Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories

by Scott Nicholsonan

  And behind them, a twig snapped.

  Gina spun around.

  “Someone’s following us,” she said, her voice as little as she was.

  “I know,” said Billy, taking her hand. “But it’s okay.”

  She looked up at him and this time he smiled at her. “Don’t worry, I know who it is. I was expecting them.”

  His sister didn’t look convinced but that was okay; he was ready for them. Billy glanced back at the trees but they stayed quiet. No birds or insects, not even the wind to rustle amongst leaves. He knew the two of them were back there though, coming to stop him. Well, they could try.

  “C’mon,” he said, leading the way.

  “Look,” he said soon after, seeing the clearing up ahead.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.” He felt his heartbeat ramp up. Like it had when he’d first heard of this place, two weeks ago.

  ‘God’s breath,’ Sparks had said. ‘That’s what we call it. Share God’s breath and you’ll become a God.’

  He laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘Go up to it and look at it, but whatever you do, don’t touch it. Being a God ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, y’know.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘There’s more than one kind of God,’ said Spotswood. ‘An’ they don’t all wear white robes and long beards.’

  It was lunchtime, his second week here, and they were down at the bottom fields, talking shit. Him, Sparks, and Spotswood, the only kids to have given him any time since school had started. Adam Sparks was tall and slim, with long black hair that hung limp and greasy. His chin was pimply. Michael Spotswood had spiky blonde hair and gangly limbs. They both wore denim as if it were gang colors. They had known each other for life.

  The school outcasts. Typical, Billy thought. He was a magnet for their kind.

  ‘C’mon, guys. You don’t really believe this, do you?’

  ‘We’re serious,’ Sparks said, looking him in the eye with no sign of humor. ‘There’s a reason we don’t go draw on it. You wouldn’t be the first to try it, y’know. We’ve seen what happens, and it’s never been good.’

  ‘People get hooked on it,’ Spotswood said, his eyes distant, troubled. ‘And it ruins them if they can’t get off it quickly enough. They get to a point where there’s no going back.’

  ‘And getting off it ain’t as easy as just stopping.’

  ‘How did you find out about it?’

  ‘Everyone in Parkton knows about it,’ Spotswood said with a shrug. ‘It’s always been there, no matter what people try an’ do to it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sparks, looking at Spotswood before grinning at him. ‘This town isn’t like other places; you’ll find that out if you stay here long enough.’

  ‘Guess we have more than a fair share of craziness here,’ said Spotswood, and Billy had thought that was about the truest thing he’d ever heard.

  Gossipy bullshit and macho threats amongst kids. The Rock of the Gods, the Hole in the World, Aladdin’s Key—they were one and the same, a chunk of sandstone on the northern edge of Parkton, up in the woods. Big but not too big to be moved by someone determined enough to spy upon God, to share his breath—to become like him.

  And really, who didn’t want such power?

  Anything to fix things. To make things better. Who could turn up the chance at that?

  “We’re almost there,” he said. He cast a look behind them but they hadn’t caught up yet and that was good.

  Gina was a lead weight, clamped to him by hand. Once she tripped and he had to help her up, all the while saying nothing and looking only at the rock that was now visible before them, fifteen feet away.

  A distant wail toned, a solitary female voice, not in physical pain but in emotional turmoil.

  Billy and Gina stopped. She clung to him with both hands now and he put an arm around her.

  The wail faded like a dying note. The woods fell silent. Not even the wind spoke then.

  “Billy–”

  “It’s okay. It won’t hurt you. It’s just like an alarm.”

  “I don’t like this place.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He led them into the clearing and stopped before the rock. It was dome–shaped, sitting askew on the ground like a foot high Leaning Tower of Pisa. A crack the width of a forefinger tickled down from its mossy top into the ground. From that fissure came the night; a blackness far richer than moonless midnight. It seeped like low–pressured gas, vaporizing soon after coming into contact with the air.

  The wail began again, still miles distant. A second one joined the first, a musical tone of remorse set in a different key. They played together, one to either side of Billy and Gina.

