that bordered the rear of Patty’s brownstone. The woman behind the mask smiled, thinking back to that day, almost a week ago, when she had been standing next to Patty at the supermarket. Patty had been examining some golden crisp apples when their elbows practically touched. She remembered looking at Patty and hearing a voice in her head, telling her over and over that the woman next to her must die. She had tilted her head toward Patty, examined her closely, and decided that Halloween would be the most appropriate night. And here it was, finally!

Once she reached the back of Patty’s brownstone, the masked woman carefully opened the gate to the small back yard. Careful now! Don’t want to step on something and give warning! The masked woman slowly, methodically, examined each basement window. Wait! What’s this? Yes, one is unlocked. Now I wonder whom I have to thank for that! The masked woman pushed the window back on its hinges; they had been recently oiled and moved silently. She climbed inside, took a smartphone from her pocket, and enabled the flashlight function. Once she found the basement stairs, she doused the light, pocketed the phone, and started her climb to Patty’s unit.

***

Patty, teary and nervous, had retreated to her bedroom. She had thrown cold water on her face, hoping to shock herself into sobriety. It hadn’t worked. That’s it. I can’t drink anymore. It’s too depressing. Of course! Alcohol is a depressant. I’m stressed over Sam, the upcoming move…and that damn book. My imagination’s run wild. I see someone in a mask, on a public street, and imagine they’re after me. It’s nine o’clock now. I’ll go to bed. Sam usually comes home around eleven. I’ll fall asleep, and next thing I know, I’ll be woken up by a good night kiss and everything will be all right.

As Patty’s tense face relaxed, she climbed under the sheets. The sound of the front doorknob being rattled made her jump out of bed as if her feet had touched ice.

***

The masked woman stepped inside Patty’s unit and looked around. Almost finished, she thought. A knife through the heart, a quick exit out the back door, and I’m home free. Granted, the doorknob made some noise as I walked in, but I don’t think I’ve been noticed. Now, to the kitchen, and the biggest knife I can find.

***

Patty jumped out of bed, grabbed her smartphone and made for the closet. Thank God it has slats, I’ll be able to see out while dialing. Patty touched the fingerprint sensor and the phone’s screen came to life. Damn the light! It’ll illuminate the whole bedroom! Patty scrunched back as far as she could in the closet. Who to call? The police? No, Sam will call the police while running here, the tower’s not more than two minutes away on foot.

6-1-7-7-7-4…Patty’s index finger was trembling so badly she couldn’t type Sam’s number correctly. Delete key. Delete key. Try again! 6-1-7-7-8-4-2-3-2-

The door to the bedroom burst open and the intruder leapt into the room. Patty, frozen in fear, eyes wide as saucers, peered through the slats. My God, she thought as she saw the large boning knife grasped tightly in the intruder’s hand. I’m going to die! Patty looked at the phone and willed herself to move. She was paralyzed. No! Not like this! God, please let me press the last button!

The masked woman tore the closet door open. Patty screamed as the knife plunged down, slicing into her neck. She collapsed onto the floor, her right hand outstretched, still clutching the phone.

The masked woman leapt onto Patty’s back and raised the knife high above her head, preparing it for the fateful plunge. Patty, on the verge of unconsciousness, moved her finger and pressed the last digit then the send button. I did it! The call will go through. Sam will be alerted. My murderer won’t get far and I’ll be revenged! Those were Patty’s last thoughts before death descended upon her in the form of a knife straight through her heart.

The masked woman, her right hand buried deep in Patty’s back, released the knife and stood up. She felt a vibration in her pocket. She reached in, pulled out her smartphone and declined Patty’s call.

Samantha gazed down at the handle of the knife that stuck straight out of Patty’s lifeless body. If Sam felt any twinge of guilt or regret for her actions, she didn’t show it, for she embraced a new life, an exciting future with her secretary, a future unimpeded by Patty.

Samantha then walked calmly out of the brownstone and headed back to the tower.

The post The Tower (Winner – Adult Category – 2015 Saugus.net Short Horror Story Contest) appeared first on Frank Dangeli.