The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  In the dining room, his stepdad towers over his mom, gesticulating wildly, his bloodshot eyes bugging. Oh you will, will you? How will you replace a twenty-thousand-dollar musket, Linda?

  His mom takes a shuddering breath, her bony shoulders tense under the shabby brown robe. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right.

  You won’t make anything right. I can’t believe you were stupid enough—

  When he discovers Rick, Phil’s face takes on an even deeper shade of red.

  I thought you did your chores.

  Rick finds his voice. It was my fault the door was unlocked.

  Phil’s face hardens, not giving an inch despite Rick’s contrition. You’re right it’s your fault. You and your mother both. And if you think you’re going to get away with it, you really do have shit for brains.

  Looming closer. Face approaching purple, index finger jabbing at him.

  You’re going to work every day until you pay me back. And your mom’s not going to protect you anymore. The kid gloves are off.

  Okay, Phil, he says, and he realizes he’s not supposed to say Phil, is supposed to call him Sir, and then Phil is shouldering Rick’s mom out of the way, stalking toward him with his fist raised. He’s slapped Rick more than once, but he still can’t believe Phil is going to coldcock him right in front of his mother.

  Rick’s feet get tangled, and he lands gracelessly on his elbow. He stares up at Phil, who roars, Get up, you lazy little bastard!

  Rick starts to rise, but he isn’t fast enough. Phil is hauling him upward by the t-shirt, lifting him and shaking him and bellowing spit-flecked profanity into his face. He’s always known his stepfather is strong, but this is like being buffeted by a tornado.

  There comes a whistling sound and a crunch.

  Rick stumbles back. Phil crumples to the floor at Rick’s feet. Rick gapes down at him, looks past Phil’s unmoving form, sees his mom grasping the hammer.

  Her head droops dejectedly. She weeps silent tears.

  After a time, Rick’s eyes meet his mother’s.

  You had nothing to do with this, she says.

  Okay, he answers, though he’s distracted by his stepfather’s body lying prostrate between them.

  Do you love me? she asks.

  He opens his mouth to tell her of course he does, but she stays him with a hand, aggravated with herself. Sorry, honey. Stupid question. I know you love me. A shuddering breath. And because you love me, I need you to do something for me.

  He feels small now. Six years old. Maybe four. He can’t even communicate in grunts, he’s so distraught.

  I need you to turn around, his mom says.

  Rick begins to turn and as he does he makes the mistake of looking down at Phil’s head, the ridge at the base of the skull. There’s a dark red circle there, not a perfect circle but definitely hammer-shaped. Queasy, Rick completes his turn.

  His mom’s voice, closer now. Promise you won’t turn around.

  Okay.

  Say it. Her voice hoarse.

  I won’t turn around.

  At all. Not once. Not until I’m completely done and I tell you it’s all right. There’s not much time. Promise?

  Okay.

  A pause, something swishing behind him, like a blanket slithering to the floor.

  She says, Scoot forward.

  He does.

  More, she instructs.

  He keeps going, about eight feet from Phil’s head now.

  The thud is enough to make him jump. Another. Then the hammer strikes become rhythmic and…slushy. On some level he knows what’s occurring behind him, but he flees from it, tells himself it isn’t happening, gropes for anything that springs to mind. The Cubs game that day. The new gas station three blocks over. Maybe it has a slushy machine.

  Shit. Slush. Red slush. Red brains. Red blood.

  Rick turns and knows it’s all real.

  His mom is panting, her bare feet straddling the corpse, which is convulsing now, the smell of shit filling the dining room but not yet connected to the quivering, convulsing lump on the floor. His mom is naked and quite bloody. Holy shit. She looks like a cannibal from some South American tribe or that vengeful woman from the movie he watched at a friend’s house, the one who got raped and left for dead and is paying back the guys who did it.

  That draws his gaze back to Phil, whose arms and legs aren’t flopping anymore.