  “I’m scared, Billy. I want to go home,” Gina whispered, putting her hands to her ears and screwing shut her eyes.

  Billy focused on the rock; it sat in the center of the clearing, alone, isolated. The surrounding grass ended a foot away from it, changing from lush green near the trees to grey and dying near the rock, and then even greyer soil at its base. Even the moss on top and down the damp northern side looked sickly, but it clung on.

  The Rock of the Gods, the Hole in the World, Aladdin’s Key—it sat upon a saucer–shaped depression in the ground as if it had fallen from high up—perhaps from heaven, Billy thought.

  There was a smaller hole in the center of that depression, too, he knew. Like a burrow, coming up from below, exposed only once the rock was moved.

  That was where the breath had come from. When he’d moved the rock, that’s where the bubble had risen from and that was the breath he had captured in the bottle he’d placed over the hole. As soon as it was full, Billy had dropped the rock back in place and quickly capped the bottle.

  The breath swirled about within its glass confines, ethereal snakes writhing over one another, a mass of forms all interconnected but so insubstantial they sometimes vanished in the light.

  And then, later that night, he had sipped from the bottle. Just a taste at first, then more as the warmth spread, as the sweetness teased his tongue, and he saw their way out of hell. The jagged memories that cut him with his every breath faded as he drew deeper on the bottle, and after he capped it again and lay back on his bed, he slept in peace. Something he hadn’t done since the old man died.

  He dreamt of being a God, but awoke in the middle of the night with smudged ink stains on his palms, and in that, witnessed the first vision. Himself, snatching away his mother’s needle and yelling at her, and her, rage infested and desperate, coming after him, and one of the needles jabbing into her throat, and in the melee she stumbled and pushed on the plunger, and air surged inside of her, and—

  Come morning, the images had changed but were no less frightening. Taking more of God’s breath dulled the images for a short time but the bottle was empty now and the terrible visions of terrible futures a carousel in his hands.

  That black, smudged ink stain on each hand was growing, too. It had reached his elbows by lunchtime, spreading like a bruise, its edges indistinct, its content clear. He’d been able to hide the worst of it under the long sleeves of his jersey, and as soon as school finished he donned the gloves to stop him peeking at their horrible revelations.

  And the pain—that was also growing worse. He dropped his hand from around Gina’s shoulders as a rolling wave of nausea broke upon him. Billy folded over, hands on knees, and retched.

  A trickle of black smoke came from his mouth. It blew away in the wind before it could touch the ground.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gina backed away, clutching Dolly tight.

  He wiped his mouth but his gloved hand came away unblemished. “I don’t know.”

  “We should go, Billy. You don’t look good.”

  There were sounds behind them again, and this time the footsteps were obvious. Brother and sister turned around. Gina gasped as a figure emerged from the trees.

  “Took your time,” B
illy said, struggling with the words.

  “Yeah, there was something we had to do first,” Adam Sparks said. The big red splotches on his chin were clear, even in this shadowy light. “Jesus, you look bad.”

  A hammer blow to Billy’s stomach doubled him over again. He clutched his midriff. His head pounding, pounding.

  “Damnit bro, we told you not to touch it. Why the fuck didn’t you listen?”

  “Billy, what’s going on?” Gina’s little voice was torn away by a gust of wind, which set the trees surrounding them into applause. Oh they were excited, those trees. The maples and pines, the oaks too.

  “He’s a friend,” he told her through clenched teeth. He reached out blindly for her hand and somehow found it, and clutched it tight. “From school.”

  “But y’see,” Sparks said. “Mates listen to one another, don’t they? Or they’re supposed to.”

  “Okay, okay! So I fucked up. You didn’t tell me what’d happen! You said I’d become a God!” He forced himself to straighten and stared at Sparks; there was movement behind him. It was Spotswood—but he wasn’t alone.

  Gina screamed.

  Billy couldn’t because suddenly the pain was back, more brutal than ever; he dropped to his knees under its impact.

