Return to Darkness

by Laimo, Michael

  She comes close to me, places a gentle hand on my face. “It’s the first thing we’ll do when we get out of here. We’ll get you to a hospital. There’s got to be one close by—”

  “Ellenville. Eighteen miles away.”

  She pauses, then says, “Get yourself bandaged up, Michael. Do whatever you have to do to gather some strength. We have a little girl’s life to save.”

  It all sounds so majestic, so chivalrous, but the damn fact of the matter is that I’m more dead than alive, held together by a loose thread of adrenaline and painkillers. My body has withstood more than any human should be capable of…all for the hopefulness to bring my daughter to safety.

  Dear God, I have to press on.

  I open the middle drawer below the cabinet.

  Inside, a set of scalpels wink at me, urging me to proceed with what I must do next.

  Chapter Forty-One

  But I know…I can’t. To cut away the dead tissue in my gut would be suicide without anesthesia, antibiotics, and round-the-clock supervision. This is no joke. If I were to cut into myself, I would bleed to death.

  Buried somewhere in the sea of clotted blood and pus are my crude stitches, furthering along the infection thriving in my body…my body which has become a living, breathing Petri dish host to a plethora of bacteria and viruses. These microorganisms have already killed a piece of me and will continue to do so as long as there remains organic matter on my skeleton.

  Shea reaches into the drawer and grabs the scalpels. “Don’t even think of it, Michael.”

  It had crossed my mind, but now the notion seems unreachable with the tools needed to commit such a horrid task no longer within eyeshot. “I need gauze, and tape. A lot of it.”

  The next twenty minutes are spent dressing my wound (yet again). I douse it with iodine, a simple (and seemingly useless) act that has wrought pain into me like a burst of flame. All I’ve got are vials of tetanus (a useless treatment at this point), and a few more sample packets of amoxicillin. I take four pills, washing them down with a cup of water. I’m craving a gulp of something stronger, but decide against it at this point. I’m so damn doped up right now on morphine that even the smallest shot of alcohol at this point might prove to be the nail in my coffin.

  I take off my pants as Shea places the fresh scrubs next to me on the examining table. In a moment that is both surreal and utterly real, she takes my hands in hers and holds me close. It’s a gesture that is much less erotic than in my dreams of her, and yet equally as inviting, as though she wishes in this moment of respite to affirm her undeniable feelings for me. I hold her close, clutching her hair and smelling her as she says, “Thank you, Michael, for all that you have done and will do for me.”

  And I say, “Thank you, Shea, for being here for me. Everything is going to be okay, I promise you this.”

  "Daddy!"

  The cry comes from outside. My heart joggles in my chest. My wound echoes its sentiment with a throb of its very own. The moment of security I shared with Shea is now gone, replaced by an adrenaline-fueled resolve to finish this act and move on with my life, right now, at this moment, no turning back.

  “It came from outside,” Shea says wide-eyed, but I’m already shrugging myself into the clean scrubs and staggering into the waiting room. I can feel the clean bandages soaking up a fresh spray of blood, the flesh tearing as I stretch to put on my shirt. Our boots are by the door, along with our coats, and we quickly put them on, the few moments wasted here ripping into me like gouges from a knife (an Isolate’s claw?). Still, I do not know what awaits me outside and I must be prepared should a journey into the woods be necessary.

  Plunging outside into the cold, icy morning, I am blinded by the early sun’s beams reflecting off the white, glistening surface. Somewhere in its glow, I hear my daughter calling for me: "Daddy…"

  “Jess, honey! I’m here. I’m coming for you!”

  Behind me I hear Shea’s footsteps crunching through the snow. Ahead, the sound of my daughter’s labored breaths missiles into my ears. I skid around the corner of the house. The sun’s rays haven’t reached over the roof yet, enabling me to see the expanse of cold, desolate stretch of land that reaches a hundred feet back to the perimeter of the woods. And standing there, like an innocent fawn separated from its mother, is my daughter.

