Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  “You didn’t read the fine print.”

  Then it raised its arm. The finger bones clattered together as it pointed. Jason turned his head. A black curtain hung in a doorway, swaying in a hidden breeze. Movement behind him. A creak of plaster. And hands pushed Jason’s shoulders forward.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  His father merely held out his arm in nightmarish silence. Jason took slow steps across the room. As he drew closer to the curtain, the heat grew. Beads of sweat burned in his eyes and trailed down his back. When he reached the curtain, he glanced over, but the not-Dad was no longer there. A dark suit lay puddled on the floor with a pool of yellow, viscous liquid seeping out beneath the fabric.

  Jason pushed aside the curtain and stepped forward into chaos. A wave of scalding heat and roiling gray smoke washed over him, blurring his vision and filling his lungs. Screams, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand, filled the air. He tried to step back because he didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know, but the curtain no longer existed. A wall, a brick wall, stood in its place. The smoke swirled around him, long tendrils touching, tasting, his flesh, rising up from the chasm in front of him—a deep, horrible pit with moving walls.

  Oh God, they’re not walls.

  Writhing, twisting figures lined the chasm. Bodies, raw and bleeding, with mouths open in grimaces of terror as dark flames of red and orange licked at what remained. The smell of smoke, ash and cinder filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth to scream; the sound disappeared into the voices.

  So many of them.

  They grew louder. Too many voices, blending together in sorrow, pain and bitterness.

  “Please, help us.”

  “We didn’t know.”

  “He tricked us.”

  “No way out.”

  “He lied.”

  “Father of lies.”

  “No way to undo it.”

  “Don’t sign it.”

  A million faces stared up at him from the chasm. Screaming faces. Skinless faces. One face swam up to the top. A vile, inhuman face, smiling amid the horror. Sharp cheekbones, pitted flesh and a mocking smile.

  “You’ll be here soon enough, boy. Don’t worry.”

  The mouth opened and laughter bubbled up, louder than the voices, louder than everything. The flames brightened and revealed walls rising impossibly high around the pit. And hanging on the walls, like empty shells, were faces and limbs and hair. Smoke swirled around them and sent them moving, swaying back and forth with a slippery, wet slither, hanging like coats in a closet.

  But that’s what they are. They are coats. Human coats. Skin coats. No, this is not real, not real, not real.

  He turned and pounded the brick until his hands bled. His screams were nothing compared to the laughter. It wrapped around him and echoed in his ears. A voice, thick with foul humor, rose up over the others. “Had a girl and she sure was fine,” it sang. “She was fine, fine, fine.” The words dissolved into more laughter. Jason raised his hands and covered his ears but couldn’t block out the sound.

  Let me out. This isn’t real.

  The laughter went on. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he kicked and punched at the brick wall. He couldn’t get out, and the laughter would not stop. It would never stop.

  “Make it stop, make it stop, oh God, make it stop.”

  He sat up in bed with a lurch, instantly awake, whispering the words over and over again. Bright sunlight filled his bedroom, but it couldn’t take away the memory of the faces. And their words. When his voice turned hoarse, the words slid away, and he wiped his eyes. The pain in his shoulder burned. He pulled his hands away from his face and froze. Streaks of gray, dark and oily, crisscrossed his palms. Jason looked down and scrambled from the bed, holding in a shout between clenched lips.

  A fine layer of ash covered his chest.

  4

  Jason didn’t go to work on Monday. His boss had called him three times. Brian, twice. The messages left by Brian held confusion and concern. Those left by his boss held irritation and outright anger. Jason turned his phone off. A jumble of images from the nightmare danced in his mind. He remembered voices and heat and smoke but what they said? Gone before he got in the shower. And something about coats…

  “What was it, Dad? What were they trying to say?”

  His father’s voice did not reply.

  The ash, though. Nightmare or not, he could not deny its existence.

  Just like Frank, and he came back, oh yes he did.