  “Jesus,” said Sparks, as another trail of black smoke issued from Billy’s throat; it drifted up into the air before being snatched away by the wind, which then howled its delight amongst the trees as it fled.

  Billy heard his sister scream again but the sound was from another universe. He dragged her towards him. She thrashed about, trying to break free.

  “Stop ... stop it!” He staggered back to his feet, stumbling sideways, hauling Gina with him. The smoke twirled amongst his words, making him gag. He clamped one arm across her chest, the other over her throat as he regained his balance. The band crushing his brain tightened another notch. A rasping sound, something horrible to hear, came from Gina’s mouth.

  “Billy, don’t man!” Sparks called, holding out his hands. “Look what you’re doing. You’re hurting her.”

  “No—back off!” He stared at the thing behind his classmate, the tall, hunched skeletal figure clutching hold of Spotswood.

  “It’s okay,” Sparks said, holding up his hands, but Billy knew how fake those words were. He’d tasted their lies often.

  “This is Danny,” Spotswood said, that same haunting tone to his words again. “My brother. He’s been sick a while. He’s dying.”

  Billy staggered backwards as those words struck him—then hands tore open his stomach to spill his innards. He doubled over. Tried to catch his breath but felt only razor blades slicing his throat. More smoke issued from his mouth, thick and choking, tasting bitter now. His vision dimmed until all he could see was blackness, a thick flowing cascade of darkness. No residual shapes or phosphorescent explosions—nothing.

  “Help … help me—” He managed, somehow not falling over.

  “We’re here, Billy. That’s what we’re trying to do.”

  “Billy …” Gina’s hoarse, solitary word caused the blackness to recede enough for his vision to return. He looked down, first at himself but there was no blood, no gaping wound, and then to his sister; her face was going red, her eyes bulging.

  But as he loosened his hold, that skeletal figure leaning on Spotswood stepped towards him. Its hair was mostly gone, just a few wispy strands caught in the wind and clinging to a grey scalp covered in scabs. His eyes were deep–set but yellow, jaundiced, and the skin around them sallow.

  Billy pulled out the gun, the black Glock 26 he had stolen from his mother’s room this morning and had with him all day, buried deep in his school bag. After school, before meeting Gina, it had gone down the front of his pants, where it had burned against his hip. “Don’t come any closer! Jesus fuck! Don’t come any closer!”

  Sparks held up his hands. “Holy shit, Billy! Just, wait, put that thing down. You don’t understand.”

  “Shut up!” Billy swung the gun on his classmate; the pistol was beginning to feel heavy in his hand, despite its small size. He swung it back on the skeleton in its raggedy clothes that only served to make it look more terrifying, then back on Sparks.

  “We’re trying to help you.” Sparks took a step towards him. He looked over his shoulder and held up a hand, signaling for Spotswood and his emancipated brother to stay where they were.

  “No, don’t,” Billy shook his head. “You don’t get it. I need it, I’ve gotta have it, even just once more.” He was shocked to hear his mother in those words, and yet at the same time, despite his agony, despite his self–loathing for what he was saying and what he was doing, he understood her better than he had before. A new slice of pain cut him, this one rich with guilt. “I’ve got to, Sparks. It’s cutting me up inside. I’ll die without it.”

  “We know. We know what it’s like.”

  The skeleton spoke, or tried to. Its words were a loud wail. It stepped forward again and this time raised an arm towards him. Its hand was a claw. Billy yelled. He fired—he didn’t mean to, but he did. The gun clapped, its retort loud, echoing, violent. He tumbled backwards, his balance gone, and there were screams now, a cacophony of voices that he couldn’t comprehend. His foot caught on something and he went down, letting go of Gina as he went, flinging her to the side and trying to turn himself to thrust out his hands to cushion his fall.

  There was another crack, another gunshot? And for a moment, the day fell still ...

  When it started up scant seconds later, it did so with a new howl. It was a sound that rose in volume and was soon paired with a kick in Billy’s side. He jerked at the impact.

  “You dumb fuck!”

