9 Tales Told in the Dark 8

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  People were laughing, laughing with Coach Donovan. Lewis was sure they were still laughing at him.

  “Do it again, I want Mr. Wright to see.”

  Lewis didn’t want to, his stupid bird bones, that’s all it was, light as a feather. They’ll say light in my loafers.

  “I’m tired,” he said.

  “That’s no good, we’ve got to work on your endurance. You’re gonna have a couple of events each track meet. Don’t got enough kids to let ‘em show up for one little event. And now I know what Mr. Wright was talking about. You have talent. You know Jesse Owens? Jesus, don’t no kid know these days. Who’s the guy now? Usain Bolt—the Jamaican guy. You probably can name all the players in the NFL from your fantasy football league, but they ain’t athletes. Football is what people do for money. A job. Track, running, that is about pushing the human body. The way you just ran you could probably get tossed for a touchdown from the fifty-yard line. A Hail Lewis, haha, I like that.”

  Lewis liked that it wasn’t a ‘Hail Loon’.

  Coach Donovan was the defensive coordinator for the high school football team. Lewis couldn’t help think he was recruiting, but Lewis knew he didn’t want to face doors that could chase him down and flatten him in front of thousands.

  ++++++

  “School record,” Mr. Wright gasped.

  A crowd had formed. Practice had ended early as all eyes focused on Lewis. He’d already set the new record for long jump and high jump. Now they had given him a twelve foot pole that didn’t feel real sturdy and told him to run down a stretch of track, thrust it in a metal pan and fling himself over a bar set nine feet above the ground.

  It wasn’t going to end well. Lewis knew that from the start. In fact pole vaulting wasn’t even an event anymore, it was just old equipment that the school board forgot to get rid of when it banned the event.

  “Nine feet is nothing. You almost jumped that standing still.”

  Something about this felt like a bad idea to Lewis, but the smiles surrounding him were reassuring, demanding another encore. He had to. He had never felt more loved in his entire life.

  He didn’t stop to think what would happen if he did clear the bar. All he thought about was if he didn’t they would boo him and it would be back to being Loon. Lewis decided failure was not an option and he sprinted as fast at he could. The tip of the pole slammed into the metal pan with a bang.

  The pole didn’t bend like seen on television. It stayed straight and Lewis sailed over the bar. His pole knocked the bar down onto the padded cushion where Lewis was supposed to land.

  Supposed to land.

  Supposed to land.

  Lewis didn’t know why he didn’t land. He kept soaring. He cleared the fence around the track. He could see the softball field coming up below him. He yelled something obscene he’d heard on television.

  He couldn’t hear anyone anymore so they probably didn’t hear him scream.

  +++++++

  Freak.

  The word echoed in whispers and laughs. Lewis wished he’d never gone out for track. He wished he couldn’t jump high or run fast. The basketball coaches were trying to get him to prove he could do everything everyone said he could do.

  ‘Scrawny white boy.’

  Lewis heard that too.

  ‘You know a loon is a bird. Loon’s a bird!’

  There was so much being said it made Lewis’ hollow boned skull feel as if it could snap in half.

  “That ain’t nothing,” Sally said. “My ex-boyfriend can slam dunk anytime he wants.”

  Matt Jarver boasted, too, “Ain’t nothing special about being a freak. I used to do the high jump before it was gay.”

  “So gay.”

  Mr. Wright had been wrong. If anything it was worse.

  ++++++++

  Lewis decided to kill himself. His thought was immediate. It carried him through the halls of his school, through each classroom and class period and then out onto the school bus. Each house that flickered by ticked like a clock.

  I’m going to do it as soon as I get home.

  Lewis knew then and there that he would never belong. No one would ever look up to what he could do. He was just a freak, a Loon.

  Lewis was home before he had figured out how he was going to kill himself. His parents probably had some kind of pills he could take. He could stick a plastic grocery bag over his head and try to fall asleep. He’d seen toasters dropped in bathtubs.

  I don’t want to die naked.

  It was not a rational request being as no one could possibly think worse of him then he did now. But that was the least of his worries as he pushed through the front door.

  His father was home.

  “How’s track going? Thought you had practice?”

