9 Tales Told in the Dark 10

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Melanie’s fingers trembled as she unzipped the bag, thinking of Alex and the vacation they could take and the joy they would feel with the wolves chased from the door for a few months…maybe even a year.

  The duffel bag was filled with newspapers. Suddenly frantic, Melanie opened the second. More newspapers. Atop the stack was a folded piece of paper on which “Melanie” was inscribed in a polite cursive. She unfolded the note, focusing the flashlight on it: TRY THE DOOR.

  Melanie covered the five steps and grabbed the knob, forgetting in the rush to use her sleeve. The knob didn’t turn. She tried again—harder—expecting a different result. The heavy door didn’t budge. She kicked the door and pounded the walls, never leaving a mark.

  The brief frenzy left her tired and terrified. She wanted out. She didn’t care about the questions the police would ask and ignored whatever Devin would tell them and whatever her bosses would say about such an abuse of her power. She drew her cell phone from her pocket. She was about to dial when she heard the rumbling scratch of steel on wood tracing an outline of the cabin’s exterior. The scraping stopped. She heard a muffled voice outside the door: clearly Devin’s. “I’ve jammed the cell signals, Melanie.” His voice was calm, the same he had used while explaining to a coworker why his computer had a virus.

  Devin was right. She had no reception. “Just let me out.” Melanie shouted. “I don’t care about you or your brother. The robbery.” Melanie clutched the flashlight to her chest as she heard Devin scrape his way to the rear of the cabin.

  “I can’t believe you thought I was a thief,” he said, feigning insult. “I can’t believe you thought I had a brother.”

  Melanie spun, hoping to find some weapon. “But I saw what you said to him.” She hid in a corner as Devin scraped his way back to the door.

  He knocked shave-and-a-haircut. “No matter what company, no matter where I go, folks like you insist you just want to make sure you’re not hiring a pedophile or a white supremacist. That’s a lie, curious cat. It’s a lie every time, Melanie.”

  Melanie crouched in her corner as she heard the key rattle in the lock. The hinges creaked as Devin slowly opened the door. Melanie didn’t want to see him in full. She flicked off the flashlight and saw him outlined in the shadow of the moonlight. He stood ramrod straight, a long, jagged-blade fishing knife in his right hand. Melanie balled herself up as much as she could. “Stay away,” she shouted. “My husband. I’ve left a letter with him that explains all of this. If I don’t come home, he’ll give it to the police.”

  Devin’s boot sounded on the wooden floor. “I’m glad you told me, Melanie. Now I’ll have to pay him a visit tonight. I’m curious to meet him properly. We’re all curious.”

  Melanie realized what she had just done. “No. Please.”

  Devin stood over the cowering woman who could now see the wicked smile on his face. “I’m not going to feel good about that one,” Devin said. “Folks in his condition are no fun. It’s not exactly a fair fight between us, is it?”

  The woman, mumbling, asked him how he knew.

  “I just told you, Melanie. We’re all curious about each other. It’s just natural.”

  Devin grabbed the woman’s arm with his strong, soft hands. He pulled the marlin-strength fishing line from his back pocket. He allowed himself to enjoy the moment. After all, tomorrow, he would have all the time in the world to pack his belongings into boxes and to update his resume.

  THE END

  LATE RETURNS by Todd French

  “Hey, I have a late return!”

  Martin wheeled at the sound of the voice and the single insistent rap on the glass. He had just finished logging the late-returns and had turned off the lights when the man came out of the rain. Not surprisingly, given the hammering of the deluge outside, Martin hadn’t heard the man’s wet footsteps on the concrete walkway backed by the deserted lot.

  He had just finished vacuuming the carpet and shelving the last of the DVDs when the man came out of the storm. Almost immediately, Martin regretted turning the store lights off.

  The visitor, a tall, burly figure in a long black leather coat stood in front of the Return Slot, waving at Martin with his right hand, his left, loose at his side. The rain-fogged glass kept Martin from seeing the man’s pale, puffy features clearly, as did the long tendrils of dark hair and thick matted beard that obscured much of it.

