Behold the Void

by Philip Fracassi

  Then, he heard him.

  “Dad!”

  The thin cry came from directly below. He looked to the bottom of the staircase, and amidst all that dark he could see a pale face staring up, almost lost in the encroaching shadows, almost buried by the invading sea.

  “Mike!”

  “Dad!” his son screamed, but the word was cut off by a sudden wave that swept in and over Mike’s face.

  He never resurfaced.

  Paul took the next three steps in a rush, then leaped midway down, jumping outward and into the rain-thrashed sea ten feet below.

  He hit the water like a slap and the cold shocked the breath out of him. He swirled in the current, twisted himself to what he thought was upright, and pushed through the water. He broke the surface and gasped in the air, hard rain pelting him. His head jerked side-to-side, tried to gain some bearing. He saw the staircase a few feet away and swam to it.

  Mike came up again, face tilted flat, eyes straight up to heaven, craning desperately for a last few seconds of air. Paul reached him, put his hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sides of his face. Mike’s wild eyes rolled down toward him, terror in the whites.

  “Dad,” he said, so desperately it broke Paul’s heart.

  My son, my son, my son! his mind screamed in a feverish delirium as he tried to understand what was happening. A hard light hit the water and he looked up into the powerful beams of two flashlights.

  “Mike? What’s wrong?” Paul grabbed his boy around the waist, tried to pull him up. To his shock, Mike didn’t budge, only screamed as if he’d been stabbed. What the hell is going on?

  “My wrist!” Mike yelled, water pouring into his mouth faster than he could spit it out. He hacked, spat, more water flowed in and he swallowed it. “My wrist is handcuffed!”

  “What?” Paul couldn’t register the information. It made no sense! Handcuffed? He ran his hands down the child’s arm, felt the cold metal ring, traced the chain to the other secured tightly to the steel staircase rail. “Oh my god,” he said, then there was a giant splash. He spun, saw Hank Denton’s face rise above the surface.

  “Look out, Paul!” he bellowed. “I’ve got the key!”

  Paul nodded and moved aside, not letting go of Mike’s other hand. Never letting you go.

  “Give me light!” Hank roared and the two lights fell on Mike’s upturned face, the black water a surrounding halo.

  Hank dove under.

  He opened his eyes, could see the murky white outline of Mike’s body, the hard black metal of the staircase, the gleaming chrome of the cuffs. Blood swirled from Mike’s wrist and Hank wanted to scream for the pain the boy must be in, the terror he must be going through. He reached out, put a meaty hand around the base of the pole.

  My god, he can’t go any higher, he thought as he raised the key toward the cuff.

  Almost there, kid, just hang on. Almost…

  Something tugged at the cuff of Hank’s pants, yanked him backward. The surprise of being grabbed from something in the water, something that felt very much like it had hands, caused Hank to instinctively twist to see what the hell was pulling him into the sea.

  As he spun, he released his hold on the stanchion. The hand holding the key flinched, and the small piece of shining metal slipped from between his fingers, caught a ripple of current, and disappeared.

  Hank felt water surge past him. He watched the glowing figure of Mike shoot further and further away as the thing pulled him like it had a motor. He kicked and kicked and twisted his body. Seaweed tendrils grabbed at his arms, rubbed over his face. He closed his eyes and jack-hammered his foot at whatever held him, and then it was gone.

  His breath almost spent, he pushed toward the surface, broke free, and yelled out in terror and frustration.

  The stairs were twenty yards away, and the current was pulling against him.

  Paul was screaming, pointing. He saw Tim Wells handing something down to Jack, who was near the waterline holding a light, who then handed it to Paul. Paul went underwater.

  He couldn’t even see Mike anymore.

  Paul didn’t know what to do for his son. The water washed over him in waves. Mike was trying to breathe, to speak.

  “Close your mouth, Mike,” he said, helplessly watching the seawater pour down the boy’s throat. “Hold your breath!”

  And then the water covered him.

  Think! Paul tried to figure out what to do, his mind a firestorm of panic. A tube? Something to help him breathe, to keep breathing. Where did Hank go? He looked around, but didn’t see him anywhere. He heard a loud yell from behind him, turned and saw Hank surface, almost at the edge of the cove. What the fuck?