  She looks no different than the naked trees surrounding her: torn and tattered, dirty and withered, unhealthy. But she is alive, and she is here.

  “Jess!” I scream, running to her. She sees me and does the same, her face set in stone, the near-lifeless expression unflinching. For a second she hesitates, as if her choice to surrender her time in the woods for the security of my arms might not be the right one. For the slightest moment she peers back into the woods, as if she’s seeking their approval to commence toward me. In my clouded head I wonder if this is the case—if they are sending her to me as bait to lure me deeper into the center of their diabolical circle. But then she seems to snap out of her funk and screams to me, ”Daddy!” as she races into my waiting arms.

  The moment she hugs me, the moment I hold her tightly, I tell myself that this time I will never let her go, not for a single solitary second. That I will love her and protect her and keep her close to me until the day I die.

  Which may be soon, Michael.

  Not if I can help it.

  Kissing her dirty head a thousand times, I say, “Jess, oh Jess honey, I am so glad you’re back.”

  She remains silent, hugging me more tightly than she ever has in my life. In this moment no words are needed. I can feel how happy and relieved she is to be with me, away from them. And nothing feels better. Even the pain of my wound seems to have subsided, the warmth of her body an instant cure for all my ailments.

  All my hard work, everything I’ve done to get her back, has been worth it.

  I pull away and gaze into her face. Jesus, she looks older to me, despite only having been away for a week. I tell myself that she’s seen a lot in the past week, enough to age any human well beyond their years. Her face is coated with grime and small abrasions, and I use my thumbs to gently wipe some of the mess away.

  “Are you okay, honey?”

  She nods, slightly.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  Her mouth falls open. Clearly she has no idea how to answer this question. Of course they hurt her. They dragged her through the woods and kept her in their underground dwelling where she ate bugs and drank filthy water.

  “I’m hungry, Daddy.”

  Her first words sound weak and tortured, beaten down from her week in hell. I turn and look at Shea. She’s standing a few feet away with her arms crossed, a thin grin on her face. She appears happy for me…and yet I sense a longing in her to be loved as much as Jessica. I am prepared to give her just that.

  Holding Jessica by the hand, I stand and face Shea. “Let’s get her into the house. I need to examine her.”

  Shea’s eyes narrow as she peers over my shoulder, into the woods. “Aren’t we leaving this place?”

  I look down at Jessica. Her eyes are huge and pleading. “Hell yes.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Back in the house, Shea races into the kitchen to gather anything remotely edible while I remove Jessica’s coat and give her a once over.

  “Honey, did any of those things do anything to you?”

  “They scratched me.”

  “Are you bleeding?” God forbid she gets some rampant infection like I have. Thankfully her skin is cool and her glands are normal.

  She shakes her head no. As far as I can see, given the cursory examination I give her, that aside from some minor scratches and bruises, she is fine.

  Shea comes back into the examining room with a jar of peanut butter, a half-loaf of wheat bread, some cans of chicken soup, and a can opener. The next few minutes are spent eating the food and drinking water from the tap. The bread is stale and the soup is cold, but it still tastes heavenly in this moment of odd celebration.r />
  Strangely, Jessica never asks about the Isolates, and I do my best to divert her attention from what she’s been through. It’s our job now to look ahead, to find a way out of Ashborough, once and for all.

  After we eat, I gather what’s left of any medication I have, including the now half-bottle of morphine I’d left in my office. I then bundle Jessica up for the next leg of our treacherous journey, gazing into her forlorn eyes as they drift off toward her dreadful memories. Experience tells me that the road ahead will be a rough one, riddled with bumps and a series of unexpected stops. My plan is to get into Pops-Eddie’s pickup and hightail it out of here as quickly as possible, despite having failed trying this in the past.

  Shea fills a plastic jug full of water, taking it in one hand while guiding Jessica toward the waiting room with the other. It occurs to me at this moment that Jessica has no idea who Shea is.

