Kingdom of Shadows

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Lock the door.”

  She did, then put the bag on the counter, removed her coat and walked over to the table. They kissed. “You OK? Why is it so dark in here?” She headed for a lamp in the den.

  “Don’t.”

  Gaby stopped, looked at him quizzically.

  “Just don’t. OK?”

  As if not entirely sure what to make of him, she moved back toward the table. “What’s that?” she asked, referring to the book. Before he could answer she saw the illustration. “What are you doing with that?”

  Rooster closed the book so she could see the cover.

  “Demonology? I don’t want that in the house.”

  “Neither do I,” he sighed.

  “Then get rid of it.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and took it with her to the counter, where she dropped it off then began emptying the grocery bag. “Sorry babe, I had a long day, just didn’t feel like cooking.” She held up two TV dinners. “Got you that Salisbury steak one you like, OK?”

  He followed her to the counter, grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. “Do you believe in them?”

  “Demons?” she asked, busying herself with the oven. “Do you?”

  “The book supposedly shows what they look like, and it has incantations written in Latin. Is that how people summon them?”

  “Why would anyone want to summon demons?” Gaby unwrapped both dinners and left them on top of the stove. “It’ll just take a minute to preheat and I’ll get these in.”

  “I called Snow,” he said. “We met this afternoon.”

  “Is that where you got the book?”

  “That and the briefcase,” he said, motioning to it.

  “Why would he give you a book like that? And what’s in the briefcase?”

  Rooster took a couple drags before answering. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “Is that why he kept calling? So he could tell you secrets?”

  “Gaby,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to ask you something.”

  She stopped futzing about the kitchen and focused on him, dark eyes narrowed as if trying to see him more clearly. “OK.”

  “How long have we known each other?”

  “Seems like forever, doesn’t it?”

  “How did we meet?” he asked.

  She smiled uncomfortably. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head no, brought the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, hard. “I can’t…I don’t know what’s happening to me but—something’s wrong, Gaby—I think I’m losing my mind or…worse.”

  She put a hand on his forehead. “You’re warm. Feels like you’re running a bit of a temp. Let me get you some aspirin.”

  He gently pulled her hand away but held on tight, watching her blur through his tears. “I know I know you but…Gaby…I don’t know who you are. I’m not even sure who I am.”

  “You haven’t slept, you’re drinking, and now you’ve got a bad influence from your past giving you scary books and making things worse.” She moved by him, grabbed the book from the table and tucked it into the briefcase. “No wonder you’re not feeling well and can’t think clearly. Get this out of here or I’ll take it out to the Dumpster myself. I’m serious.”

  “I need you to tell me, Gaby, please, I—”

  “You need something to eat, a nice hot shower and some sleep. I’ll—”

  “Stop it!” He smashed a fist on the counter. The entire room shook. “Fucking answer me!”

  Gaby remained where she was, hugging herself. In a tiny voice she said, “You’re frightening me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rooster threw the remains of his cigarette into the kitchen sink then began pacing like a caged animal. “I’m sorry, I—Jesus Christ, what’s happening to me?”

  She cautiously stepped closer. “It’s going to be all right.”

  No longer able to control it, he wept openly.

  Closing the gap between them, Gaby cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me.” He did. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Am I crazy?”

  She pulled him into her, held his head tight to her breasts and kissed the top of his head. “No, baby, you’re not crazy. You’re just trying to find your way.”

  “I think they’re after me, Gaby, I think the demons are—something’s happened to me, I can’t remember things and—”

  “Nothing can hurt you while you’re with me.” She gave him a quick wink. “My love’s way too powerful for any demon, real or imagined. They mess with my man I’ll kick the slithery-tailed little pukes back to Hell where they belong.”

  Rooster wanted to smile, but the terror remained.

  “Come on. Rest while I get some chores done and dinner together.” She led him into the den, helped him onto the couch then switched on the console television in the corner. “Watch some TV.”

  As the set came on, Gaby retreated to the kitchen, leaving him alone. He wiped his eyes and nose and sunk deeper into the couch, hiding in the shadows.

  A news anchor with bad skin and an even worse comb-over sat at a stylish desk, an ACTION NEWS 8 banner on the wall behind him. Decked out in a yellow polyester blazer and ridiculously wide tie, he shuffled a stack of papers and continued relaying a story he’d begun a moment or two earlier. “According to eyewitnesses, the black male exited the bar on Cafferty Boulevard and darted directly into traffic. He was struck by what has been described as a large black sedan, possibly a Ford, which fled the scene. Paramedics are working on the man now and we hope to have a live report from the scene very shortly.”

  Rooster sat up. The bar he’d met Snow at earlier was on Cafferty Boulevard.