  It was Spotswood yelling at him, Spotswood kicking him with those tramping boots of his, the shoes he always wore. “What have you done? What have you done?”

  There was another kick to his sides before Sparks, “Stop it! Spotswood, stop it!” dragged his friend away from him. Billy clutched his ribs—but at the same time, he felt himself expunged, torn apart from within, his insides scoured by the harsh wind and its many jagged teeth. He felt the stain leave him, the pain leave him, and in its immediate wake, he cried out in relief.

  “Oh fuck, Sparks. What are we going to do?” Spotswood cried out too, but his was one of anguish.

  “Just help me!”

  “Gina,” Billy whispered. He rolled over and saw her fallen body. Her head had collided with the rock, unsettling it in its saucer. Blood painted one side of it and pooled on the ground. But worse, God’s breath was seeping out of that underground burrow and drifting into his sister as she lay there, unconscious, her mouth hanging open.

  He watched Sparks and Spotswood hurry towards her, saw them roll her over and replace the rock to cut off the stream of smoke she was overdosing on, but it was like watching a Saturday afternoon movie, a wonky science fiction with its speed all wrong.

  Worse, it was like watching his mother, watching the same slack expression flood her eyes as she lolled about on the sofa after another hit.

  “She’s alive.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know,” said Sparks. “I fucking know.”

  Billy groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position, hauling himself back together on that solitary word; alive. He crawled towards her and pushed his two classmates away and cradled her in his arms. Her eyes were open, but—

  “They’re black,” he said, looking up at the two boys before him. “Her eyes ...”

  “You dumb fuck,” Spotswood said again, but there was only exhaustion in his voice now, tears in his eyes. He wiped a hand across his nose and looked back to his dead brother. “He was going to help you an’ take your addiction back. That’s the only way off it, y’know. It has to be passed on.”

  “Billy,” Gina said, but her voice sounded so much older now. She lay there, crumpled, like her forgotten doll, her eyes alive, but dancing on the drug of Gods.

  About Marty

  Ma
rty Young is a Bram Stoker nominated editor and writer and sometimes ghost hunter. He was the founding President of the Australian Horror Writers Association (AHWA) from 2005–2010, and one of the creative minds behind the internationally acclaimed Midnight Echo magazine. His horror fiction has been reprinted in Australian Dark Fantasy and Horror (‘the best of 2008’), repeatedly included in Ellen Datlow’s year’s best recommended reading list, and nominated for both the Australian Shadows and Ditmar awards. Marty’s essays on horror literature have been published in journals and university textbooks in Australia and India, and he is also co–editor of the Australian Shadows Award–winning Macabre; a Journey through Australia’s Darkest Fears, a landmark anthology showcasing some of the best Australian horror stories from 1836 to 2010. His website is www.martyyoung.com

  THE MESSENGER

  By Cate Dean

  “I just need an hour, Jamie.” Sarah cleared her throat when her voice threatened to break. If Jamie noticed, he was too polite to comment. He had always been Sarah’s favorite local guide, and he was too easy to like, for his generous personality, for his sheer joy and love of the history he introduced to her tour groups. “Take them shopping on Sauchiehall—they will love you for it.”

  “Atmosphere and retail therapy. Perhaps they are due a break from my historical onslaught. It will give them the chance to find outfits for the costume party.” He smiled, ran one hand through the dark, curling hair that brushed his shoulders. The smile faded as his dark blue eyes studied her, his concern threatening to free the grief she fought so hard to keep buried. “Is there anything I can do, Sarah?”

  “Just keep them occupied. If they ask, I had a personal emergency.”

  “If you need to talk—”

  “I just need some time, without people.” She evaded the hand he held out to her, the care he offered—care she so badly needed, but no longer deserved. Twisting her fingers together to keep from reaching out, she backed away from him.

  “Sarah.” The gentle way he said her name stopped her in her tracks. “I am worried for you.” This time she couldn’t move when he stepped to her, cradled her cheek. “You look—ruined. Like you want to chuck it all and give in to whatever has gone and broken you. Let me help you put the pieces together.”