The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  “Don’t you see it, you stupid little cunt?” Bowen demanded. The bony fingers squeezed. “Your dreams are bullshit. You think this isn’t gonna come at a price? You think I can sleep at night knowing what went on here fifty years ago?”

  Lucy tried to push away. “Miss Bowen, you’re hurting me.”

  Bowen’s grin was ghastly. “I’m hurting you? You don’t know the meaning of hurt.” Bowen shook her. “You’re just stickin’ that tight ass out hoping Roderick will pick you. I know it because I lived it.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Why do you think I came back here tonight? To get you fuckers out of here.” A brutal shake. “You hear me? Tell the others—”

  Bowen sucked in air and released her. She was staring at something to Lucy’s right. Lucy turned, saw Wells glowering at Bowen, his face taut with rage. The others looked on with thunderstruck expressions.

  “Have you forgotten what you did, Corrina?” Wells asked.

  Bowen backed away. Wells didn’t have to follow. His venomous stare even made Lucy tremble.

  “I don’t countenance treachery, Corrina,” Wells said. “And I certainly won’t forget.”

  Bowen was almost to the French doors, on her face an expression of purest terror. Tears streaked the woman’s brown cheeks. Lucy experienced a moment’s pity for her.

  The last she saw of Corrina Bowen was the woman hurrying through the French doors, the curtains billowing behind her.

  Part Three

  Monsters

  Chapter One

  That night Will sat at his desk and told himself he had to keep writing. But an ugly truth hovered over him like a cloud of gnats.

  He had to return to the island.

  Something told him he’d left the island too quickly, that there was more to see than just Anna Holloway and her killer body.

  So go back.

  Will considered.

  What have you got to lose? the voice in his head asked.

  Will drummed his fingers. He hadn’t taken off his clothes for bed. All he’d have to do was slide on his tennis shoes and head outside.

  You remember the way?

  He thought he remembered the way, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He pushed away from the desk, went over and laced his sneakers. Then, taking care not to slam his bedroom door – the others were probably asleep by now – he hurried down the corridor.

  It’s very late, a voice reminded him. And very dark.

  He frowned but kept going.

  What if you trip and hurt yourself?

  I’ll be careful.

  What about mosquitoes? You don’t have bug spray.

  They haven’t bothered me yet.

  If you’re really lucky, you can get yourself lost in the forest.

  He’d reached the first-floor landing when he stopped, a feeling of absurdity taking hold.

  What the hell was he doing? It was going on one in the morning. If he was going to be worth anything tomorrow, he’d better get to bed now. Otherwise, he’d wake up around noon and drift through the day like a zombie.

  Will was slinking up the stairs when he became aware of another figure on the second-story landing. Stopping, he looked up, and saw Roderick Wells.

  Wells said, “Never avoid truth, Mr. Church.”

  Will experienced a fleeting, but very powerful memory of the way his big brother used to bar his way up the stairs after they ventured down to their basement. He’d laugh in Will’s face and say, “How long you gonna be a crybaby, Willy?”

  “Move, BJ.” The cold sweats would start then, a harbinger of panic.

  “Almost a third grader and still afraid of monsters.”

  “I’m not afraid of them.” Telling himself not to glance into the pooled shadows behind him because if he did that, he would see something, and once he saw something – real or not – the wild fit would ensue, the pummeling of fists on BJ’s chest and the sobbing and the pleading.

  “It’s that thing in the crate,” BJ would tease. “The gorilla creature.”

  Will would sneak a glance between the open stair slats then, a movement brought on by the memory of a movie BJ rented with the sole intent of scaring the bejesus out of Will, a movie called Creepshow. It was really several movies in one, but the storyline that stuck with him involved a husband whose wife was a total shrew. The husband found a large crate that turned out to have something really bad in it. A monster. And the wife – an actress named Adrienne Barbeau; Will had memorized her name because he’d seen a lot of her cleavage in Cannonball Run and almost her entire naked body in Swamp Thing – ended up getting eaten by the monster. The crate had been stored under a stairwell, and though Will’s family didn’t have any crates and didn’t store anything under their basement steps, at moments like these, when BJ was playing his cruel game, Will became convinced the very same creature would seize him by the ankles and drag him screaming through the stairs.