  “Late Returns: can you still take some?” The man’s voice sounded thick, gummy, as if he were getting over a bad cold. The guy’s shoulders hitched as he cleared his throat, passing the big mitt of his left hand over his mouth, casually rubbing at his right cheek. The bit of window in front of him continued to whiten like an arctic scrim while the rain and wind sent the tails of the guy’s coat flying. Beyond the man’s shoulder, a wind-beleaguered gull fanned the air over the filling lot and flew off over the store’s roof.

  “Um, just put it in the Return Bin,” Martin said, hating the way his voice caught, but still a little spooked by the man’s catching him unawares. He pointed at the empty metal trough under the open slot, tamping down the unease that started to slick his hairline with sweat. Looking out into the lot which trebled and sparked under the fall of the black, drilling sheets of precipitation, Martin observed that there were no other cars in the lot but his own yellow VW bug.

  Small mini-cyclones of water tore across the lot and smacked into the bottom of the window. Drops ticked against the glass.

  Unmindful of the buffeting gusts, the stranger cocked his head to the left, giving Martin a long appraising look that he didn’t like in the least. “So, you’ll still take a late return?”

  Martin sighed, wanting to be out of the store, out of the storm, home in bed, happily dreaming of Karen Casteel with whom he shared fourth period History. Still, he kept his voice level and courteous. “Yes, you can still drop off your disk in the Return Bin. Just drop it in there, and we’ll log it in in the morning.”

  The man straightened, passed a hand through his long wet hair and nodded. He shook rain off the shoulders of his long coat.

  “How much will I be charged?”

  Martin sighed. “We have a three-day policy. It’s an extra dollar if it’s past that.” Martin had to practically shout to be heard over the squall. His throat felt dry as old embers. Maybe he could pull in through a mini-mart and get a soda before he went home. Most of the fast-food places would be closed by now.

  “Oh, it’s definitely later than three days.” Was there a trace of out and out mockery in the man’s thick, waterlogged tones? “It’s…very late.”

  “Then you can pay what you owe when you come in for your next rental.” Martin crossed his arms over his chest in impatience: come on, man, just drop the sucker in the slot so I can get out of here. It suddenly occurred to Martin, tired and harried as he was that the man wasn’t holding a DVD case. He frowned. What hadn’t he noticed that?

  “So…where’s your case?”

  “Oh, I don’t have any disks to return. I don’t rent from here.”

  Martin’s patience, not very marked, was almost gone. “I thought you said you wanted to return-“

  “I asked if you accepted Late Returns.” The man’s voice sounded sorrowful. “You said you did.”

  Puzzled and climbing toward seriously pissed, Martin was about to comment when the man reached into a side pocket with his right hand and withdrew something small and shiny. He watched dumbfounded as the man uncapped the small vial of glass he was holding and dashed its contents into the return slot.

  “WHAT THE HELL- Martin began, but the man had already turned on his heel, loping into the darkness, even as a freezing wind dashed the spray of earth and white grit into his eyes, across the floor, and over the register counter. It fell in crumbs and thick blots from his dark slacks and maroon store shirt, coating his clerk’s pin. Freaked out, Martin hurriedly brushed it from his clothes. He wrinkled his nose in distaste: there was a stale, unpleasant odor to the grains that adhered to his
fingers. Hissing, he hurriedly brushed them off on the edge of the return bin.

  He looked down. His shoes were coated with the stuff and he could he feel the junk inside them, in his socks, between his toes. Its cold abrasion was everywhere. There was even more on the floor: much more than he thought was possible from such a small bottle.

  The bastard! He was going to have to clean this shit up! Brian would tear him a new one if he left this stuff on the floor. His gaze thinned: crap, the stuff was on the counter too.

  Panic was a black bird’s wings scissoring in his gut. Wait a second, what if the guy was some sort of terrorist and this was anthrax or some kind of poisonous shit?

