Return to Darkness

by Laimo, Michael

  Behind me, Shea pushes up against me, now screaming.

  I don’t have to look to know. Christine has her.

  In all my pain, in all my exhaustion, I make it to the top step and spill out into the living room. I manage to climb to my feet and lead Jessica away from the cellar entrance, toward the front door. Squinting against the daylight filtering though the dirty windows, I stagger back to the cellar entrance and peer down the steps. Shea is positioned on her stomach about halfway up the flight…but unable to go any farther. Right behind her is Christine in all her animalistic fury, clutching both of Shea’s ankles and trying to climb on top of her, mouth chomping up and down like some cartoon monster priming to swallow its prey whole.

  Barely able to stand, weakened to the point of near-death, there’s no way I can save her.

  Leave her Michael, the little man in my head says. You have no use of her anymore. She provided you with the means to get your daughter back. Now it’s time to move on. Take your daughter away, just like you always planned to.

  I whisper aloud, “I can’t…”

  Shea, eyes bulging, a scream emerging from her spit-coated lips, interprets this meager utterance as my denial to help her.

  And she’s right. I have no more strength.

  No more purpose for keeping her.

  All you’re gonna lose is that hot lay you’ve been dreaming about. And if you go down those steps and try to help her, you might not make it back up to experience it. Move on, Michael.

  I inch toward her, balancing myself on the top step as I continue looking down at her. She raises a trembling hand toward me, blue eyes swollen with tears, with terror. Christine pulls her down a step. Shea’s head thuds against the edge of the raw wood. She winces, crying out.

  “Michael…please!”

  I teeter at the top step, trying to convince myself that I can do it. That I can take the steps one at a time, latch on to her, and pull her away from Christine.

  You can’t do it, Michael.

  “Yes I can!”

  Shea screams out my name, over and over again: "Michael! Please! Michael!"

  She thuds down another step. Christine is on top of her now, hands groping her shoulders…her neck…her hair.

  "Oh my God, no!" The scream pours out of me unrestrained, the simple act spearing my wound like a million needles piercing my skin. I can feel more blood seeping out, weakening me further. My head spins, and I question as to whether I’m going to make it out of here at all.

  “Daddy!”

  With no warning, the front door to the small house bursts open. Following the loud slam of the door against the wall, an Isolate comes skidding into the room, one arm reaching for Jessica, who manages, somehow, to cower away from the creature. The thing, at first eyeing my daughter, now pins me with its hideous golden orbs, sneering and wasting no time as it leaps across the empty room toward me.

  All I can do is step aside.

  It’s enough to protect me. The Isolate reels past me and obviously not noticing the open stairwell, plunges down the steps…right onto Shea and Christine.

  Shea’s screams are blood-curdling. Death must be upon her…but I don’t investigate to confirm my suspicions. There’s a series of thuds as the trio of bodies collapse down the steps, a tangled heap of horror and pain amassed at the bottom. I hear them jostling, limbs cracking against cement, muffled grunts and the sounds of victory from the mouths of the Isolates.

  Shea is no longer screaming.

  It’s here that I resign myself to defeat, having once thought I’d be leaving here with both Christine and Shea in my possession, now absconding with only my frightened little girl.

  Isn’t this what you originally hoped for when you started out, Michael? To retrieve Jessica and get the hell out of Ashborough? Well, now, here’s your chance.

  But I’m too injured. I can barely make my way across the room to gather up my trembling little daughter, now hunkered in the corner, twitching ferociously as she bites down on her nails.

  Amazingly, beating back the pain in my body, the CRUMBLING of my mind, the prevailing effects of the drugs and the infection running rampant in my blood, I still manage to stagger over to Jessica, tuck an arm beneath her, and gather her up from the false comfort of the corner.

  “Let’s get out of here, quickly, before they come up.”