  Phil isn’t a rapist, not that Rick is aware of, but he’s sort of like those guys in the female-revenge movie. Rick realizes he wanted Phil to die, but he’s never considered the event a likelihood, had actually doubted Phil could die. He was too much an asshole for that.

  I’m sorry you had to see me this way, his mom says.

  Suddenly embarrassed by his mom’s black thatch of pubic hair, which is splashed with red, he averts his eyes and finds himself staring straight at the pile of tomato pasta that had been his stepfather’s head. Rick feels his gorge rise and his mom’s voice is loud and commanding: Get to the bathroom, Rick! Now!

  He does as he is bidden and makes it with maybe a second to spare. He vomits luxuriously, for once in his life happy to be puking his guts out. At least it’s gotten him away from the murder scene.

  His mom steps past him, draws the shower curtain back, twists on the water. Rick reaches down and automatically begins taking off his shirt, but she puts a hand on his back. It’s for me, Ricky. You’re going to wait here while I clean up.

  He does, though the room keeps carouseling. His mom takes a long time. He realizes she is rinsing off every atom of blood that might have splattered. She must be scrubbing under her fingernails and scrubbing the shower for good measure.

  Climbing out, she says, Now you get in. Your story is, you heard me scream. You came out of your bedroom. You saw me crying over Phil’s body, and you threw up. Then you took a shower on my orders. That’ll explain the wet towel. Can you remember all that?

  Rick scarcely listens. The sight of his naked mom climbing out of the shower has frankly freaked him the hell out. He’s seen her nude more tonight than he has since he was a little kid and could’ve gone the rest of his life without seeing her this way.

  Rick?

  He blinks at her. What?

  Can you remember?

  Sure.

  She nods. Shower. By the time you come out, the police will be here.

  His stomach lurches. Police?

  She gives him a pleading look. Ricky, I need you to do this. I didn’t want to kill your stepfather, but he was a horrible person and he was hurting both of us. Wasn’t he?

  Uh-huh.

  If I divorced him he would’ve kept everything. I don’t know how, but he would’ve. He would’ve gotten me fired and spread rumors about me.

  Rick nods, though he has no idea what his mom is talking about.

  The police come and ask Rick about it. Rick does well. So does his mom. No one imagines anyone but the thief killing Phil with the hammer.

  The night ends.

  The horror begins a month later.

  Chapter Four

  The eggs and bacon only made Lucy’s shriveled stomach pucker up tighter. Nauseated, she picked up her pen, tapped it on the notebook, thought to herself, You traveled halfway across the country to outrun your troubles, and guess what? They traveled right along with you. You still can’t write. You’re still a one-hit wonder. Fred Morehouse was right: The Girl Who Died is you.

  To escape the thought, she studied the dining room around her, the faded crimson-and-gold art deco wallpaper, the antique lace curtains yellowed with age. The entire room needed rehabilitation, including the discolored brass door handles.

  “Wells is a man with style,” Bryan said. He popped a purple grape into his mouth, chewed. “Bet this room cost more than most houses.”

  “Could use a little
love, though,” Sherilyn said.

  Lucy glanced at the coffered ceiling, noticed the subtle warping of the wood, and decided Sherilyn had a point.

  “Hey,” a voice beside her said.

  Tommy.

  “What?” she snapped.

  He held up his hands in truce. “Take it easy.”

  Sighing, she dropped the pen, scooted her chair from the table.

  “Hold on,” Tommy said. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I don’t want to be next.”

  “Have you met your word count?”

  Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t written anything.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Tommy asked.

  Lucy blew out a quavering breath, told herself to take it easy on him. It wasn’t his fault she had issues. Other people had writer’s block; Lucy had a goddamned mountain range.

  She made to stand, but Tommy said, “Please. I need to talk to someone.”

  She hesitated. His tanned face had gone a sickly hue, and there were bags under his eyes, the skin there bruised-looking, as though he’d been in a car accident.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Quieter,” he muttered. A nod across the table. “I don’t want them to hear.”