  “One eyewitness told Action News 8 the man appeared disoriented and was running as if being chased, though that did not seem to be the case. It’s not yet known if the man was intoxicated or under the influence of narcotics, but—one moment...” The anchor put a hand to his ear, listened to the voice in his earpiece then paused for dramatic effect and frowned as if personally devastated. “This just in: the victim, identified as Terrell B. Snow, has been pronounced dead on the scene. As further details become available on this horrific hit-and-run tragedy, we will—”

  Rooster turned the television off. The apartment was quiet. He looked to the kitchen. The TV dinners were still on top of the stove but Gaby was nowhere to be found. He hurried through the apartment to the bedroom.

  Light filled the room as he flipped the switch. Half-expecting to see the horrible winged and long-tailed creatures in the book flying about, he was relieved to find only shadows, an aged bedroom set and the usual open window. He went directly to the closet and pulled an old shoebox down from the shelf. Inside, a 9mm, a full clip and two boxes of ammunition were wrapped in a cloth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even touched the gun, much less fired it, but he scooped it up, deftly slapped the clip into place, chambered a round and released the safety. Something about holding the gun steadied his hand.

  A cold breeze blew through the room, disturbing the curtains. He moved to close the window but froze. Beneath a streetlight just beyond the courtyard, a lone man was watching the building.

  A priest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Rooster glanced behind him. Gaby stood in the doorway, a laundry basket of freshly folded clothes in her arms. “How did you know that would be on the news?” he asked.

  “How did I know what would be on the news?” She noticed his weapon and her face went pale. “Michael, why do you have a gun?”

  “Turn off the light,” he instructed. “Do it now.”

  She did. They fell into darkness.

  Rooster looked back out the window. The priest was gone.

  -7-

  Silence fills the night again.

  “Starker’s right,” Nauls says, “six scarecrows…six of us.”

  “Not anymore.” Landon makes sure he smiles at Snow b
efore he takes the lead, moves by the first scarecrow and heads for the rotting remnants of the old farmhouse. “Scratch one Carbone. Dead guys don’t count.”

  “Before this night’s over,” Snow mutters, “I’m gonna end that fuck.”

  The others move on, following Landon now, who has gotten several yards ahead of them and is barely perceptible in the darkness and fog. When they catch up to him, they find themselves standing before a ramshackle two-story structure with a dilapidated porch. To the side of the house and further back on the property is a barn in even worse shape. From the face of the farmhouse, a series of blown-out windows stare down at them, opaque eyes gaping in judgment, perhaps in warning.

  A rusted metal sign has been staked a few feet from the front porch steps.

  ~ KEEP OUT—THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED~

  “Yeah,” Landon says with a smirk, “didn’t see that coming at all.”

  Rooster immediately feels something so unsettling it leaves him breathless. He squints through the darkness at the looming structure. “I know this place,” he hears himself say.

  Snow nods, eyes fixed on the house, his mouth hanging open. “So do I.”

  “Me too,” Nauls says, voice shaking.

  “Like we’ve been here before,” Starker says.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Landon tests the first step, and once satisfied it will hold his weight, climbs up onto the porch. “These old farmhouses upstate all look alike. You’re spooked, that’s all. Come on.” He ambles across the porch to the front door, which lies on its side next to the doorframe.

  “Got to love Landon.” Nauls chuckles nervously and climbs the stairs, hoisting the duffel bags of cash along with him. “He ain’t afraid of anything.”

  Snow climbs the steps next. “Too busy being an asshole.”

  “Let’s get this done.” Battling uncertainty, confusion and a growing sense of dread, Rooster forces himself up the steps. “I don’t want to be here.”

  Already fearful they will never leave this awful place, Starker, who began in the lead, is the last to enter the house.

  He joins the others in a large filthy room just inside the entrance. A few broken pieces of what was once furniture are scattered about the otherwise empty area. The floor is rotted in several spots, littered with jagged holes.

  Landon sticks the revolver he’s been carrying into his belt and pulls free a flashlight. He switches it on, punching a hole in the darkness. Countless dust motes float about in the beam. He sweeps it around. Thick spider webs dangle from the ceiling and fill every corner. A moth flits into the light then spirals off. “Check it out, Nauls. Looks like your apartment, only nicer.”

  Their movements disturb something in the air, stirring up a pungent odor.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Nauls asks, dropping the duffels to the floor and crouching down next to them.

  Landon points the flashlight at Snow. “Dude. Seriously. Put your shoes back on.”

  “You don’t get that off me it’s going up your ass sideways.”

  Drifting deeper into the room, Starker watches the ceiling as if expecting something to attack from above. His considerable size causes the floor to creak and shift. He sniffs the air. “It’s sulfur.”

  Nauls opens the first duffel, stares at it dumbly a moment then scrambles to the second one and begins rifling through it. “Landon, put the light here!”

  He illuminates the duffels. Both are stuffed with neatly banded pieces of blank paper designed to resemble money.