  Too late. With a terrible scratching noise, the claws of Christine’s right hand sinks into the wood of the top step with a muted pop. I peer over and see the tendons of her forearm contracting as she pulls herself up into the living room. Before her face comes into view, I see the loose dangle of her other arm smack flaccidly upon the wood floor, shattered and useless from her fall down the stairs. But it doesn’t stop her from pressing forward, her bruised and bleeding face now crossing the threshold and turning toward us, eyes aglow with feigned concern for her little girl.

  "Jessssicaaaa,” she whispers evilly. "Come to mama…" A tooth falls from her mouth as she speaks, followed by a thin runner of blood.

  Shea did an efficient job in inflicting damage upon her. God rest her soul.

  You don’t know if she’s dead, Michael.

  Shut up!

  “Daddy…” Jessica whimpers. I feel her shudder against me, hot with fever.

  Christine crawls out and onto the floor, her entire naked body damaged and bleeding. Still, she’s mustered enough adrenaline to rise up and reclaim what she feels is rightfully hers. Just as I have all along.

  If I had the strength in me, now would be the time to end Christine’s misery on Earth, to leap up and finish what Shea started. Three or four more heavy stomps on her head would surely kill her.

  But I can barely walk.

  “Don’t look at her, honey.” Holding Jessica close, I avert her face away from Christine and usher her out the front door. Sick wails follow us outside.

  "Jesssicaaaa! Come to mamaaaaa!"

  The dim gray light of the afternoon strikes me like a shot from a camera’s flash, harsh upon my tortured eyes. I suddenly remember the hole in the porch, and had I a bit more strength, I would have plunged down into it, not remembering it in time. Our slow pace saves us in this moment, and we gingerly skirt around it as we make our way down the four steps, toward Pops-Eddie’s truck.

  The wind has picked up further, slamming the wrought-iron gate against the fence. I peer back and forth, utterly paranoid (and rightly so) that there are more Isolates nearby, ready to pounce.

  Sure enough, there are.

  In the distant woods, perhaps a couple hundred feet from where the truck is parked, three pairs of golden eyes emerge, flickering as they make their way past a number of bushes and slinging branches. The bodies they’re attached to surface from the cover of the woods, three Isolates crawling quickly on all fours before charging us like angry chimps in the jungle.

  “C’mon,” I whisper frantically, tugging Jessica by the hand. We reach the passenger side of the car, and it occurs to me the instant prior to tugging on the handle that Shea may very well have taken the keys into the house with her. With this in mind, I realize that my entire existence and all I’ve worked for up until this point in trying to save my daughter, has come down to a flip of the coin.

  The door opens. I shove Jessica inside, watching the trio of Isolates racing toward me, their mouths wrinkled back to expose black gums and grimy teeth glistening with spit—as if their mouths are watering at the prospect of capturing us. As she slides into the driver’s seat, I leap inside, feeling as if I just used every last iota of life left in me. I latch onto the door handle, and pull it shut…all too late as one of the Isolates shoves its gangly arm into the car.

  The car door slams onto its arm. The creature lets out a howl, like a hyena whose leg has been caught in the jaws of a lion. I pull on the door as hard as I can, clamping down onto the arm. The half inside the car, from the elbow down, winds and whips like a snake held by its tail. The claws lash out in my direction, missing my leg by inches.

/>   With a pair of successive thuds, the remaining two Isolates slam into the passenger window, nails scratching at it, driving streaks into the grimy surface. Their faces press up against the glass, scowling hoarsely as they wedge their claws into the thin space of the still-open door.

  I pull with all my strength and might, unable to counter the constant tugging of the Isolates, and the agony ravaging every inch of my body. The door opens slightly. The Isolate with the trapped arm leaps and bounds against the car, trying to free itself. It manages to pull its arm back to the wrist...but that’s all, as I yank back on the door. It gives off a high-pitched yowl.

  Suddenly, the truck comes to life, the engine a loud grind shocking not only myself, but the marauding Isolates, who for a split moment fall away from the door. This enables me to open the door just enough to allow the snared creature to wrench its hand out. I then slam the door shut and pound on the manual lock.