  The gray film did not wash off easily; it coated the bottom of his bathtub with an oily residue. After his shower, he rebandaged his wounds and grabbed his car keys with a cold, rock-hard knot in the center of his chest. An alien thing, like the griffin, but needful. He’d hold on to the knot as long and as hard as he could. That knot (his Alpha knot) was the only thing in between his sanity and darkness. The only thing keeping him from crawling into a corner and covering his eyes like a child.

  He drove to Fells Point and when he turned on Shakespeare Street, the knot loosened and threatened to uncurl, but he thought of his father, and after several deep breaths, it coiled again. He’d failed his dad in the worst possible way. He could never make it right, but even if he had to fake it…

  I have to be strong. I owe it to my dad. I owe it to myself.

  Once again, he found a parking spot. In Fells Point, parking was always an issue, but not on Shakespeare Street. Never on Shakespeare Street. He stood outside his car, staring up at the row of buildings for a long time. In the bright sun, the crumbling brick appeared faded, a dull pink, chipped and worn. Dusty windows concealed the interior of the café, the window of 1305 had a long crack at one corner, the For Rent sign tattered and torn and in between, the door for 1303 did not meet the frame evenly on all sides. Paint hung in brittle strips. The last number on the sign beside the door hung askew. Even in the sunlight, it appeared vile and wrong. Jason stepped up to the door, his hands in fists. This close, the red underneath the faded paint was pale.

  Not fresh blood at all. But I am. I’m the fresh blood. The orderly-musician? Old blood.

  The musician wanted the girl. He couldn’t have her, not for anything more than a stolen hour or two, so he got her tattooed on his arm. And then she…what? Came out and pressed those perfect pink lips on his skin? He probably thought he’d died and gone to heaven, until he saw the hand behind her back and the sharp steel it contained.

  Jason grabbed the door handle and pushed. The door didn’t move. He pushed it again. The wood creaked and groaned but didn’t open. The street was empty. Deserted. He turned and pressed his left shoulder on the door and shoved. The door quivered. He shoved again. Paint flakes rained down on his shirt.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  He shoved again. The gashes from the griffin’s talons opened and warm blood ran down his skin. Jason swallowed the pain. The door moved, but the lock held. He stepped back from the door. Dark, wet streaks of blood gleamed against the paint. Jason wiped away a trail of blood seeping below his shirt, avoiding the tattoo.

  Because it came back. Of course. Where else would it go?

  The knot slipped, and Jason pulled it tight.

  I’m not an Alpha, but I have an Alpha knot, so it’s okay. An Alpha-knot for an Alpha-not.

  He sighed and propelled his body toward the door. Fear stripped the moisture from his mouth.

  It will be a brick wall this time. I’m going to break my shoulder.

  His shoulder met the door, and the wood squealed, shuddering against his arm as it gave way and he fell into the building, onto his arm. He yelled aloud, scrambled to his feet, and pushed the door closed. His heart thudded in his chest, but the knot held.

  Just me, my knot and I.

  The staircase, a shadowy shape ascending into darkness, was just as narrow as he remembered. He stepped up onto the first step, and the wood bowed from the weight. Bowed, but held. He kept his hands close to his body as he walked up the stairs. His footfalls w
ere loud, and his shoes left prints in the thick dust. The only prints. The design on the swirling wallpaper was faded and hung in long strips in several places. No moving faces, no tiny, grabbing hands. The combined stinks of mold, mildew and disuse clung to the air, worse than he remembered. Pain slid down his left arm and made his fingers tingle.

  Jason counted the steps. An old, yellow newspaper lay across the fifth step. A laceless boot, the leather cracked and pitted, rested on the eighth. Small dark pebbles, possibly rat or mouse droppings, piled at one end of the tenth. The wood of the eleventh had splintered. Thirteen steps in total. A perfectly normal number. A wrong number. Jason peered over his shoulder, and the steps went on forever. No bottom landing. No door. He closed his eyes, and the smell grew even stronger.

  This is crazy. Just leave. You don’t need to be here.

  Jason opened his eyes.

  Yes, I do. I want answers.