  “The monster’s gonna get you,” BJ would say.

  “No he’s not,” Will would answer, his bottom lip trembling.

  “He’s got sharp teeth, Willy. He’s smiling at you now.”

  “Dammit, BJ, stop!”

  Will would try to barge past his older brother, but he knew he had no chance.

  “He’s staring at you with those red eyes, Willy, he’s hungry for you, he’s.…” And BJ’s voice would blend with the white noise of panic shrilling in Will’s ears, and Will knew the gorilla monster’s eyes were not red, were a pale yellow, except for the crocodilian pupils that laughed at him and told him he was dead, but first he would suffer, and the mane of stark-white hair surrounding the ghastly face would loom closer, enshrouding him, and the teeth, my God the teeth, too numerous and sharp to belong to any living creature, were opening as the great laughing jaw unhinged.

  “Brothers can be awful, can’t they,” Wells said.

  Will swung his head up. He told himself it was impossible that Wells knew about BJ, because if he knew about those things, he could know other things.

  Will gestured lamely behind him. “I was going downstairs for a snack.”

  “Be candid, Mr. Church.”

  “I was.…” Will broke off, shook his head. “I had this crazy idea that if I went somewhere, I might.…”

  “You’ve been struggling.”

  Will looked at him. “That’s right.”

  “You had it in mind to return to the place where inspiration struck.”

  Will clutched the banister tighter.

  “It’s a wise notion,” Wells said.

  “It is?”

  “I learned as a young writer that a place can serve as a touchstone for a story. I’ve frequented carnivals, brothels. I once spent the night in a graveyard to better hear the voices of the dead.”

  Will stared at Wells, awed. “Do you still do that?”

  “Mr. Church, why do you think I live here? For the convenience?” He spread his arms. “This place…this place…is a wonderland of hideous beauty. Of dreadful passion. The water that flows on this property is laced with the elixir of madness, the trees nourished by the blood of the damned.”

  Will swallowed. He found it impossible to look away from Wells’s black eyes. Within them he saw colors swirling, luring him deeper, deeper.…

  “The night is your mistress,” Wells said, his voice supplicating. “The forest is your gateway, the island an enchantment. Your muse awaits you there, Mr. Church. You must go to her. You must accept her macabre embrace.”

  “Her embrace,” Will whispered.

  “Now, Mr. Church.” Wells gripped his shoulder. “Now.”

  Will was seized by the sensation of rushing upward; the staircase around him reappeared. He blinked at Wells, realized the man’s eyes were a dark brown, not black.

  Released from whatever spell he
’d been under, Will thought about Wells’s words. After a moment, he finally found his voice. “So you think…if I revisit this spot.…”

  “It’s your touchstone,” Wells said. “Where your magic is contained.”

  “You think?”

  “It only needs you to draw it out.”

  Will gestured behind him. “So I should go there now?”

  “I wouldn’t delay, Mr. Church. You are the story’s sorcerer. You must conjure it into existence.”

  Will found a shy smile forming. “I’m the sorcerer?”

  “You are,” Wells said. “Now go. Create!”

  Feeling better than he had since arriving, Will hustled down the stairs.

  With the help of a flashlight he commandeered from the kitchen pantry, he made his way to the lake. He aimed the flashlight beam across the water. The island looked very different without Anna sunbathing on its beach. The woods beyond the pale strip of sand looked denser, the darkness deeper.

  Quit stalling.

  Will removed his socks and shoes. He stepped closer to the shore.

  Okay, he thought. Here I go.

  He waded into the water. A dozen aquatic horror films flickered through his mind. Jaws. A spine-tingling little affair called Open Water. He peered at the lake.