  “No,” Lewis answered, hoping to get up the stairs before his father rounded the corner and continued with eighteen more questions. Of course, stairs were easy for him. He glided up, making no sound at all. He was entering his room when his father yelled at him again.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

  “I hear you.”

  “No, Lewis, you get down here right now and you talk to me. Now I know you’re supposed to be at track practice right now, what happened?”

  “I just don’t feel like going today. I don’t feel well.”

  The answer wasn’t good enough and to make matters worse Lewis had not come down the stairs yet.

  “Get down here.”

  The idea of instigating his father became exciting.

  He’ll kill me.

  “Can’t we talk right here, or are you hard of hearing?” It felt so good. It burned to say those words.

  “What?” His father challenged him to say it again. Lewis decided to do him one better.

  “They call me Loon. I am crazy. You might not want to me to come near you.”

  “Lewis, you calm down right now and you shut your mouth. You don’t talk to me that way, ever!”

  Lewis grinned but held his place at the top of the stairs.

  “Get down here right now! I swear…” His father looked like he’d spent all day on the beach without any sunblock on. His rage fueled delectable notes of promises and ultimatums. Lewis didn’t bother keeping track. “Now!”

  “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  Lewis made the tremolo sound of a loon. “Aa-woo-ooo-ooo!”

  No one ever saw Lewis again.

  His father was found dead at the foot of the stairs.

  Matt Jarver and Sally Hinkle were both found dead a week later.

  Mr. Wright was found on top of a water tower—dead.

  No. No one ever saw Lewis.

  But everyone hears the loons as the howl.

  THE END.

  THE EYE OF THE BLUG by Jeffery Scott Sims

  It started with what I thought an easy deal, with fast turnover and a quick buck at the end. How did that land me in this boiling stew of a mess, scramming for my life, with enemies on all sides; pursued by nightmarish demons let loose from Satan's lowest hell, crawling and squirming faster that I can run? Monsters, at the beck of that which trumps in spades any devil we know, the ultimate evil unwilling even to grant the mercy of death? But wait, I've got to get back to where I started.

  It was a hot day in Phoenix, a crummy day, what we get in the desert city at this worst time of year—air like a furnace, and those few extra points of humidity that slick the skin and stifle the lungs—and as I sat there in my shabby downtown office listlessly studying a handful of overdue paperwork, with the creaky desk fan blowing heat and the antique air conditioner heaving fitfully, I thought my little sphere of tired misery was all of a piece with the times. Being the top of the hour, the crappy old radio on the shelf by the bug-specked window squawked in spurts of the latest world nonsense: an earthquake that killed a bunch of people somewhere God forsaken, a politically correct protest about some triviality that would save the world if only the noise-makers got their way, a massacre or three, a nearly a
nonymous catalogue of crimes and accidents. I heard too, out of one ear, something about some kind of big religious rally coming together somewhere in the state, but just for the moment that meant nothing to me. I didn't know right then it would come to mean peril and horror, the facing of death or worse, all in the name of business and turning an ostensibly honest dollar. There I am again, getting ahead of myself, for that realization loomed on the murky horizon.

  Angie, my cute blonde babe of a secretary, flounced into the inner office, flung down a fat folder and a scrap from her message pad. Angie's a sweet kid, and not all business; she treats me right, and being the nice guy I am, I treat her right too, circumstances permitting. I don't go crazy about it, but it pays to keep her dutiful and loyal. Her curvaceous charms aside, she's really a great secretary, a sort of amateur librarian maintaining my mountains of hard copy records and computer files. Me having no head for that stuff, I rely on her a lot.

  "Sterkie," she said, tapping the folder with a garish red fingernail that matched her glow in the dark lipstick, "this is the case report on Josh Martin. If he doesn't pay up I'll have to close it out. I called him as you instructed. He pretended not to know what I was talking about. You better dun him."

  "No chance," I replied with a tight grin. "Not that kind of job."

  "Then kiss your fee good-bye," she retorted, tossing her thick peroxide hair.

  "Fear not," I said easily, with a wave of my hand. "In that affair I left no traces, but got the goods on him, and he can't dodge the debt. Phone Martin back. Inform him that one muffled-voice call to the authorities will land him in a hard place. Give him forty-eight hours to cough up. So, sit down and tell me, what's this other?"

