by Joe Hart
MIDNIGHT PATHS
A COLLECTION OF DARK HORROR
JOE HART
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2011 by Joe Hart. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This collection is a work of fiction. People, places, events, dialogue, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination and are not constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Foreword
PCA
THE UNFAMILIAR
YOU SURE ARE CALM, COWBOY
ANGEL CHARLIE
OLD DOG
PALE MAN
THE MAN IN THE ROOM
THE EXPLODING MAN
ADRIFT
BLACKJACK
Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank, and dedicate this book to, several people who made the following stories possible. I would like to thank my mother, who instilled a love for reading and, by osmosis, a love of writing in me from an early age. To my father, who always encouraged me to pursue writing, whether he liked my subject matter or not—thanks Dad. To Rory, who always analyzed my writing and made me analyze it in turn. To Wil, who motivated me and gave me new ideas whenever we had too many drinks together. To Stephen King, who inspired me to write scary stories through his own brilliant work. To my children, Rainyn and Keegan, who were so patient through all the nights when Dad had to sit at the computer, instead of playing or watching a movie. To everyone who reads this book—thank you for spending your hard-earned dollars on entertainment that I was able to provide. I hope that you enjoy the stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. And above all, to my wife Jade, who encouraged, criticized, corrected, and believed in my work. Thank you, honey, even though you are the comma queen.
Foreword
I love horror. I love the sick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know something is terribly wrong. I love the excitement of a great story that turns for the worse. I love being scared.
Why else would you read the stories that are in the pages beyond? Being afraid is fun— as long as it’s safe. Sitting in your favorite chair, sipping your favorite beverage, while a cold and dangerous storm rages outside your window—all the while reading a frightening story . It doesn’t get much better than that if you ask me.
I started writing when I was ten. I wrote my first short story when I was eleven. Since then, I’ve been in love with the short story. It’s like a strong shot of alcohol: quick and to the point. A novel is wonderful. It’s engaging and mysterious, and you get to fall in love with the characters. I love novels too. But a well-written short horror story is like a ride in a Corvette with a maniac for a chauffeur: you have no idea where you’ll end up; you only know you’re going to crash.
I won’t go into a long-drawn-out foreword like the ones I sometimes find in collections. That’s not why you’re reading this book. Instead, I’ll open the door unto the dark night for you. I’ll show you an unlit path to tread on. And don’t worry about the noise you hear off in the dark woods. It’s probably something harmless. Probably.
Pick your stormy night and mix up your drink, whatever it may be. Cuddle into your chair and settle in for a ride. Give in to your fears as we pass them by, and you might be surprised how well you know the darkness that comes to meet us.
Joe Hart
October 14, 2011
PCA
Eric stepped up to the weathered wooden door of the old farmhouse and knocked a sure, confident rap against its peeling paint. He looked back and forth at his surroundings, getting his bearings.
The house sat on a slight rise at the end of a long, winding drive that branched off from the main road. Main road, Eric thought, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. If you could call it a main road. The paved road was nothing more than a two-lane snake trail that cut a swath through the northern Minnesota wilderness. He was fifteen miles from the nearest town (one-horse was a generous description) and over thirty from the little town of Rapid Falls, where he was employed.
The yard was tidy, and it looked as though the old man who lived here cut the grass with a shears and a ruler. Eric gazed at the old garage next to the house. The windows looking like dead eyes staring out at the dingy gray sky, which threatened rain. Past the garage and through a copse of pine trees, Eric could see a chainlink fence and the stones that stood in the ground beyond. He shivered. Graveyards always gave him the chills. He shook his head slightly. With one this close, he knew he could never live here.
He turned and was about to knock on the door again when he realized there was a face staring at him through the hazy windows of the door. Eric lurched back reflexively, and he had to resist the urge to run that his mind was sending to his legs. His stomach rolled from fright, then settled back again as he realized he was looking at the old man whom he was here to see.
The door opened slightly, and Eric straightened up and tried to smile at the man who stood there. George Mathews was nearly eighty but didn’t look a day over sixty-five. He had a full head of iron-gray hair that was combed to the side, in what Eric thought was a style that had died out fifty years ago. George had wide shoulders for a man his age, which filled out the flannel shirt he was wearing. Although his posture was slightly stooped, he still held a dignity and purpose that most people Eric saw in his job lacked.
“Hello, Mr. Mathews, I’m Eric from Caring House. I’ll be filling in as your PCA while Julie’s away.”
Eric stepped forward and put out his hand. The older man smiled a warm smile and shook it with a grip uncharacteristic of a man who was much older than Eric’s own grandfather.
“Pleasure to meet you, son. Come on in before you get wet out there, storm’s comin’ in fast from the west.”
George moved out of Eric’s way, and the younger man stepped across the threshold into the house.