  Jessica stops in the threshold and peers back at me, cautious and scared. Shea leans down alongside her. “It’s okay, Jess. I’m a friend of your Daddy’s. My name is Shea.”

  Jessica looks at her and grins slightly. “You’re pretty.”

  Shea smiles, and with it the room lights up, her eyes like two beacons in the gloom, perfect lips smiling about a set of ivory-white teeth. “Thank you, Jessica.”

  “Do you know my mommy?”

  Tears well in my eyes, as instant as the memories of Christine in my mind. I want to tell her that Shea will be her new mom, that her mother may very well be dead. But instead, accepting that I have neither the strength nor the power to get Christine back, I say, “Your mommy is gone, Jess.” There’s just no way to get her back. I should’ve realized this long ago.

  But Michael, there is a way to get her back, the little man in my head says.

  Then Jessica says, “Mommy’s not gone. I saw her yesterday. She told me to tell you to meet her at the Old Lady’s house.”

  Oh my God…

  My heart gallops, my mind spins, my blood beats in my head. I simply can’t believe what I’ve just heard, from the mouth of my daughter, no less. Now part of me wants to revel in the possibility that Christine has escaped the hold of the Isolates, that somehow she has been released of their supernatural bond.

  Do what Phillip once did to you...

  But then another part of me is wary: how is it that my wife, the woman I knew and loved, still love, has found a way to escape the physical clutch that had her eyes glowing gold, her hands mutated into claws, her skin mottled with patches of dark, insect-ridden hair?

  And how is it possible, Michael, that your daughter has been returned to you as well?

  My mind again slips back to the moment I fell defeated to the Isolates, as I lay on my bedroom floor, trying to soak up the image of my daughter as she climbed upon my bed, her eyes glowing gold as she splashed down into the puddle of blood and afterbirth staining the sheets.

  Remember, Michael…Phillip’s wife was returned to him.

  Is it possible that Jessica and Christine will be returned to me, now that I’ve helped Shea perform the ritual? Is it possible? Is it?

  Only one way to find out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Holding Jessica, we move outside. It’s a brutally frigid day, the wide-open sky and golden sun teasing us with an empty promise of warmth. The wind is strong, rattling the naked branches of the trees and tossing icy drifts of powdery snow into our faces as we race across the back yard toward the detached garage.

  Like an island in the ocean, Pops-Eddie’s pickup sits at the head of the driveway, a bit of snow gathered in a drift at the rear tires, the windshield frosted over.

  Shea looks at me, her face twisting amid the flurry of questions undoubtedly running through her head. One finally emerges: “What happened to your wife, Michael?”

  It’s a very fair question. The moment Shea and I met, a connection formed between us that flourished on many levels, both mentally and physically. Our bond ran from the attracted to the allured to the undeniable magnetism of something fated, as though we were meant to be together, here and now and from this moment forward, wherever our bumpy path may lead.

  It occurs to me now that I’d never mentioned Christine to her. Only Jessica. Perhaps on some subconscious level I didn’t want her to know about my wife. Perhaps I didn’t really think Christine would ever come back to me as she once was. Now, with her possibly back into the picture, I wonder if it stands to reason that Shea will drift from me, will no longer aid me in this plight to escape Ashborough.

  She’ll help you out of here, Michael. But then she’ll trot off into the sunset, never to see you again.

  Is this what I want? Confusion hits me like a fist out of nowhere, and I have to stop to catch my breath once I reach the truck. I turn to Shea. Her eyes cut into me, pleading for an answer to her future. Knowing that Christine’s tainted blood, her supernatural soul, could never once enable her to be the partner I once had, I say, “Christine is no longer my wife…but I cannot leave her here knowing that she may have been released by those things. I have to try to save her.”

  Shea nods. “I understand Mich—“

  She has no time to finish her sentence. My lips swallow her last words as I kiss her gently, once, twice, with the same passion she offered me in my dreams. She returns my kiss, our cool lips growing warmer as we remain together, our vows to help each other through this mess solidified.

