Darker Than Night

by Goingback, Owl

  "But we'll just keep that our little secret. Won't we?"

  Opening the box of shells, he fed five bright red shells into the belly of the shotgun. There was a noticeable click as he worked the slide, chambering one of the shells into the firing position. What he held was no longer just a shotgun. Now it was a loaded firearm. A weapon. And what a weapon it was: a police 12-gauge riot gun, with an 18¼ barrel and a full choke. A firearm that could blow a melon-sized hole through the chest of even the toughest opponent.

  As he loaded the Winchester, Mike realized something very dear and precious had been taken from American men in society's attempt to become civilized. Holding the shotgun he felt different, stronger, more centered than he had for a long, long time. The gun felt like it was a natural part of him, like a severed limb that had been miraculously reattached.

  He imagined how it must have been two hundred years ago: a man and his gun providing for his family by putting fresh meat on the table, warding off outlaws and Indians, and protecting his home and the things he held dear. It felt so good. So right. How could anyone ever say that owning a firearm was wrong?

  He wondered where things had gone so terribly wrong. When had the politicians and the feminists convinced the men of this country that owning a firearm was a bad thing? When had the weapons been taken out of the hands of innocent, law-abiding people and put into the hands of the criminals? When had the dark ages of this country actually begun?

  In many places the right to own and bear arms was little more than a dim memory, nothing but meaningless words handwritten on crumbling sheets of ancient parchment. The right to bear arms, as provided by the United States Constitution, was now illegal in many places, as was the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

  He fed the last shell into the magazine and then took a deep breath, raised the shotgun to his shoulder, and switched off the safety. He aimed at the plastic milk carton and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The shotgun roared and kicked violently, nearly knocking him on his butt. Mike had underestimated how loud the blast would be, had not bothered to wear hearing protection of any kind, and would be lucky if he hadn't damaged his eardrums.

  Lowering the shotgun, he rubbed his right shoulder and shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears. He also became painfully aware that the empty milk carton still sat in the same position it had moments earlier, completely void of any pellet holes.

  "I missed?" Mike walked forward to get a better look at the milk carton, not believing what he was seeing.

  "How in the hell could I miss with a 12-gauge? It's impossible."

  It may have been impossible, but he had in fact completely missed the milk carton. Rapidly fading were the images of pioneer Mike Anthony standing with his trusty gun in hand, facing down grizzly bears, stampeding buffaloes, and attacks by wild Indians.

  "Son of a bitch. I missed."

  He stopped about ten feet away from the empty carton and worked the shotgun's slide, ejecting the empty shell on the ground and slipping a new one into place. The air around him was now scented with the sharp odor of gunpowder. Not wanting to inflict any more damage on his shoulders, he held the gun at waist level, pointed the business end toward the carton, and pulled the trigger.

  Mike's second shot also missed the milk carton, tearing a hole in the ground about eighteen inches to the left. Working the slide quickly, he fired again, finally hitting his target.

  The milk carton launched into the air as a cloud of pellets punched holes in its front side, tearing out its back side completely. He fired again, and again, hitting the carton twice more with the remaining two shells.

  "That's it. That's it," he laughed. "Who's the man now?" He turned toward the house, wondering if Holly had witnessed his impressive display of shooting skills. Unfortunately he was too far away to tell if anyone watched him from the windows. If nothing else she had heard him. Hell, the whole neighborhood had heard him. He hoped that whoever had been sneaking into their house at night had also been listening.

  "Maybe this will convince them not to come around here anymore."

  He thought about doing a little more shooting, but decided against it. It wouldn't do to use up all of his ammo, especially when he wasn't planning on going back into town that day. An empty gun wasn't much of a threat to anyone.

  Putting the shotgun back in its protective case, he gathered up the pieces of the milk carton and started back for the house. Despite having missed a couple of times, he felt good about his shooting ability. He also felt better prepared to protect his family and belongings.

  He dared anyone to try sneaking into their house now. Just dared them.

  Part Three

  "Only the unknown frightens men. But once a man has faced the unknown, that terror becomes the known."

  —Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  27

  Mike's mouth was dry; his hands wet with sweat. He sat in one of the oversized chairs in the library, his back to the wall, facing the open doorway. Cradled in his lap was the Winchester riot gun he had purchased earlier in the day at the Western Auto store. The shotgun was loaded with five rounds of .00 buck shells. For safety's sake, he had not chambered a round. Not yet.

  The house was dark and spooky, quiet except for the occasional creak of settling. Holly and the kids had gone to bed hours earlier. She had tried to get him to go upstairs too, but he had refused. Someone was getting into their house, attempting to terrorize them, and he was going to put a stop to it. If the sheriff's department wouldn't do anything about it, then he would.

  Allowing the gun to rest fully on his lap, he wiped his hand across his forehead. It was a humid night, and his skin was damp with sweat. The heat made it hard to stay awake, caused him to fight to keep from going to sleep. He would have opened a window to let in the night air, but if someone was getting into the house, he wanted to find out how they were doing it. Opening the windows would just make things easier for the intruder.