  Hank was swimming now, back toward them, but it was slow—too slow.

  The key!

  “We need another key!” Paul yelled at the cop who was hunched down just a couple steps above them. The big cop nodded, started to reach for his pocket, then stopped, frustration stretching his face.

  “Tim! I need your handcuff keys!” he yelled up at his partner.

  The other cop dropped the flashlight, reached for a chain around his belt, yanked off a small set of keys, handed them down. The cop looked to Paul.

  “Can you do it? I’ll hold the light!”

  Paul took the key and nodded, prayed Mike could hold his breath thirty more seconds. He took a deep breath and sunk down into the water.

  Mike’s eyes were open and staring up into blurry light. The water had him completely now, and underneath here all the sounds were muted, voluminous. He felt like he could hear the earth’s heartbeat slowly become one with his own. He felt a tug at his hand and looked down to see his dad trying to open the cuffs. Mike’s lungs were burning. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold his breath.

  He reached his free hand through the slow-motion effect of water and placed it on his father’s shoulder. It felt so good to touch his dad, to feel the weight of him so near. He wasn’t scared anymore. At least he wasn’t alone, at least his dad was here with him. In the end, his dad had come for him. The lights from above shot broad, muddy green beams through the water. He looked past his dad’s shoulder as he struggled with the cuff, saw a face enter one of those beams.

  His mother smiled at him. An open smile, like she wasn’t underwater at all. Her blonde hair was angelic, swirling around her head, glistening like gold in the bars of light.

  “Come with me, Mike,” she said, and now she was next to him, her mouth at his ear, her hands cupping his chin, stroking his temples with her long fingers. “I love you, baby. I miss you… so much…”

  Mike knew what she wanted.

  He looked into her beautiful eyes, now only inches from his own. Her hands caressed his face and he felt warmth surge through him, a feeling of comfort so wonderful he never wanted to feel anything else.

  “Come with me,” she said, and lightly kissed his lips.

  Her mouth lingered, pushed harder, fingers pressing into his face, his hair.

  Finally, he could resist her no more. His eyes fluttered closed and he opened his mouth wide.

  The giddy sea rushed in.

  Paul finally fumbled the key into the tiny lock and twisted.

  The cuff around Mike’s wrist let loose with a click.

  Paul gripped both sides and opened them like spreading claws. A cloud of blood flooded the water, and Mike’s limp wrist floated through the opening.

  Paul planted his feet, grabbed his son’s lifeless my god he’s not breathing oh please no body and lifted him up and out of the water.

  “Mike!” he yelled as he began to climb the stairs with him in his arms, free of the water. Mike’s eyes stayed closed. “Mike!” he screamed again, carrying the boy’s body up the steep metal steps as quickly as he could.

  He heard other voices yelling, “Let’s go let’s go!” and, “Hurry, over here!” but only focused on getting up and out of the cove. He lurched past the top step, up over the side, and two paramedics gently removed his son
from his arms, saying comforting things like, “We’ve got him, sir,” and, “He’ll be okay.”

  Paul stood, helplessly, and watched as they laid Mike’s body on the grass. The older one, the woman, had her hand on Mike’s chest. It wasn’t moving. She moved the hand to his neck.

  “No pulse,” she said.

  Two officers stood over them, and two other officers waited in the shadows, one of them talking into a radio, a smaller flashlight aimed at the feet of a small boy who stood by his side.

  Joe, Paul realized. That’s his friend, Joe.

  Paul wanted to go to him, to ask him what had happened, how Mike had ended up at the bottom of that cove, handcuffed, trapped and left for dead.

  Not now, not yet. He bent over, put his hands on his knees, the rain soaking all of them, and watched the paramedics give his little boy CPR.

  Hank Denton stepped up beside him, breathing heavy. He put a hand on Paul’s back, then removed it. They both watched the paramedics work, waiting for the miracle, waiting for the water to spit out, for breath and life to pour into the thin body.

  “Something pulled me,” Hank said, quietly enough that it may have been to himself, may have been for only he and Paul to hear. “I was about to unlock the cuffs, and something… shit, man, something yanked me away, didn’t let go until…”

  Paul listened but didn’t hear. His eyes were fixed on Mike. He watched the chest compressions. He heard the other boy, Joe, cry and yell for Mike to, “wake up!” to, “please wake up!”