The farmhouse was one story and closely built, as many of its kind were fifty years ago. The entryway stemmed off into a small living room to the right and a dining room to the left, which wrapped around into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The air smelled musty. Eric was used to this aroma: the smell of used-up life and old memories.
George shuffled ahead as the two men made their way down the narrow hall that led to the kitchen. As Eric followed, he looked at each photo that hung on the yellowing wallpaper, which stood out like road signs on an interstate.
There was a faded picture of a young couple leaning against an old Ford pickup, which Eric assumed was George and his wife. Their eyes still twinkled through the black-and-white photo and the sixty years that had passed since it was taken.
The next picture was of George and a large dog standing in front of the house Eric was in now. George had an axe over one shoulder and was wearing overalls. The black dog had its head raised and was looking right at the camera, as if it knew its picture was being taken.
The last picture was of a woman Eric assumed to be George’s wife. She sat on the steps in front of the house, wearing a yellow dress. This picture was in color, and even though she must have been sixty in the photo, Eric could still see the girlish smile that was present in the first picture.
Suddenly, the old man spoke from the kitchen, bringing Eric out of his reverie.
“Like some coffee, son?”
Eric looked into the
dimly lit kitchen and smiled warmly. “That would be great, Mr. Mathews.”
“Oh, call me George,” he said, as he busied himself at the counter with his back to Eric. “Mr. Mathews makes me feel old.”
Eric laughed at the spunky comment and stepped into the kitchen. The room was surprisingly warm with light colors and a golden-stained wooden table that took up most of the room.
“You have a very nice place here, Mr.—sorry, George.”
George set the glass coffeepot in the auto coffeemaker and turned to face the younger man.
“Thanks, son, been here fifty-two years. Margie and I bought the thirty acres and this old house for forty-nine hundred dollars. That was when money got you something that was worth what you paid for it.” George motioned Eric to a seat at one end of the table and sat heavily in another at the opposite end. “Times sure do change. My daddy always said, ‘Times change, Georgie, don’t let them change you.’” George smiled halfheartedly and gazed out the windows of the back door.
Eric followed his gaze and noticed that the sky was beginning to darken considerably. Eric didn’t like the thought of driving back thirty miles through a raging summer storm, although he didn’t have much choice. He had four more clients to see before his shift ended at eight this evening. He silently cursed Julie for running off with her boyfriend to wherever she’d gone this past week. Her absence had piled his workload to the breaking point because he now had to take care of his regular clients along with several of hers, such as George. He blinked back to reality as a low rumble of thunder vibrated the air above the house.
George looked at him in a way that unsettled Eric. His eyes were squinted, as if he was looking inside Eric’s head and prying apart who he was. Eric shuffled in his chair and spoke to relieve the awkwardness he felt.
“So, George, what did you do before you retired?”
The man’s eyes remained on Eric’s face for a few more seconds, then he relaxed his gaze into something that resembled a regular expression.
“Drove a tow truck for thirty-nine years, my boy. Towed vehicles out of all kinds of places. Picked up a lot of tourists’ cars over the years that broke down, but mostly I pulled trucks and cars out of the swamps around here due to too much drinking and not enough steering when they were going around a bend.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled, and Eric smiled. Thunder rumbled again, and George looked out into the backyard. It appeared he was watching for something beneath the low-hanging boughs of the white pine that marked the beginning of the thick forest at the back of the yard. After a few moments, George got up and pulled down two worn coffee mugs from a shelf near the sink. He poured the coffee, then handed one cup to Eric after he sat down in his seat.
Eric sipped eagerly at the dark liquid. He had missed his coffee that morning due to oversleeping, and he now had the beginnings of a caffeine-withdrawal headache. The hot liquid soothed the throbbing at the base of his skull and calmed his nerves, which he realized were wound tight. Why was he so uptight with this kind old guy? He was a bit strange but not near as weird as some of the clients Eric had come into contact with over the last few years of caretaking.
“So, where’s my Julie gone to?” George asked over the steaming cup.
The question surprised Eric. He wasn’t ready to field questions on the disappearance of his co-worker, mainly because he didn’t really know much. He had gone in to work as usual last week, and one day Julie didn’t show up for her shift. Their supervisor had been irritated and a little confused. Julie wasn’t the type of person not to show up for work. She was organized and punctual, especially when it came to her job. She had been working her way through college as a personal care aide (PCA) at Caring House. She’d told Eric during a staff meeting one day that she was working toward a degree in graphic design and this was just footing the bills in the meantime.
Eric had actually been attracted to her when he was hired at the agency. However, when he had asked her out, she had replied that she was dating a great guy, and had been for several years. They even had plans to get married when her boyfriend got a steady job in the area. Right now, he was working for an insurance company as a traveling adjuster and was gone for a week at a time on certain claims.