  Nor could he watch television in the living room to relieve the boredom. Even with the sound turned all the way down, the screen's flickering light would warn anyone outside the house that someone was still up. Listening to the radio was also out of the question, even with the headphones, because he had to be able to hear any sounds that might warn him an intruder was present.

  No television. No radio. He wanted nothing to be different from any other night, lest the invader suspect a trap.

  A trap. That's exactly what it was. Mike had given strict instructions for Holly and the children to stay upstairs tonight. To make doubly sure those instructions would be obeyed, Tommy would be sleeping with his mother. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see who showed up that did not belong.

  Suppressing a yawn, Mike allowed his eyes to close momentarily. The house was dark; there was no point in straining his eyesight in the darkness. He would be able to hear if anyone broke into the house: the jiggle of a door latch; the squeak of a window being slid up; footsteps coming down the hall. All he had to do was relax and wait for them.

  * * * * *

  He must have dozed off. The heat must have taken its toll on him and he had fallen asleep. He wasn't sure how long he had slept, but when he opened his eyes the shadows in the room had changed position. They were also darker and deeper than they had been earlier.

  Mike glanced at his watch. A little over an hour had passed since he last checked the time, so he hadn't slept long. Still there was enough of a difference in the room to make his suspect the moon had traveled halfway across the sky and was now on the opposite side of the house. It was dark in the library, much darker than it had been before.

  Where it had been humid and hot earlier, it was now quite cool in the room. Raising his right hand, he detected a slight breeze blowing from behind him, but there was nothing there but the wall.

  "This is impossible," he said, standing up. Still holding the shotgun, he slowly approached the back wall. It was the same library wall where the wooden
masks had once hung, now marred by the large cracks running from floor to ceiling.

  Stepping closer, he realized the wind was coming out of the cracks. At first he thought the cracks must go all the way through to the outside of the house, and what he felt was nothing more than the night breeze, but the wind was icy cold, leaving him chilled where it blew across his bare skin. While it was probably cooler outside, it could not possibly be that cold.

  With the wind came a faint whispering sound, as though something spoke deep within the walls. The sound reminded him of scurrying insects. For a moment he imagined thousands of cockroaches moving about in the walls on spiny legs, carrying on whispered conversations with one another. It was not a particularly pleasing image to imagine.

  The whispering sound grew louder, causing him to take a cautious step back from the wall. As he stepped back, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his left eye. Someone, or something, was in the library with him.

  Mike spun around as a shadowy shape slipped beneath a coffee table. Another shadow scurried along the wall on the opposite side of the room. The room was dark, but the shadows were darker.

  What the hell is that?

  He thought at first they were raccoons, but they did not move like raccoons. In fact they didn't move like any animal he was familiar with. They glided rather than walked. They were also shapeless, nothing more than patches of black against a dark background.

  Mike heard a sound behind him and turned, startled by what he saw. Shadows were squeezing out of the crack in the wall, flowing into the room like blobs of liquid mercury. Four, five, six of them, they glided over the wall and raced along the baseboard.

  Shadows. Just shadows. Pools of darkness attached to no animal, person, or any living thing that he could see. Yet they were alive, and aware of his presence in the room.

  More whispers came from behind him. He turned as the shadow hiding beneath the coffee table rushed toward him. Though it was just a shadow, he felt something solid collide against his ankles, knocking his feet out form under him. He fell and struck the floor hard, the shotgun flying out of his hand. As he fell, he was aware of other shapes racing at him.

  Knowing he was in danger from things unknown, Mike hit the floor and rolled. Getting to his knees, he started to stand back up, but suddenly a weight landed on the back of his left leg. Fiery pain shot through the calf of that leg, causing him to cry out. He had been bitten by something he could feel but not see.

  Rolling to his right, he kicked the invisible attacker off of him. He staggered to his feet and started to pick up the shotgun but he knew the gun would be useless against things he could not see in the dark. Despite its deadly firepower, the shotgun did have its limitations. Instead of grabbing the Winchester, he hurried across the room and turned on the light.

  Switching on the lamp, he caught a glimpse of a dozen shadowy shapes racing across the room after him. He saw them for only a brief instant, for the shadows abruptly changed direction and ran away from him, apparently fleeing from the light.

  "Jesus Christ," he whispered, freezing dead in his tracks at the sight before him. Though liquid in movement, the shadows did have identifiable features when viewed in the light. They were tiny dwarfish creatures that appeared to be almost human. He recognized the faces of the shadowy beings, for he had seen portraits of similar creatures displayed upon his kitchen floor. His grandmother had also seen the faces, might even have seen the creatures themselves, but no one had believed her.

  Mike stood there, watching in horror as the shadows raced around the edges of the room. What he was seeing could not possibly be real, but it was. They were nothing more than shadows, but these shadows had teeth and claws that were all too real. Glancing down, he saw that the left leg of his blue jeans had been ripped by the shadow that attacked him.