  The dream came again. His wife’s threat. The sickbed. The black mirror. She had held him there, in the dream state, so she could do this. So she could take him.

  The Eye.

  That black oval eye, watching him. A manifestation that found its way into a shared subconscious. Did she even know it was there? Did she know it was watching?

  She had tread into his subconscious and it had followed. A dream within a dream, from which he had escaped, but from what, and into what dark night?

  He looked up to the sky, squinted. Raindrops blinked past him. He wondered if the universe was as uncaring as some suspected. He thought, perhaps, the frayed border between life and death, flexible as sticky tar, was not so devoid of thought, or compassion, as it might seem. Paul thought that maybe, just maybe, it could take sides. Pass judgment. Dictate terms, if needed. If called upon.

  He heard a light laugh. A gentle, familiar chuckle that carried to him through the tumult. He could feel her presence. He turned toward the water, and saw her.

  Black against black, standing at the top of the steps, watching them all, waiting. The rain blurred her, but she was most certainly there; a dripping shadow against the night, the sea at her back, the slightest hint of blonde hair blowing in the harsh wind, eyes glittering back at him, triumphant.

  She’s come for him, he thought, and knew she had won, knew it to be true deep down in his broken heart. She’d wanted him, and now she would have him. Forever.

  He stepped toward her, away from Mike, from the officers, from the futile work of the paramedics. Out of the haze of handheld lights, toward the oily watching eye, and to the woman who had dared command it.

  “Louisa,” he said, just under his breath, but he knew she could hear him.

  The shadow’s head cocked, floating eyes in a pool of smoke turned to study him, as if curious. There was a flash of lightning, and the shadow morphed, turned into something almost insect-like. Arms became thin and pointed, hair became feelers. A triangular head tilted, the whites of the eyes flared, suddenly enraged, or ecstatic.

  Paul stepped closer yet. He pulled the silver wedding band off his wet finger, held it up to her in his palm, rain danced on the surface like sprites.

  “He’s mine, and I won’t give him to you,” he said. He pulled back his arm and threw the wedding band into the ocean of dark from which she had come. Taking sides. He stepped toward her again, aggressively, and this time the floating eyes narrowed, the elongated, insectoid shadow retreated a step, the form bleeding into tendrils, the blond hair turned feelers fading into the rain, the dark shape breaking to pieces, receding as if being called back.

  “He’s mine,” he said again, pleading not just to her but to whatever force would listen, knowing he meant the words, that he would stay true to them. That he would never let go again.

  There was a light groaning sound, then a whip-like crack. A burst of cold wind struck his face, and he gasped. She said his name, and left a warning as she passed through. He caught the scent of her, and then she was gone.

  Paul waited, not daring to turn around. He stared at the sea, at the black horizon. Waiting, praying.

  He promised it what it wanted.

  Something opened inside his chest, blossomed outward, spiraling, ovule spreading, welcoming the rush that filled him like electricity, that warmed his toes and fingers, the tips of his ears, the roots of his hair. In a flash, he saw everything. He brought a fist to his mouth, fought not to cry out.

  From behind him, he heard Mike cough and spit out, huff gulps of air into his lungs.

  “We got him!” someone yelled.

  Paul let out his held cry, turned and ran to his son, dropped into the mud at his side. Men were yelling and he heard the other boy screaming like he had lost his young mind. Flashlight beams illuminated Mike’s body, his white flesh glowing. An oxygen mask was slipped over his mouth. His eyes were open, searching. Alive.

  Rain drenched them all, there was a yell of triumph mixed with cries. To Paul, it sounded like a multitude.

  “I’m here,” Paul said, pushing hair from Mike’s forehead to kiss it. He raised his head, found his son’s gray-blue eyes and held them with his own, pupils gyrating.

  Mike’s eyes widened with alarm.

  “I’m right here.”

  Philip Fracassi lives in Los Angeles, where he works as a screenwriter and author.

  His screenplays range from kids’ movies to supernatural thrillers, and have been distributed by Disney Entertainment and Lifetime Television. He is the author of several chapbooks and a literary novel. Behold the Void is his debut collection.

  He can be reached via Facebook, Twitter (@philipfracassi) or his website: pfracassi.com.