  Remembered a scene in Creepshow, how the monster in the crate had sunk to the bottom of a quarry.

  The water lapped gently against his bare shins. Another couple steps and his shorts would be soaked.

  Did he really need to set foot on the island? Wasn’t he close enough already?

  Move your ass, he told himself. You heard what Wells said.

  Wells isn’t the one out here in the middle of the night with his testicles shriveling.

  Will frowned. He steadied the flashlight, aimed the beam at a spot perhaps fifty feet distant. He’d been sure there’d been movement on the beach, a subtle shifting in the sand.

  He spotted it then, a figure. Unmistakably female, unmistakably nude. But it wasn’t Anna Holloway. The hair was too dark, the skin color all wrong. He played the flashlight beam along the woman’s body.

  Screamed when the hideous black eyes battened onto his.

  He backpedaled through the shallow water. The woman

  (the Siren)

  was crawling toward him, a wormy black tongue slithering out of her mouth, the lips rippling in a hideous grin.

  Will scrambled onto the shore. He didn’t even pause to grab his shoes and socks, instead sprinted toward the gazebo, where he hooked a left and bolted for the forest. He had no idea whether the Siren was pursuing him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tempt fate.

  His lungs burning, a sharp pain stabbing his ribs, Will staggered into the woods. He’d shambled along for maybe a minute before he came to a rise. He clambered up the hillside, stood panting.

  Something at the base of the hill drew his attention.

  “Oh Jesus,” Will whispered.

  The remains of a house.

  Before a face could appear in the hollowed-out foundation, Will took off running in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Two

  From the Diary of Sherilyn Jackson:

  Left you hanging, didn’t I?

  I thought I’d feel foolish spilling my guts to a flower-covered notebook (Where’d you get it, Alicia? Target? Barnes & Noble?) but I’ve gotta admit, after I shared my thoughts last time, I felt a hell of a lot better.

  I was telling you how David Zendejas tried to strangle me. It became a frequent thing later on. I once read a book called The Joy of Sex, which contained detailed sketches and a lot of stuff that made me blush. There was a term in it called ‘little death’. It’s apparently a state of such intense passion that the woman faints, therefore dying a little death. I’ve also heard that people incorporate strangling into their bedroom routine. As in ‘I’m fucking you and strangling you at the same time and this’ll somehow make your orgasm more powerful.’ To me that’s a dumbass concept, but you look hard enough you’ll find folks who get off on just about anything. Being peed on, getting abused with flyswatters, what have you.

  For Zendie the choking wasn’t a kink. He was authentically pissed off. But it wasn’t the worst thing he did to me. Not even close.

  I can’t tell you about that. Not yet.

  What I can tell you is how motherfucking poor we became in those three years. Not only had Zendie been demoted and emasculated (his word), but his church underwent hard times. Donations were down, the coffers ran low, and Zendie’s paltry salary nosedived into poverty territory. Predictably, he became mad-dog mean and took it out on me.

  I don’t tell you all this to elicit pity. I hate pity. Nothing pisses me off more than someone pitying me.

  Which is why it irks me to say I pitied myself during those three years of hell.

  Everyone knew that Zendie was paying for dipping his wick in the wrong pot and deserved the humble pie he was eating. The head pastor, a white man with a great shock of blond hair and a smile almost as electric as Zendie’s, made a habit of giving Zendie the jobs nobody else wanted. You know, driving all over God’s creation to administer communion to shut-ins. Canvassing the neighborhoods for more members.

  Then everything changed.

  The first was a bombshell about the head pastor. Turns out, he and his shiny blond hair had been embezzling funds going on a decade.

  The blond bastard went to jail, that was the first thing.

  The second was my husband getting promoted.