  The door at the top of the staircase stood open a few inches, revealing the black room beyond. Not gray and shadowy like the staircase but pitch black. Dread black. He pushed it open, ignoring the shake in his hands. It gave a loud creak, but only opened halfway. Some of the light from the hallway seeped into the room. Dust coated the floor. In a few spots, the warped wood showed through tiny swirls where small, inhuman feet had scurried around. He pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. Pale light pushed through the grimy windows. Light enough to see the water-stained walls and wallpaper shreds in far worse condition than the paper in the hallway. A wet, noxious smell hovered in the air, almost thick enough to see. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like old lace.

  Jason sighed, and the sound echoed off the ruined walls. The last time he’d stood in the room, the bright light turned the walls gleaming white. A normal person would be shocked. That person would run away, unable to comprehend the truth before their eyes, but Jason wasn’t surprised. A dark shape took up one corner of the room—a curtain. Inside his chest, the cold knot lost its shape.

  My nightmare. The faces. All behind the curtain.

  “Stop,” he said. His voice broke the stillness, enough to take him above the panic. He padded across the dusty, warped floorboards to a spot on the floor not quite as unused as the rest, a spot with four odd, square shapes in the dust, as if from the legs of a chair.

  The white room isn’t here now, but it was. I think it comes back. Just like the door.

  The curtain hung in tatters, a scrap of old, moth-eaten fabric. He had to look behind it. It didn’t matter if the knot untied itself completely. His legs moved as if his feet were caught in quicksand, each step harder than the last. Finally, he stood only inches from the threadbare curtain. A small, skittering noise, quick and low, shattered the quiet. Beyond the curtain.

  Something there.

  He pushed the curtain aside, ignoring the dampness against his hand, and yelped when a small brown mouse raced out between his feet. A quick bark of laughter slipped from his lips. The hallway past the curtain loomed long and narrow with a tall window at the far end. More cobweb veils. The dust on the floor broken only by the mouse’s trail. He stepped forward, his foot sending up a billow of gray. He sneezed twice, then walked down the hallway. The webs reached down, like ghostly arms, and brushed his cheeks.

  Halfway down, a door stood open. He took two steps into the room, just enough to see a filthy sink, the porcelain chipped and stained brown, the mirror above cracked in a starburst pattern. No water remained in the toilet bowl, its interior stained darker than the sink, almost black. A large clump of paper towels where a bathtub once stood. Bloody paper towels. Old blood. Not his.

  Jason left the bathroom and walked to the dust-caked window. He wiped at the surface with the side of his hand, and a small band of sunlight crept in. Dust motes swirled and twisted in the pale column of light. He went back down the hallway to the curtain. He’d wasted his time. Answers weren’t hidden in the building, the room, buried under the dust. He should’ve gone to the hospital instead. How hard could it be to find an orderly, especially one with a pinup girl tattoo? The girl obviously didn’t kill him. And that whistle? He didn’t sound unhappy to be alive. Far from it. An image from the dream tugged at the back of his mind; when he tried to grab it, it slipped away with a small peal of laughter. Dark laughter. The front door leading out to the street slammed shut, and Jason bit his lip to keep a shout inside. The knot skittered away.

  His mouth went dry, but sweat broke out of every pore on his body. It darkened his shirt and stung when it ran into his eyes and the cuts on his arms. His hands tightened into fists, reopening the cuts on his right hand. His chest tightened. A tiny drop of blood slid between his fingers and dropped to the floor. A tiny puff of dust rose around it.

  Why did I come here? Trapped now. I’m trapped.

  A smell grew in the room. Stronger than the mold and mildew. Ashes and smoke. The temperature rose. Fresh sweat dripped down his back. One footfall, then another, heavy and uneven.

  He’s here. He came back.

  A soft, vile chuckle that held darkness and pain. A growl. A quick, animal squeak, then the smell of burned flesh and fur.

  No way out.

  A bead of hot sweat ran from under his scalp to his neck. Anger, hot and heavier than the footsteps, raced in and he shoved the curtain aside. “What the hell did you—”

  The words dried up. Another drop of blood fell to the floor, spreading out in an oval, bright red amidst the gray. The door no longer stood open, but the room held nothing more than dust, hanging cobwebs and the charred corpse of one small mouse who had investigated the wrong room. The fiery heat left the room, slinked out like an overly dressed woman sneaking out of a house on a Sunday morning, all makeup smears and stiletto heels. A drop in temperature sent a chill down his spine.