  “I need to get something on paper, Tommy. If this isn’t life or death—”

  “It is.”

  She read the anguish in his eyes. “Is it to do with Marek?”

  “Indirectly.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his curly hair hovering an inch from his untouched plate.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Do you ever have the feeling your past is following you?”

  Every minute of my life, she thought.

  He brought his clasped hands to his forehead, like a praying child. She was alarmed to note he was crying.

  “Tommy?”

  “I’m in trouble,” he whispered.

  She put a hand on his shoulder, for once not worried he’d misinterpret the gesture. “Did something happen?”

  “Not here. Not…oh God.”

  “I can’t help you if you don’t—”

  He cleared his throat, stared at the floor. “I’m sorry for how I looked at you before.”

  Lucy hesitated. “I don’t know—”

  “Yes you do. You’re really pretty, but that’s no excuse. I.…” Tommy swallowed, shook his head. “I know it’s wrong, but I keep doing it anyway. Thinking with my libido.…”

  “Hey, Tommy,” she started.

  He stood, drifted toward the door. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Bryan smirked, called across the table, “Cracking under the pressure, Marston?”

  Sherilyn glanced at him. “How can a writer have so little empathy?”

  Bryan ignored her. “He lacks discipline.”

  Tommy was gone.

  Lucy considered going after him. She felt no particular warmth toward Tommy, but what she’d seen in his eyes went well beyond normal stress. He was haunted by something, teetering on the brink. Maybe, she decided, it would be better if he did decide to leave. She told herself she wasn’t being like Bryan, wasn’t celebrating the demise of another competitor, and she was fairly certain this was true.

  Go after him then, she told herself.

  But she didn’t. Only sat there and told herself the empty feeling in her gut wasn’t guilt.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling she’d never see him again.

  Chapter Five

  Time to go, Tommy thought. Time to go.

  Moving away from the mansion, he fought the urge to run. If he broke into a sprint the way his nerves begged him to, he might step into a hole, snap an ankle. He’d left his stuff behind, but who gave a shit, it was all replaceable anyway. The clothes were nothing special, the only item of significance a letter a girl had once written him, one he’d kept because it was flattering, and when you got down to it Tommy liked to be flattered. He liked to be stared at and told how nice his eyes were, how dazzling his smile.

  He neared the base of the hill and the shadowed forest lurking there.

  He grinned, sweating now, and decided he liked the idea of the woods lurking. He’d use it in a story someday. Not a horror story – to hell with that creepy shit – but something dark. Something about a woman who strides naked into a clearing with a fake baby, a woman who leers at him and lets a spider crawl out of her mouth—

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, shivering despite the heat.

  Tommy experienced a moment of perplexed terror, thinking the trail he sought had been swallowed by the forest. But no, thank God, there was a trail, the same one he followed here less than two days ago.

  Hasn’t taken you long to come unraveled, has it?

  Tommy scampered down the trail, fleeing the question, fleeing its implications.

  It wasn’t the same trail. He saw that plainly. For one, the plant life was different, more like the trees he remembered from his childhood.

  (like the trees you saw yesterday, the ones surrounding you and Suzy and the furry spider oozing out of her mouth)

  “Shit,” he muttered. Whatever was happening, he could outrun it. If he followed this trail long enough, he could find his way back to the clearing, and then who cared. He’d walk, he’d hitch a ride, he’d even let that big cop drive him…

  …no he wouldn’t, scratch that, he’d hide in a ditch if he encountered the cop who took Marek away. The big cop gave him the willies.

  Focus, he told himself. He kept his eyes on the trail ahead, which wasn’t at all the way he remembered it. The one they took to the mansion was a deep, rich brown, almost like walking on a chocolate sponge cake. This trail was pebbled and sandy, the kind you’d find by a river. Tommy even fancied he could smell the river now, the slow-moving water and the fish…

  …and in his mind’s eye he saw the rope swing, saw his own body sweeping out over the water, his friends hooting and clapping, and Tommy flipped and splashed and surfaced and saw them all with beer cans raised, and there was Lexi, one of the girls he dated in his late teens, the years he was drinking and screwing and doing what drugs he could get his hands on and claiming he was discovering himself. What he discovered beside the river was Lexi’s naked body, and it was so natural and good that he talked her out of the condom, and a few months later one of his buddies said, Hey, you hear about Lexi? And Tommy, not very interested, answered, What about her?