  In that instance all of his doubts and disbeliefs in the supernatural were tossed aside like dried leaves on a windy day. He had refused to believe his wife and children, passing off what they had seen as nothing more than overactive imaginations. But the things he saw now were definitely not figments of anyone's imagination.

  Holly suddenly appeared in the doorway behind him. "Mike what's going on? I heard you scream."

  "Stay back!" he shouted. "Don't come in here!"

  Holly didn't listen. She entered the room, stopping just behind her husband.

  Never taking his eyes off the far wall, Mike crossed the room and grabbed his shotgun off the floor. As he did, he stepped in front of the lamp, causing a shadow to be cast across the room. In that patch of darkness several creatures could be seen.

  Holly cried out in terror. "Dear God, Mike, what are these things?"

  "Boogers," he answered, sliding a shell into the shotgun's chamber. Aiming quickly, he pulled the trigger and fired. A flash of flame leaped from the barrel as the 12-gauge roared. The buckshot ripped through one of the boogers, tearing a hole in the opposite wall. The creature was unhurt by the gun, for it was, after all, nothing more than a shadow. And you could not hurt a shadow. Or could you?

  "Light. We need more light!" Mike shouted. He grabbed the lamp, fumbling to remove the lamp shade. The lamp had originally been fitted with a hundred watt bulb, but that bulb had been broken. Now it only had a forty-watt bulb, which was obviously not bright enough to ward off the boogers.

  "Quick, grab the lamp off of my desk. It's brighter."

  Holly didn't move, frozen with terror by the things she saw.

  "Hurry!"

  She stumbled back, tearing herself away from the sight before her. She raced across the room and into Mike's office. Unplugging the lamp's cord from the wall, she snatched it off the desk and ran back into the library.

  "Here," she shouted, entering the room.

  With some reluctance, Mike turned his back on the shadows, Handing Holly the shotgun, he grabbed the lamp and plugged it into the wall. Flipping it on, he aimed the bright beam of light at the boogers.

  As it swept over them, the shadowy creatures, fled across the room. They flowed up the wall like an ebony waterfall in reverse, disappearing into the cracks.

  "They can't stand the light," Mike said, triumphantly. "It's driving them back."

  A shadow darted out from under the coffee table. Racing along the baseboard, it fled out into the hallway. "Mike, one of them is getting away!"

  He handed Holly the desk lamp. "Keep the light on them and you'll be safe. I'm going after that one."

  He ran out into the hallway, unsure whether to turn right or left. Three was no light in the hallway, so everything was still completely dark. Turning left, he ran into the living room and flipped on the light.

  Mike thought he saw something dark beneath the sofa but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was only a trick of the lighting. Perhaps he was just seeing things. Still he needed to check beneath the sofa to be certain.

  Starting across the room, he was suddenly aware he had left the shotgun with Holly. Not that the gun would have done him much good; the last thing he needed was to shoot holes in the furniture. Still he could have used the shotgun's barrel to poke beneath the sofa in an attempt to flush out anything that might be hiding there. He looked around the room to see if there was anything else he could use — a broom or a mop — but there was nothing to be had.

  Not wanting to drop to his knees to look beneath the sofa, afraid something might lunge at him with sharp teeth and claws, he decided that the best course of action would be to move the sofa out of the way. Grabbing one end of it, Mike shoved the sofa several feet to the right.

  Nothing was revealed when he moved the furniture, nor did anything come running out. Determined something had to be hiding underneath the sofa, he grabbed the other end of it and shoved. This time he got results.

  A blur of blackness shot past his feet, causing him to jump back with a yell. He turned to follow the path of the creature, but it was already racing out of the room. Again wishing he had not given up his shotgun, he hurried after the
fleeing booger.

  As he ran into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of the mysterious creature entering the kitchen. He entered the kitchen just a scant second behind it, flipping on the lights. As he flipped on the fluorescent lights set in the ceiling, Mike caught a glimpse of movement beneath the kitchen table. The area directly beneath the table appeared to be covered with a swirling mass of blackness, but as the lights were turned on, that blackness disappeared, as though it was sucked down through the crack in the floor.

  Mike stopped, his hand still on the light switch, staring in disbelief at the floor beneath the table. There was nothing there, nothing at all.

  Crossing the room, he slowly approached the table and slid the chairs back out of the way. The faces on the floor stared up at him, mocking him in silence. He ignored them. The night had already been too strange, without giving thought to what was drawn on the floor.

  Kneeling, he examined the crack beneath the table. As his fingers slid along the crack marring the tiles, he was aware of a coldness seeping up from the floor. It was a dull chill equal to what he had felt in the library, making him think of underground caverns and passageways. Nameless places where blind things slithered and crawled.

  A shiver of fear crept up Mike's back, strong enough to cause his teeth to chatter. As he touched the crack, feeling the coldness numbing his fingertips, he could almost imagine there was something down in the darkness, deep below the basement, staring up at him. Dozens of tiny creatures that looked up from their world of blackness, seeing the light that spilled into the narrow crack in the kitchen floor. Seeing him.