  The panic vanished when he swept his bugging gaze over the grit-dusted register and scanned the long aisle and racks flanking them, his mouth opening in an O of shocked surprise.

  In the twitching light reflected off the windows, he could see more of the dark and white sand sprayed across the carpet-the carpet he had just vacuumed, scattered in great swaths.

  “No way…no way, there’s no way…” Martin half-ran around the counter, but his footsteps to a walk when he saw-truly saw-and followed, the sinuous, twisting trails of the stuff that circled his shoes and shot off into the racks. Heart pounding, head shaking in disbelief, he gaped at the litter. Ice stropped the knobs of his spine, his hands shook. His blood churned in his ears.

  Rain hammered the roof and ticked off the streaming gray-sheened glass.

  Martin stood in the middle of the center aisle, gawking at the depth and quantity of the grit on the carpet.

  “There couldn’t have been this much.” His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

  He straightened as he heard the rasp and sliding of sand and dirt within the store; the prowling of low winds in the corners.

  Lightning flashed, sending bruises of shadows fleeing across the walls and ceiling. Tearing chords of thunder followed soon after.

  He heard the man’s voice again with its faded glint of pity. “I asked if you accepted Late Returns. You said you did.”

  Martin turned for the front door as the next tine of lightening strafed the store. Thunder boomed, rattling the walls.

  Then darkness-absolute darkness- took the store, erasing the racks and wind and rain-shivered windows. Martin yelled.

  The rain crashed and the wind screamed somewhere very far away.

  The dark behind him exhaled, and Martin spun.

  Two red-amber slants of light, evenly spaced, flared before his face.

  “Returned.”

  THE END

  DEADBOY LIVES by Sara Green

  Sherman was only six feet tall. That meant the casket he was in had an additional twelve inches in which he could stretch out his feet. It was also a bumpy ride, so the less-than-snug conditions were not ideal once the car started moving. The casket itself had looked quite comfortable, but the silk appearance of the liner was a façade and it was something scratchy like polyester. The kind the caught his fingernails tugged at the whiskers on his cheek.

  When the car finally stopped, he sighed—loud enough that anyone would’ve heard had their ear been pressed up against the casket lid. Still, he reminded himself to keep quiet until the moment was right.

  The car door opened, and chatter started.

  The casket was supposed to be airtight (mostly), but Sherman could feel the difference in the air as soon as he was removed from the air conditioning and into the hot humidity. He knew he was going to get overheated real fast.

  That might be the dead giveaway that he was still alive. A warm corpse is always suspect. He hoped they’d get him inside and into the basement quick. Sherman was certain it would be cooler there.

  Their eyes were sensitive to the light, so Sherman imagined them with sunglasses on as they carted him down the basement stairs. So far, everything was going as planned.

  Though, Sherman would feel much better once they ate him.

  Sherman rubbed his perspiration on the itchy lining—he had been wrong, this was not part of the plan. Dead bodies don’t sweat. What would they do to him if they found him alive?

  Sherman knew they’d kill him. That’s what Paul had told him before he closed the casket.

  It was all Paul’s plan.

  Paul knew everything about them. He called them the deadboys. They were scavengers, feeding off the dead, killing anyone for their next meal. They had killed Paul’s niece.

  They killed Sherman’s parents as well.

  They had to be stopped.

  They brought Sherman into the basement. The change in temperature felt great. Sherman hoped they wouldn’t open the casket right away, and instead just let it sit so his perspiration would dry and his body temperature would drop.

  Their chatter carried on. Through the lid of the casket, it mostly sounded like gibberish, but they spoke English, just like the normal people that they pretended to be in their daily lives. The deadboys held jobs, waved politely (often at their next meal), and even voted. But if you knew what to look for, you could spot them.

  Their skin was paler than it should be, a little bluer than most. Their eyes were not white, or yellow, but a foggy gray that dulled even the pupil, but not so much that one would notice if they weren’t comparing them to a normal pair of human eyes.

  The casket opened. Those eyes were on him now.

