Darlington Woods

by Mike Dellosso

  He looked left into the dining room then right into the living room. Turning a one-eighty, he headed back down the hall toward the kitchen... and Tommy's casual voice. "Sammy."

  At the doorway Sam stopped and listened again. Now he heard nothing. No breathing, no whispers, no Tommy. The kitchen held the aroma of the evening's mealfettuccine Alfredo-like a distant memory.

  "Tommy?" His voice sounded too loud and strangely hollow.

  He had no idea why he said his brother's name. Tommy had been dead for-what?-twenty-one years. Thoughts of his death came to Sam's mind, images from the dream. And not just his death but how he died. A chill rushed over Sam, and he shuddered uncontrollably.

  You did what you had to do, son.

  Outside, way off in the distance, Sam heard a cannon blast. Living in Gettysburg, near the battlefields, the sound was common during the month of July when the reenactments were going on. But not in the middle of the night. And not in November. Another blast sounded, echoed across the fields, then the percussion of rifle shots followed by a volley of more cannons.

  Sam walked back down the hall and opened the front door. He saw nothing but darkness beyond the light of the porch lamp, but the sounds were unmistakable. Guns popped and cracked in rapid succession, cannons boomed, men hollered and screamed, and horses whinnied and roared. The sounds of battle were all around him. He expected Eva and Molly to stir from their sleep and come tripping down the stairs at any moment, but it never happened. The house was as motionless and quiet as ever.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Sam stepped outside onto the porch. The air was cold and damp, the grass wet with dew. On the porch, three rotting jack-o'-lanterns grinned at him like a gaggle of toothless geezers. Thoughtlessly, he felt the bandage on his index finger. He'd slipped carving one of the pumpkins and gouged the side of his finger with the knife. Molly thought he should get stitches, but he'd refused. It was still tender but healing up well enough on its own. Here, outside, his finger throbbing only slightly now that he was paying attention to it, the loamy smell of dead, wet leaves surrounded him. Beyond the glow of the porch lamp the outside world was black and lonely. The sky was moonless.

  Across the field and beyond the trees the battle continued but grew no louder. Sam gripped his head and held it with both hands. Was he going crazy? Had the accident triggered some weird psychosis? This couldn't be real. It had to be a concoction of his damaged brain. An auditory hallucination.

  Suddenly the sounds ceased and silence ruled. Dead silence. Not the whisper of a gentle breeze. Not the skittering of dry leaves across the driveway. Not the creak of old, naked branches. Not even the hum of the power lines paralleling the road.

  Sam went back inside and shut the door behind him. The deadbolt made a solid thunk as it slid into place. He didn't want to go back upstairs, didn't want to sleep in his own bed. What had just happened was very disturbing, and it scared him. Instead, he went into the living room, lay on the sofa, and clicked on the TV. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was watching an old Star Trek rerun.

  Sam's eyes opened slowly and tried to adjust to the soft morning light that seeped in through the windows. He rolled to his side and felt something slide off his lap and fall to the floor with a papery flutter. He'd slept soundly on the sofa. Pushing himself to a sit, he looked out the window. The sun had not yet fully cleared the horizon, and the sky was a hundred shades of pink. The house felt cold and damp. The TV was off, and, leaning to his left, he saw that the front door was open. Maybe Molly was outside already this morning and didn't shut it behind her.

  "Moll?" But there was no answer. "Eva?" The house was quiet.

  Sam stood to see if Molly was outside and noticed a notebook on the floor, its pages splayed like the broken wings of a butterfly. Bending to pick it up, he recognized it as one of Eva's notebooks where she wrote her kid stories, tales of a dog named Max and horses with wings. Turning it over, he found a full page of writing. His writing. Before the accident, he'd often helped Eva with her stories, but he never wrote one himself. He'd thought about it many times but just never got around to doing it. There was always something more pressing, more important. Since his accident he'd had the time, home from work with nothing to do, but his brain just wasn't working that way. He couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. His attention span was that of a three-year-old.

  Sitting on the sofa he began to read the writing on the page, the writing of his own hand.

  November 19, 1863

  Captain Samuel Whiting, Pennsylvania Independent Light Artillery, Battery E

  Now I am full of darkness. It has completely overshadowed me. My heart despairs; my soul swims in murky, colorless waters. I am not my own but a mere puppet on his hand. My intent is evil, and I loathe what the day will bring, what I will accomplish. But I must do it. My feet have been positioned, my course has been set, and I am compelled to follow. He is my commander now, Darkness.

  I can already smell the blood on my hands, and it turns my stomach. But, strangely, it excites me as well. I know that is the darkness within me, bloodthirsty devil that it is. It desires death, his death (the Pres.), and I am beginning to understand why. He must die. He deserves nothing more than death. So much suffering has come from his words, his poLicies, his will. He speaks of freedom bUt has enslaved so many in this Cursed war.

  See how the pen trembles in my hand. I move it not myself, but the darkness guides it as it guIdes my mind and will. Shadowy Figures encircle me. I can see them all about the room, spEcters moving as lightly as wisps of smoke. My hand trembles. I am oveRcome. I am their slave. His slave.

  I am not my own.

  I am not my own.

  I am notnotnotnotnotnotnotno my own

  Sam let the notebook slip from his hands and scrape across the hardwood floor. His skin puckered with gooseflesh. He thought of the battle sounds last night, of Tommy's voice and feeling the darkness around him-the darkness; he remembered the grinning jack-o'-lanterns, sliding the deadbolt and hearing it click. He had no memory of turning off the TV, of opening the door, or of finding Eva's notebook and writing this nonsense.

  What was happening to him?

  He stood and went to the front door, barely aware of his feet moving under him, Eva's notebook, the one where she wrote her kid stories, still in his hand. At the door, one elbow resting on the jamb, he poked his head outside and scanned the front yard, listening. "Moll?" His voice was weak and broke mid-word.

  There was no answer. If Molly was out there, she must have been around back.

  Then, as if the ethereal battle from last night had landed in his front yard, a rifle shot split the morning air, and the window in the living room exploded in a spray of glass.