  Not wanting to be left out, Jessica sidles up alongside us and wraps her arms around our legs. For the first time in what seems forever, I feel a spark of happiness. I feel like a family.

  “This is how it will be when we get out of here. Sound good?”

  Shea nods. “Sounds perfect.”

  “Come...” I open the cab of the truck; the keys are still in the ignition where I left them. Reaching in, I start the engine and crank the heat to help melt away the ice on the windshield. I move out of the way and Shea slides into the passenger seat. Jessica follows her and nestles up against her, shivering. I then get in behind the wheel and turn the wipers on. In the moments that follow, as we shiver and breathe out heavy plumes of air, I try to calculate how much longer my body will hold out in its current debilitated state. All that’s keeping me going now is the heavy dose of morphine, killing the pain and the reality of my dying self. I’ve got dead flesh in my body! How is it that I am still standing?

  The little man in my head answers: Because your daughter was at stake. Still is. You’ll keep on trucking until you know she’s safe from any danger. And then, Michael, you will die.

  No I won’t.

  I have to get out of here. Now.

  The windshield wipers clear away enough snow for me leave. Backing out of the driveway, I ask Jessica, “Are you sure Mommy said that to you? That she would be at the old lady’s house?”

  “Yes…”

  I can’t help but recall, before Christine gave birth to the baby beast, how Jessica had been under the hypnotic influence of the Isolates, had no idea Christine was bringing her daily to the old lady’s house, under the false assumption of visiting her OBGYN.

  I stop the truck at the foot of the driveway. “Jess, honey, are you sure this is what Mommy said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she look different when she said this? Were her eyes glowing gold? Or was she nice, like your old mommy?”

  Tears swell in her eyes. She looks at me with the solemnity of a bedridden adult moments away from death. “She was back when she said it, Daddy. The bogeymen wouldn’t let her go. Just me. She came to me and said, ‘Tell Daddy to come get me at the old lady’s house’. And then the bogeymen sent me out into the cold and showed me the way home.“

  Idling in the middle of the road, I stare out into bleak winter morning. Again I struggle with my dilemma. I want to leave, make every last effort to get the fuck out of here, now and forever, with Shea my teenage dream-lover and my darling little girl whom I fought to near-death—who I killed for—to bring back home.

  B
ut my conscience, the little man in my head, thinks otherwise: You need to save Christine, Michael. You heard Jessica. Your old wife is back. She’s scared and desperate and waiting for you at Old Lady Zellis’s house for you to come and save her. Only you can save her, Michael, and now is your only chance to do it. Do it, Michael. Do it…

  “Shea…”

  “I know, Michael. You have to get your wife.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “And I really need your help. My wound…it’s killing me.”

  She places a hand on my cheek, pulls my gaze toward hers. I sink into her eyes, her very being. Only eighteen years old, but so much wiser in her worldliness. “I will help you.”

  “Thank you.” I nod, put the truck into drive, and pull away from 17 Harlan Road, hopefully for the very last time.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  There’s a thin coating of fresh snow on the road, making the going a bit tough, especially for this run-down truck with tires that needed changing twenty-thousand miles ago. A car passes us on the road, its driver, an elderly man, contemplating us with the curiosity of a child at the zoo, as though he’s aware of our plight and can’t believe we’re actually going to make an attempt to get out of Ashborough.

  We ride in silence. I take the curves carefully, not wanting to get caught up in a drift or some other Isolate-induced obstruction: a fallen tree, a dead animal, one of the filthy motherfuckers tossing itself under the tires of the truck. They’ll go to any extreme to maintain their grip on Ashborough and its residents.

  Ahead, the Washburn house comes into view. Through the corner of my eye I see both Shea and Jessica looking over at it…and then Shea’s eyes widen with horror. Her right hand clasps over her mouth. She begins to visibly tremble.

  “What is it, Shea?”