All that anyone at the agency could come up with was she and her boyfriend had eloped the week before, and she was now enjoying a short honeymoon. There was really no one to contact, since her parents had both died when she was young and she had no brothers or sisters. Eric’s supervisor had just thrown up her hands and said that if she came back, she would have a serious reprimand for leaving without scheduling and taking care of her clients prior to her disappearance.
“You know, I think she ran off to get married,” Eric said, and leaned back in his chair to take another sip of coffee. Wow, this is good coffee, he thought, not for the first time since George had handed him the cup.
George nodded thoughtfully and tilted his head at an angle. “Love is something, isn’t it? You ever been in love, son?”
Eric shrugged and smiled. “Haven’t found the right girl I guess, sir. Been looking though.”
Both men chuckled at this, but their laughter was overridden by a powerful blast of thunder that seemed to come from directly over the house. Fat drops of rain began to pelt the window like gunshots, and soon the backyard was blurred by the water that streamed down the glass.
“Yeah, love is something,” George said, as he gazed out at the storm and the large trees behind the home that began to sway. “It can change you, do strange things to you, sometimes make you do strange things too. My Margie could get me to do nearly anything just by batting an eye in my direction. Not that she abused it, that power she had over me. She just knew I would do anything for her, and I knew she’d do the same for me.” George’s face darkened, as if a cloud like the ones outside had slid across the sunshine of his mind. “She’s been missing now for over three months. We went to bed, same as usual, and in the morning her side was empty. Back door was open, and her night coat was gone. Police said she might have had beginnings of Alzheimer’s. Bullshit, I say. They looked and looked in the woods and swamps but couldn’t find hide nor hair. They even questioned me for some time, can you believe that? Me, her own husband of fifty-five years! As though I’d be capable of hurting her. Dogs might have flown with golden wings before I ever thought of hurting my Margie.”
George sat staring out at the tops of the trees that were now whipping back and forth like marionettes with strings attached to the storm. Julie had relayed this story to Eric at a company picnic over a month ago. He had deemed it strange, but he also thought the Alzheimer’s theory was a sound one. He’d dealt with several patients with the disease. The things they did without remembering or even realizing came flooding back to his mind. An old woman walking out of her house into the wilderness didn’t seem like such a far stretch to him, but he just nodded and kept his opinion to himself while he sipped his coffee.
“I’d do anything to have her back,” George said solemnly, as though he was speaking to himself in an empty house.
Lightning arced violently across the sky in the pattern of a dead tree branch, and a clap of thunder followed close behind. Eric finished the last sip of his coffee and set the cup down harder than he had intended. George snapped out of his trance and looked at Eric with what seemed like amusement.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to set it down so hard,” Eric said unsteadily. For some reason, George and the kitchen beyond had a blur to them, as if Eric were looking through a dirty glass pane. He shook his head in a quick movement, and his vision cleared somewhat.
George was still smiling benignly over his untouched cup of coffee. “Good coffee, isn’t it, my boy? The secret’s in the water. We have real good water here, our own well. Drilled it myself when we moved in. Margie was worried about it though. She was a city girl before I met her. Grew up in Minneapolis. Nothin’ but city water for her, you see. We moved here, and I drilled that well. And she worried a
bout the things in the soil. ‘Untreated water could have bacteria microbes,’ she said. Although, I think mostly she worried about the graveyard yonder.”
“Graveyard?” Eric repeated. His vision had once again become blurry, and his stomach was beginning to tighten with nausea. The word the old man had said resounded inside Eric’s head like an echo that wouldn’t decrease in volume.
“That graveyard’s been there for over a hundred and fifty years, my boy. Two hundred fifty-three graves over there, counted them myself. Did you know that there’s one that dates back to the Civil War? That’s a long time to be in the ground. Long time to rot and seep into the earth, don’t you think? All those bodies just slowly mixing into the soil, into the water table.”
George paused, watching as Eric kept blinking like there was something in his eyes. George nodded. It was almost time.
“Margie worried. I should have listened to her. That water wasn’t pure like I thought it was. Wasn’t pure at all.”
George stood from the table and poured his coffee down the drain, then set the empty cup by the sink to be washed later.
“So, son, you want to help me with a project I have going?” George asked, as he walked quickly around the table and opened the back door to the weather raging outside.
“I … don’t know. I think I might be … sick or something,” Eric said. His eyes went in and out of focus now, and his limbs began to take on a numbness that he associated with a night of binge drinking Irish whiskey.
“Oh, come now, that’s why you’re here, ain’t it? To help me with things that need doing?” George asked enthusiastically, then stepped out into the rain and wind.
Eric got shakily to his feet and walked after the other man. His eyes squinted into slits as the rain began to hit him in the doorway. He glanced to his right, down the porch stairs in the direction his charge had disappeared. George stood next to a large overhead door at the back of the garage.