  Angie smiled and sat down. Not in the opposite chair, mind, the client's seat, but on my lap, deliberately allowing gravity to rule. She lit a cigarette, puffed into noisome space, retrieved her memo sheet. "Well, this guy sounds like the real deal. Alistair Wright is the name; that's Sir Alistair to you."

  "How about that?" I mused, having recovered my breath. "A gentleman from the old country."

  "I guess. He's got the speech for it. He needs something found, is all I know, Sterkie; something weird, and I'm pretty sure he's got money, and he wants to meet with you sooner or soonest."

  "Here?" I cried, lurching in my swivel chair. It squeaked, as did Angie. Gazing in distress about the cluttered, trashy room, I wondered how quickly it could be made tolerable for a visitor.

  "Not here," she corrected, rolling her eyes in amusement as she read my thoughts. "He's shacked up at the Valley Inn Suites—that means mega-bucks—and he's available this afternoon at two."

  "As am I. Give me the info," I demanded, "and arrange the lucrative appointment."

  Not long thereafter I departed from my scuzzy office tucked inside an almost abandoned strip mall on a dirty street in a forgotten part of town, hopped into my snazzy hotrod and peeled out for better pastures. All right, so explanations are in order. My entire life isn't as grungy as those surroundings would suggest. I live well when I can, keep a nice apartment in a gated complex on the north side, show Angie some class when I get time off. I'm an upstanding fellow, finances permitting. That office is a blind, meant to mislead, situated under the radar away from prying eyes and snoopy noses. The critical point is how I earn my living.

  My card reads: Sterk Fontaine, Expert on Eclectic and Arcane Archaeology. That means I dabble in relics, rare gewgaws and gimcracks from the past. As far as that goes it's all fairly above board, and I actually go through the motions of basic buying and selling in the standard line on occasion, in order to satisfy any badged upholders of society who might cast inordinate attention my way. On that junk I record the receipts, pay the taxes, anything the busy-bodies require, which proves me a model citizen. There is, however, a bit more to my trade.

  More to me, I admit, having spent a big chunk of my life skirting the rules, or making up the rules as I've gone along. It has made for interesting times, even excitement. I fell into this particular racket largely by accident, having discovered by absolute chance that this planet's thin veneer of the civil and the humdrum counts for still less than I once reckoned. See, in this wide world there's a class of men—secretive in general, not prone to advertising themselves—motivated by curious beliefs, driven by strange desires. Call them scholars of the supernatural, or members of obscure sects, or seekers after outlandish mysteries; they call themselves what they will, and in the process of feeding their pet frenzies they develop special needs. Among these odd characters there's a lust for exotic artifacts and forbidden books, supposed to enhance or illuminate their wild or crazy notions. Really, most of it's goofy stuff, a lot of it pretty morbid. How much of it is on the level? I normally don't inquire, although during the course of my obliging activities on their behalf I've run into cases that don't lend themselves to pedestrian elucidation.

  To make the big money, I procure and purvey. They crave a trinket, for whatever reason can't get it themselves, they contact me. Within those shadowy circles of the weird I've built up an impressive, if discreet, reputation. Goods provided, no questions asked. Meet my price and I get it done. My clients don't care how I do it—not once in my experience, which reveals much about them—and being the agreeable sort I am, neither do I, if the end result is cash. I've become sufficiently savvy at this not to let niggling factors like the law disturb me, so long as I mind my Ps and Qs.

  Given all this, I figured Sir Alistair Wright had a self-serving scheme up his sleeve, one dealing with the spooky stuff requiring the back door approach. As usual, I nailed it.

  Shortly before two that searing afternoon I whipped into the expansive parking lot of the Valley Inn Suites, and attired my executive best entered the holy precincts of that upscale Scottsdale resort (upscale by Scottsdale standards, verging on a palace), a ring from the ornate lobby immediately yanking me up to his fourth floor room. Sir met me at the door, hurriedly ushering me in, ridiculously sly and furtive about it. He was a beefy fellow, broad but not too tall, with thin hair, hard eyes and a screwed up mouth. Casually dressed, he appeared to belong less than I in what I've styled a room, but was actually a finely furnished, temporary apartment. We swapped how do you dos, he verified my identity, I praised his properly stocked bar. Seated there, I with drink in hand, he got down to it.