  Paul had made Sherman practice playing dead. He was so complimentary, but all the confidence Sherman ever had just vanished. He was abandoned. His thoughts left to run in desperate circles of panic.

  Even through the drugs, he could feel his heart beating—it wasn’t supposed to beat as fast as it was. And his blood coursed through him. He could feel it in his neck, tugging against his Adam’s apple. Couldn’t the deadboys see that?

  “Start at the feet. The master will be by later for his head,” one of the deadboys said.

  Sherman was grateful. His heart eased up a little. He tried to remember Paul’s kind words of encouragement. “You could pass for dead with your eyes open, Sherman,” Paull had said many times.

  Paul and he had hoped for them to bite a leg or arm first, but one could never be sure. There weren’t any documentaries on the deadboys. There wasn’t a mention of them in textbooks or even the Bible. They just happened to be—when they should not.

  It tickled.

  That was the benefit of the painkillers Paul had given him. It was the good stuff—Paul had spared no expense. Sherman would’ve done more if he could’ve afforded it, but the insurance company wouldn’t pay out after his parent’s death, are as they termed it—disappearance. Seven years would need to pass before absentia would kick in and Sherman would inherit his parents’ wealth.

  He couldn’t wait that long to have vengeance.

  Sherman could almost make out each of their individual teeth. They took turns biting him, drinking his blood. Something tugged at Sherman. Like the string of a sweater, but a vein in his leg. The drugs hadn’t dampened the nerves connected to that. He winced. His teeth cracked as he clenched.

  They would soon know. His blood was warmer than they were used to.

  “Something’s wrong,” a deadboy said.

  Sherman’s eyelids twitched. He strained to keep them closed, but one broke open just in time to see all the deadboys hunched over his legs. Their flesh was pale, but turning paler and greener, as their throats tightened with bad taste.

  The deadboy gasped. “He’s…alive!”

  Sherman laughed as the beings rolled up into vomiting balls of agony. What started as self-induced vomiting turned uncontrollable. Gallons of dark blue blood slopped out. They slipped in it, fell, and found their stomachs lying beside them.

  “Ha, you stupid scavengers can’t eat living flesh! It needs to be dead!” Sherman sat up on the table and spun his half eaten legs around. It was a good thing the pain killers were still working. He tried not to look at his legs. But he did. They were down to the bone, only reddened by the blood that dripped from his knees. Don�
�t faint now, I want to watch them die, Sherman pleaded with himself.

  A deadboy grimaced and pried its wretched eyes open just enough to see Sherman smiling above him.

  “Too rare for your tastes?” Sherman asked.

  “Yes… you idiot…living flesh kills…us…but…biting the living…turns them to….us….We were trying not to ….be…killers…”

  Sherman eyebrows found the top of his forehead. His heart found the bottom of his stomach.

  He could already feel his hunger starting to change. It wouldn’t be long before he looked like them. Killed like them. Fed like them.

  Sherman did not stop them.

  The deadboys live.

  THE END

  ACROSS A DESK by Stephen Millard

  The sun was just beginning its decent as Tad Beaumont was lacing the sharp black shoes of his uniform.

  "Finally," his wife, Jeannette said as she came back into the living room and plopped down with a sigh on the couch next to him. "He just doesn't want to sleep for me anymore." She flipped her feet up and leaned onto her husband who was now tying the other shoe, and began toying with his collar. "I wish you didn't have to go," she seduced.

  "But alas," he finished the second shoe and looked at her, relishing the moment before the kiss, then leaned in.

  "Daddeeeee!" It came from down the hall. They halted and Jeanette let out another exasperated sigh. He kissed her forehead and stood up.

  "I love yo-"

  "Daddeeeee!"

  "Would you mind?" Her eyes asked more than her words.

  "No, babe, I've got," he checked his watch, "ten minutes to get to the station or Chief'll have my ass."

  She continued looking, uncompromising.

  "I can't," he wrapped his fingers around the door knob.

  "Daddy, Daddeeeee!" Both his wife and his son were begging.