  If there’s one thing David Zendejas likes more than pussy, it’s playing the hero. Living out his messianic fantasies, accepting folks’ tear-stained gratitude. And Lord, did the gratitude flow after Zendie saved the church. He still beat the hell out of me and returned home smelling of perfume and womansweat. But he saved the church from bankruptcy and in doing so caught the eyes of Montgomery First Baptist, the biggest and best-paying church in Alabama.

  There was even happier news.

  Though my mom had always been dirt poor, her parents had been smart enough to purchase land when prices were low. Suburban development encroached and what was once worth a few thousand bucks was now worth several hundred thousand. Bidding careened out of control and the price tag breached a million dollars. When the land sold, my grandparents did the most surprising thing of all. They gave it to my mom. Said they had no use for it and would be happy knowing their only daughter would have some security and a few nice things.

  How did all this affect me? you might ask.

  Lord in heaven.…

  I’ve told you Zendie is a charismatic son of a bitch. He’d always had a Svengali-like hold on my mother. Unbeknownst to me, he got her to invest in some projects. My mom figured this would ensure a sizable inheritance for each of her children, not just a million or so divided up nine ways.

  Goddammit. Another thing I can barely talk about.

  You ready for this, Diary? You ready for the coup de grace?

  Zendie told me we could get pregnant.

  And lying beneath him, his handsome face smiling beatifically down at me, I believed all my dreams were coming true. I orgasmed so hard our rafters rattled. Three weeks later I peed on the stick and did a double take. Zendie told me, Honey, this is marvelous news. Would you like some more marvelous news?

  I told him sure, I was up for that. I really dug that word, marvelous, and was craving more of it.

  I got the head pastor job at Montgomery First Baptist.

  I damn near fainted.

  When he informed me what his salary would be, I’m pretty sure I did faint. We celebrated by making love, and I told myself this was the end of all the badness. His abusiveness, I reasoned, was brought on by financial strain, his infidelity born of insecurity. He’d always felt unsettled about his profession, and now that he’d scored his dream job
he wouldn’t go around looking for validation under some woman’s skirt.

  I’d never been more wrong.

  Okay, I just went downstairs to the bar of Wells’s mansion and steeled myself for what I’m about to write. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t drink when I was pregnant with baby Vivien. I got the name from Gone with the Wind. My mom was proud of the actress who played the servant because she’d broken the race barrier at the Oscars, but I asked my mom, What’s the big deal, she’s playing a slave. Mom had gotten that cold stubborn look she got when she thought I was being disrespectful and told me I would do well to accomplish half as much as Hattie McDaniel did. Mom may have been right but I couldn’t get over the slave thing. To hell with that, I thought. I want to be the one who owns all that land, not the one stuck in the kitchen. So I chose the name Vivien.

  Then Zendie took the job at First Baptist and became a monster again, only now it was a hundred times worse.

  Turns out, his philandering wasn’t caused by professional unrest. Within a week of taking the post he began disappearing for long stretches, some nights not even bothering to come home. You’d think all that fucking would take its toll on a man, but Zendie never looked more robust than he looked then.

  Also incorrect was my assumption he would stop beating me. Now he raged at me every time he saw me. He boxed my shoulders, punched my breasts. He choked me but I’d become used to that and could hold my breath for a long time.

  The breaking point was when he targeted baby Vivien.

  See, here’s where we get into abortion. I’ve always been saddened by the whole goddamned thing. I guess if I have to come out on one side or the other I’d be pro-choice, but that might only be because I’ve been abused so fucking much and feel bad for women who have to carry the babies of monsters. But I understand the pro-life crowd (except for the ones who bomb abortion clinics, those fuckers are monsters too) and feel heartsick when I think of a fetus dying, and that’s probably because I never look at a pregnant belly and think fetus, I think baby, and goddammit, I thought of Vivien as a baby from the moment Zendie squirted his spunk inside me. I can even tell you the time, day, month, and year because it was the best sex we’d ever had and Zendie had ejaculated like a fire hose, and because some primitive sense in me knew it had taken in that moment, I could almost hear a rabid soccer commentator screaming SCOOOOOOORE!