  She got an abortion.

  Huh, Tommy answered, feigning a lack of interest.

  That’s all? his buddy asked. Huh?

  What am I supposed to say? Tommy demanded.

  His buddy hadn’t answered, nor had anyone verbalized it in Tommy’s presence, but he’d thought about it obsessively for weeks afterward. And a year later, he’d definitely impregnated a girl because she told him so, and when she asked him what he was going to do about it, he said, I’ll drive you to the clinic.

  She said, I’m keeping it.

  He said, Fine, it’s probably not even mine anyway.

  She said, It has to be. You’re the only guy I’ve been with. I’m only sixteen.

  God. Reminding him of it. Tommy not even knowing the laws. Was it illegal when he was only twenty? He didn’t know, but he’d stayed awake sweating and imagining a judge asking for evidence in the statutory rape case, the girl placing the baby on the judge’s desk, saying, Here’s my goddamned evidence.

  The trail curved in front of Tommy, and he tripped, going way too fast to fall gracefully, and laid out at full speed, a real header, and skidded on his belly, his palms chewed up by the trail, and…

  …was that laughter he heard?

  It was. Kid’s laughter.

  He knew where he’d heard it before, back when he dated that Megan chick. What was her last name? She had a nice body for ha
ving spat out a kid, and the kid was cute when he wasn’t squalling.

  Tommy pushed to his knees, dusted off his shirt, his cargo shorts.

  He rose, heard the kid’s laughter, and shot a look toward where the trees were sparser. The sound was definitely issuing from there. Uncanny how much it sounded like Megan’s kid…what was his name? Justin maybe? Jacob or Justin?

  Jacob or Justin had only been three but the kid had really taken a shine to Tommy, which made it easier with Megan, who had an ulterior motive but acted like it was all about their relationship. Sure, Megan, he would think, sitting beside her on the couch pretending to enjoy some crappy romantic comedy, it’s all about us, isn’t it? It isn’t about you wanting a provider for your boy. The guy who knocked you up wants nothing to do with Justin/Jacob, so you figure if you treat me nicely enough I’ll be the new daddy.

  Except I won’t. Because I’ve been that guy, the one who ditched you. And I totally relate to him, totally get why he fled. Who wouldn’t? Diapers and runny noses and no sleep and getting scolded by the wife. Who’d willingly agree to that?

  Laughter, clearer this time.

  Tommy gazed into the forest and thought, Justin/Jacob, is that you?

  The trees were hung with Spanish moss, which made not a bit of sense because that was how trees were in Georgia, not Indiana. Tommy took care, stepping gingerly. When he found the kid, the kid would tell him how to get out of here. Maybe the boy would even have a dad with him, and the dad would give Tommy a ride to town.

  A chipmunk skittered across the trail before him.

  He screwed up his eyes, and when he spotted the immense cypress tree, the Spanish moss draping its stout branches like skeins of molted skin, he couldn’t believe it. It was the exact tree he remembered from the vacation house next to theirs, the one where he spent the summer of his twenty-second year. The English teacher had come to write a novel on her time off. She’d been thirty-nine, attractive, and completely mysterious to Tommy, who’d never slept with an older woman. It hadn’t taken long for her to give in. She’d wanted to, after all, and he’d been nice to her, snipping roses from his parents’ garden – thank God they’d skipped the summer home that year – and presenting them to her, along with some of his poetry. She’d loved the flowers and the words, had told him he had real talent, and Tommy said, not meaning it, that they should work on a book together, and Tammi – With an i, she’d reminded him – had positively swooned at the prospect.