  "It's like this, Fontaine," commenced Sir Alistair; a Brit all right, though with an annoying low class, nasal twang. "An objet d'art of enormous value to me has been stolen. I want it back. Return it to me and I will pay you well; beyond reason, of course."

  I smiled and nodded. "We're on the same wave-length, sir. I may be able to assist you. Before you offer particulars, I wonder why you don't work through the police. They're keen on stomping thieves. Are you sure this is a straight deal?"

  He grimaced. "A poor start, Fontaine. My informants—former clients of yours—assure me you know your place. I propose a transaction, in good faith, yet you start quizzing me and blathering about coppers. Inadequate, my friend."

  The typical rigmarole. With a shake of my head I sagely responded, "There's plenty I probably don't need to know—my friend—but I've got to know where I stand. What you want, where it is, and why me; the prime three, pal, just those before I roll the dice. Let's start with the last first."

  He readily acquiesced, though he fidgeted his fingers as he spoke. "I don't have papers, by which I mean formal title to the...the thing. I could not establish ownership to the police. Nevertheless, it is mine by right. It's now in the possession of evil men. I must get it out of their hands, and into mine. That's enough, Fontaine, on that point."

  "Agreed." I savored a mouthful of imported wine, suitably aged; Moselle, I reckoned. "Okay, Wright, give me the rest."

  "The item is known to a fortunate few initiates as the Eye of Blug. Mean anything to you?"

  "No," I replied honestly.

  "It is currently in the custody of high-ranking members of the Ultimate Truth Foundation. Ever heard
of them, Fontaine?"

  "No," I slightly lied.

  "An organization of noble principles," he declared, "dedicated to bearing mystical insights into the higher reality, those ethereal planes beyond the feebly material, to an uneducated world. Originally based in London, the UTF has reached out across the globe, counting thousands of members in this country. To accommodate them, a grand convention—think of it as a type of revival meeting—is being held near here, in the town of Sedona. Do you know it?"

  I chuckled. "Yeah, I know it."

  "Great." Wright wagged a finger. "That's the location of the Eye." He hesitated. "I needn't tell you this, Fontaine, but until lately I belonged to the Foundation, as official custodian of the sacred relics, those artifacts of olden times imbued with the magical aura of the ancients. The Eye of Blug is the prized relic, an object of tremendous supernatural power. It has fallen into the wrong hands."

  I shrugged. "You make this Foundation of yours sound a decent bunch."

  "It is," he almost shouted, "on the whole. We've performed good works among the masses, can do much more. The Foundation strives for a great awakening in the world, dedicated to bringing forward the day when all men will embrace truth. It is our tragedy, Fontaine, that a conniving cabal has seized the reigns within an otherwise august organization. I wouldn't play ball, so they booted me out, me and my supporters. They're hateful men now in charge, Fontaine, and they've got the Eye. It is vital—for the cause, for the world—that I wrest it from them."

  He at last exhaled. "That's all, my friend. I've said my piece, and there's no more I'll say. If you're as described, you can take it from there. May we cooperate toward a common end?"

  I replied with one word: "Price." Wright threw out a figure, to be paid on delivery. He named a fabulous sum, one to make me choke on my drink. Choking back that, I said smoothly, "It'll do. About my initial expenses—"

  Barely masking his contempt Wright thrust forward a few folded bills of worthy caliber, which I hastily palmed. We briefly discussed incidental details, which didn't keep me there long, and with the preliminaries clear he brusquely shooed me out. Riding down the slow elevator, I pondered what I'd heard, what little I knew up front. It wasn't much then; except for what Wright had disclosed, I went armed only with the wisp of information from the morning news report, on recollection my first knowledge of this outfit, the Ultimate Truth Foundation, holding their get-together in Sedona. The location told me plenty, even without Wright's confirmation: some kind of wacky New Age mob, likely a gaggle of starry-eyed dreamers, left over hippies and vacant-minded youths. I knew these types well. Despite my fresh client's harsh words concerning his compadres, there shouldn't be anything especially menacing about them.