  Spinning around quickly, I see the keys dangling from the ignition, Jessica’s small hand struggling with the shift stick. Damn. Against all odds, my five year old managed to start the car by turning the keys Shea had left in the ignition. As if on cue, she dives over my lap into the passenger seat the same instant I slide behind the steering wheel.

  Like a succession of firecracker pops, the Isolates outside the truck (now numbering at least five), leap all over the car—two on the hood slapping against the windshield, one on each side window, and at least one behind us in the bed of the truck. They’re slapping and scratching at the windows, trying to get at us. But Pops-Eddie’s truck, an ancient petrified dinosaur, holds its own and muscles through the ice and snow as I shift it into drive and pull away.

  The rear wheels skid in the snow and the truck fishtails, tossing both Jessica and me to the right. The Isolates at the side of the truck fall away, one of them squealing like a stuck pig as it gets caught under the tires. The truck lifts up on one side then slams back down. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see the Isolate in back tumble off the side of the flatbed, arms flailing much like a human taking a plunge on slippery ice.

  Farther back, the house slides into view.

  Shea is there.

  At first I think it’s another Isolate, out from its recess to investigate the hostile events now playing out at the scene of Old Lady Zellis’s murder. But quickly my eyes reject that hope, for on her hands and knees, beaten and bleeding, is the woman from my dreams who saved me and my daughter from the hands of the demons struggling to keep me under control.

  The truck jolts. Two more Isolates jump into the flatbed. One of them grabs the handle on the outside of my door and jerks on it, face peering in at me, glowing eyes reflecting off the grimy glass. It opens its mouth and hisses at me.

  I look back into the rearview mirror—at the house now fading away in the distance. Shea is still there, one hand reaching desperately toward the truck in a last vain attempt to gather salvation from me. But I let it go, none too late as Christine leaps out from the gloom of the house behind her and yanks her back inside. The door closes, seemingly of its own accord, sealing off this dark chapter of my life.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The truck fights the uneven surface of the driveway, skidding in the icy mud, digging trenches behind us as it struggles forward. On both sides, the woods ignite with golden eyes, countless numbers watching us as we press on, promising to prevent our bid for escape. The two Isolates in the flatbed are now hurling their bodies against the rear window, leaving muddy patches of hair behind on the glass. I slam on the gas. The truck bucks forward, causing them to tumble backwards into the tailgate. One appears stunned. The other immediately rights itself and begins to crawl back toward the cab.

  The Isolate clutching the driver’s side door handle swings its body against the wind and lands atop the hood of the car, latching its claws onto the windshield wipers. It presses its horrible face against the glass and sneers at us, hind claws carving scratches into the rusty paint on the hood. Jessica screams. So do I. I slam on the gas pedal again. A spray of grit and ice shoots out from the back tires. Both Isolates in the flatbed, now standing, totter back and tumble over the tailgate, off the truck. Finally the truck gains purchase and shoots down the long, thin driveway.

  “There’s a lot of them, Daddy! They’re coming!” Jessica shouts, voice jarred because of the bumpy path.

  The steering wheel shakes in my hands as the truck tackles a succession of trenches and mounds in the icy earth. Once at the head of the driveway, I slam the brakes and skid out onto the road, unmindful of any car that may be passing by. Dear God, let us live, please. My prayer is answered as the truck fishtails out into the empty road, wheels spinning in the snow as I turn left. The Isolate on the hood loses its grip on the windshield wiper and sails off the truck like a loose piece of luggage. I watch it as it thuds onto the hard earth and rolls off the edge of the road, out of sight down a short embankment.

  For a moment, as I regain control of the jostling truck, it occurs to me that there are no longer any Isolates on it. None on the windshield, none clutching the side doors, none in the flatbed.

  But they’re coming.

  Glancing through the driver’s side window, I see about a dozen creatures running on all fours down the length of the driveway, snow and mud kicking up from their claws as they charge the truck like a pack of wild dogs chasing down a baby antelope.