  Snow leans in for a closer look. “Where’s the cash?”

  “It was here,” Nauls says, “I—”

  “Unbelievable!” Landon spits. “You assholes stole scrap paper!”

  Rooster steps back for a better angle on the others.

  Nauls struggles to his feet. “Me and Rooster loaded the cash into the bags. I saw it. It was all there. The bags were full of it.”

  Landon draws his revolver. “Yeah they’re full of it all right.” He points it at Rooster. “Where the fuck’s my money, crew chief?”

  Rooster, Snow and Nauls simultaneously pull their weapons and point them at each other. Preoccupied, and unconcerned with the others, Starker wanders to the back of the room, where a large unusable staircase resides. Littered with broken wood and debris, he gazes up into the shadows of the second-floor. Something dead—probably an animal of some sort, though he cannot be sure—lies in a mangled heap at the very edge of the landing. The walls and upper portion of the banister are streaked with what might be blood.

  “Everybody calm down,” Rooster says. “We’ll figure this out, we—”

  “Fuck that,” Landon snaps. “Somebody switched out those bags or the money or something and one of you pricks is gonna tell me what’s going on or I swear to God I’ll shoot every last fucking one of you.”

  “How could we switch the bags out?” Nauls frantically moves his gun from one person to the next then back again. “They went straight from the armored car to the van, and we were all in the van until we got here. Nobody could switch anything out! We were together the whole time!”

  Snow, who has been holding one of his .45s on Landon and the other on Nauls, lowers them both. “He’s right.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Landon says. “That money didn’t just disappear, so where is it? Rooster, you and Nauls were the ones who loaded it, and since Nauls is a fucking mongoloid, you better start talking.”

  “Mongoloid?” Nauls cocks an eyebrow. “What the hell is a mongoloid?”

  “It’s them little elf-looking motherfuckers,” Snow explains, “the ones with the pointy heads and shit.”

  “No, those are cretins,” Landon says. “Mongoloids are the redheads.”

  Nauls tucks his gun into the back of his pants. “I don’t have red hair.”

  Landon sighs but keeps his attention on Rooster, who lowers his weapon as a peace offering. “Get your piece off me,” he says, “and we’ll figure this shit out.”

  “Nah, asshole, first you’re gonna tell me where the—”

  An enormous muscle-bound arm shoots out of the darkness behind him and wraps around Landon’s throat, strangling him with such force that his feet leave the ground. He drops his revolver and the flashlight and clutches at the arm with both hands in a futile attempt to dislodge it. The flashlight rolls across the floor, tumbling through the room and painting the farmhouse with sweeping arcs of twisting light that eerily illuminates then plunges each man back into darkness. “Listen to me and listen to me good,” Starker says, holding the smaller man effortlessly, his voice just above a whisper in Landon’s ear. “We got a lot more to worry about here than that money. Now you cut the shit, keep your mouth shut and do what Rooster tells you to do or I’ll snap your neck. You feel me, boy?” Landon manages a gurgling response and Starker releases him. He crashes to the floor with a thud and one of his feet breaks through the boards.

  Landon lays there a moment, clutching his throat, then pulls free, retrieves his revolver and slowly returns to his feet without further comment.

  Nauls scurries to the corner and retrieves the flashlight. As he brings it round, he stops on something beneath the old staircase. “Hey, there’s a—”

  “Door under the stairs,” Rooster interrupts. He knows he’s right but has no idea how he’s come to possess such information.

  Starker finds Rooster’s face in the dark. “It leads to another staircase.”

  “Then a hallway,” Snow says quietly.

  “And there’s doors on both sides of the hallway,” Nauls adds.

  Everyone looks to Landon. He rubs at his throat. “Oh I’m allowed to talk now?” He glares at Starker. “Just wanna make sure it’s OK with fucking Albert DeSalvo over here before I say anything.” Nauls aims the light at him, leaving no doubt that despite his bravado, even Landon is terrified by what’s happening. He finally nods reluctantly, fidgeting about tensely. “Yeah, I—I don’t know how I know it either, but behind the doors there’s a
bunch of rooms.”

  “Even if we’re right, end of the day it’s just an abandoned old farmhouse with scarecrows out front and some rooms where a cellar ought to be,” Snow says. “Why we all so scared?”

  “There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

  “Aw, fuck me running.” The beam of light begins to tremble as Nauls heads for the porch. “I want out right now, man, this is bullshit.”

  Starker lifts the AK-47 higher on his hip, and with one short sidestep, blocks the doorway. “We’ve all been here before. We need to know why.”

  “But what happened to the money?” Snow asks, his face a mask of barely contained terror.

  “Maybe there never was any money,” Starker says. “Maybe there wasn’t even an armored car.”

  “Tell that to Carbone,” Landon counters. “Fuckhead died robbing it.”