  Not here. Never here.

  Bullshit.

  The smell of ash lingered, though. A thin wisp of smoke hovered near the ceiling, gray and oily. It wrapped around the dangling end of a shredded web, rose up and out, then vanished. Jason took a step toward the door. The floorboards tilted like the deck of a ship on a stormy sea. He scrambled to keep his balance. Dust rose, filling the room with a cloud. He took another step and another, surrounded by the sour smell of his sweat. His fear.

  It can’t do this.

  The floorboards heaved and sent him back two steps for every one. He reached out and his palm met the slick, slippery wall. A salt tang filled the air, sharp and biting. Voices, many of them, called out commands.

  “Secure the rigging!”

  The voices were rough, edged with excitement but not worry. Waves crashed onto the deck, but they’d seen worse than this storm. Their ship had seen worse. Men ran back and forth, securing lines and fighting to stay upright as the ship tossed on the sea like a child’s toy.

  “Batten down the hatches!”

  A soft spray of water touched his face, and another roll of the floor pushed him down to his knees. The small body of the mouse rolled to the opposite end of the room. The floor shifted again. The mouse rolled closer. He struggled to stand, dizzy and confused.

  “The storm’s a nor’easter! Blowing in hard.”

  Another pitch and sway, and Jason fell back to his knees. The sea roared, lightning pierced the dark sky and men scrambled on the deck. Men with shirtsleeves pushed up and tattoos, some homemade, some from foreign ports, decorating their skin. One sailor, with a light in his eyes, laughed and climbed up the tallest mast, moving fast.

  The first Sailor. The real one. A hard man who’d spent most of his life on the water, the ocean his only love. Ink lined his arms, some by men in ports with names he could not pronounce. The sailor climbed until he could go no farther and hung above the ocean with his head back, laughing at the sea. “Come and get me, you bitch!”

  His laughter went on and on as the storm raged in chaos around him. Jason pressed his palms on the

  deck

  floor and pushed up. The floor rolled and pitched heavily to the right.
The dust spun in mad circles. His foot landed on something small and soft that gave a quick crack, then a violent heave to the left sent him spinning. He struck the wall with his right shoulder, shrieking out loud as the wound split and pain shuddered down his arm.

  I have to get out of here. Out of this room. Out of this storm.

  The sailors, fearing neither the sea nor death, called out to each other. Words of encouragement and excitement, fueled by adrenaline. The floor pitched again and Jason stumbled, grabbing at the wall for safety. For anything. The wall flexed under his hands, flexed and softened and tried to pull him in. With a shout, he pushed off the wall and staggered toward the door. Another roll of the floor sent him back several feet. Laughter, Sailor’s laughter or a sailor’s laughter, echoed off the walls. He waved at the thick cloud of dust. It moved like a living thing, obscuring the door. It filled his nostrils. It traveled down his throat, burning. He coughed and breathed in another filthy mouthful. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  “No,” he shouted and thrust himself forward, toward the space where the door should be. The ocean roared. Angry, demanding waves crashed upon the deck. Jason reached out, and the floor gave way again. His fingertips brushed against the door. He spread his fingers and curled them around the doorframe. The floor lurched to the left. He gripped the frame tighter and rotted wood splintered under his fingers. Blood dripped down his arm, so much blood. The sharp smell of metal. The burning fire of his arm. The doorframe slipped from his hands. The floor rolled again, and his left shoulder met the center of the door. More pain.

  Laughter and the sound of an ocean gone mad behind him. The dust burned in his eyes and lungs. He reached down again and grabbed the doorknob just as the floorboards rose again. His bloody fingers slipped, but he held on. The

  deck

  floor writhed under his feet. The dust clouded his sight, and a wave of heat, stinking of salt water and seaweed, pushed against his back. Jason twisted the doorknob. It didn’t move. He tugged and twisted. The floor rose, pushing his body to the right, but he did not let go. He pulled again and groaned in frustration when the floor lifted once more.