  “Hold on, baby.” I slam on the gas pedal and watch the rushing Isolates cower as the tires spray ice and grit. The skidding truck sways back and forth…and then as the tires gain a foothold on the slippery road, speeds forward down Remedy Lane.

  I glance into the rearview mirror. The Isolates are still there, tailing the spray of debris, but unable to catch up as we gain momentum. Seeing that we’re now beyond their reach, they all at once skitter back into the snowy cloak of the woods, eyes glowing like flashlights.

  “Hah!” I scream, slamming the steering wheel, and inadvertently startling Jessica. “Good riddance, you motherfuckers.”

  Jessica screams, and not a fleeting second later an Isolate races into the road from a point in the woods about twenty feet ahead of the truck. Carefully timing its attack, the creature leaps up and hurls its body onto the hood of the truck. It slams into the windshield with a gunshot-like crack, leaving behind a bloody spider web in the glass before rolling up over the top of the cab and into the flatbed.

  Looking frantically into the rearview mirror, I see the injured Isolate stand up, hold onto the edge of the tailgate, and bark at me. Wind whips through its mangy hair. There’s a huge smear of blood on it that runs nearly the entire right side of its body. It gets down on all fours, lets go of the tailgate, and begins crawling toward the cab.

  It’s here that my tired, wasted, CRUMBLED mind begins to do battle with my common sense. If I hit the brakes, it’ll slam into the cab. Then, with the truck no longer moving, it would make some sort of attempt to get at us. The truck has held up quite well so far, and I tell myself that all I have to do is keep driving, avoid all their obstacles along the way, and cross the town line into Ellenville. Leave Ashborough once and for all, never to return, for any reason.

  Are you sure you could do that, Michael? We all know the Isolates rolled a nice-sized ash tree across the road the first time you tried to drive out of here. And you know—folks have tried leaving in the past. Neil Farris. Sam Huxtable. Countless others, I’m sure. All to no avail.

  I scream aloud, much to the unease of my daughter: “How do we know no one’s ever gotten out of here! Huh? Tell me!”

  Michael…they have Lou Scully. He’s in Manhattan, and yet somehow...they have him.

  “We don’t know for sure they have Lou…”

  “Daddy…who are you talking to?”

  I look over at Jessica, her face painted white, dripping with tears.

  “No one, baby. No one but myself. Don’t worry…Daddy’s getting you out of here.”

  Ahead, there’s a fork in the road. Turning lef
t on Remedy Lane would take me downtown, and like the last time I tried to get the hell out of here, I’d avoided heading that way because my mind had conjured up images of townsfolk and cops with bats and torches in their hands, ready and willing to burn us alive. It still does.

  So I decide to bear left onto Harlan Road, despite it not having gotten me very far the first time I tried to escape Ashborough. This road is going to take me right past my home, the very place I’m struggling to get away from, but I see no choice in the matter. There are only two roads in and out of Ashborough, and this one’s the closer of the two.

  There’s a sudden scratching at the rear window. The injured Isolate is there, one gangly arm clinging to the side of the truck, the other ineffectually trying to punch its way inside. Given its weak approach, there’s no way it can get to us…but its very appearance is enough to distract me, to pull my eyes off the road long enough to not see the other Isolates leaping into the road, right in front of the truck.

  “Daddy!” Jessica screams, and like before I can only continue moving forward as the pair of Isolates time their leaps so that they land on the hood of the truck and crash right into the windshield. The first one thuds loudly against the hood, but produces no damage as it careens off the side of the truck. I can see it stretch out its arm and try to get a hold of the radio antennae, but its effort to do so is unsuccessful and it disappears somewhere off the side of the road.

  The other Isolate’s aim is much better. It bounds up and hits a bull's-eye right in the center of the windshield. Its body seems to explode upon impact. The glass webs into a huge circle and caves in slightly but does not shatter completely. The creature’s bloody torso clings to the glass, obstructing my view. Only its head and one arm moves as it tries to tear itself free.