Return to Darkness

by Laimo, Michael

And just as I had over a week ago in my bedroom, when Christine and Jessica and the baby beast sat on the bloody bed, I sat there, stupefied, surveying the evil scene before me, trying to convince myself in this futile moment that this was all a real-dream, and that at some point I would wake up in my home with blood on my hands…but safe.

  But there would be no exodus, no escaping this final dream—that much made itself very clear in the following seconds; in my mind the heinous images of my real-dreams played out, of the deer in bedroom and Bonzo the cat, of Lou Scully in all his demonic forms, of Shea and how she loved me and desired me and how that had all been a trick—another lie forced upon me as a truth beneath the hypnotic pretext of the Isolates.

  From the woods, a rustling. Cracking sticks. Whispering voices.

  They’re coming, Michael.

  I didn’t need the little man in my head to tell me this.

  The whispering and the rustling approach of the Isolates continues for a few moments. In this time the human monsters surround me—Lisa and Danny with their hooked heads, beaten and battered Shea, the witch Christine, living-dead Lou Scully, and my dirty little girl—and hunker down around me, begin groping my body with their bloody, filthy hands, fingers prodding every inch of me, from my head to my naked torso, to my legs and feet. Lou Scully takes great interest in my bandaged wound, making certain (it seems) that it remains properly dressed.

  A thought crosses my mind, and despite it not really making any difference as far as my abandoned salvation is concerned, I ask, “Why did you fix me up, Lou. Why didn’t you just let me die?”

  Lou’s head slowly turns toward me. For a moment his eyes—the only part of him that looks human—drill into me. Then a smile appears on his face, and he replies, “Don’t you know, Michael? The animal has to be alive at the time of sacrifice.”

  Fear assaults me, but so does the realization of knowing there’s nothing I can do…nothing but lay here on the woodland ground, wholly defeated, and stare at the pure evil before me.

  The movement in the woods grows more aggressive now, as though news has been dispatched of the event going down at the circle of stones, and that they’re now arriving by the dozens to bear witness. The groping monsters are grabbing me now, all of them including Jessica whom I plead desperately to release herself from the evil bond and run far away and never come back.

  But it’s futile.

  Soon the whisperings in the woods grow, and at once I recognize the sole word they join together to form.

  Maltor.

  Don’t you know, Michael? The animal has to be alive at the time of sacrifice.

  They begin to drag me toward the stone. This is it, I tell myself. My days in Ashborough are about to end. I acquiesce myself to this deadly ultimatum, somewhat relieved that I will no longer have to put up a fight. I close my eyes, listening to the growing demand of the Isolates surrounding the altar, praying to God for His forgiveness and for His guidance into heaven, despite the evil dragging my dead soul to the other side.

  From the woods, growing louder by the second: Maltor…maltor…maltor…

  The bleeding monsters stop dragging me. My twitching eyes roll up and see the side of the blood-stained center stone, three feet high but still looking monstrous and deadly in this final moment. With a single heave the six participants pick my body up and slam me down on top of the stone. Pain rips through my back like a thunder strike. Lou’s face is there, the amber bits of glass in his wound now reflecting the golden glow of his eyes as they fix me. Jessica is standing alongside him.

  Her eyes are glowing gold too.

  I manage to utter, “No Jess…” but it’s futile. I try to raise a hand toward her but forget it's bound to the other. Lou shoves my hands back down. I’m too weak to do anything but comply.

  “Daddy…” Jessica says. For a minute I think my little girl is going to say goodbye, regardless of the fact that she’s under the spell of the Isolates, and has only evil in her soul.

  But I am wrong.

  She holds her arms up to Lou. He picks her up and holds her close against his rotting body. She hugs him tightly, resting her chin on his flesh-rotted shoulder.

  Maltor! Maltor! Maltor!

  The area is glowing brightly now, the dark of the night fading beneath the bask of golden light beaming in from the watching Isolates…and the six monsters surrounding me.

  They’re going to kill us now, Michael. I guess this is goodbye.

  Tears fill my eyes. I am going to die now. And in this moment of revelation, I deserve it. I am a killer. I killed Phillip Deighton. I helped kill Pops-Eddie Washburn. And in some ridiculously twisted way, I am responsible for the deaths of all those before me: the rest of the Washburn family, my own family.

  Maltor! Maltor! Maltor!

  The demand of the Isolates grows louder. Lou places Jessica down before me. “It’s time, Jess,” he says.

  She nods, staring at me now, her once cherubic face contorted into a malevolent demon thing, lips downcast as she sneers at me, teeth bared in a scathing grimace. Her hands are raised like those of a little monster in some grade-B movie, poised to scratch my eyes out upon command.

  “Lou…don’t, please…” I beg, realizing how idiot a plea it is to beg a beast straight from the bowels of Hell for mercy.

  Lou steps aside and gives Pops-Eddie room to step into the picture. At first I can’t figure out what’s going on, and in this fleeting moment find a spark of will in me to live, enough to try and get up off the stone and race back through the woods to my home. As I attempt to sit up, I scream in pain, not just from the daggers ripping through my wound, but from the digging hands of Shea and Danny as they clutch my arms tightly and pull me back down.

  Pops-Eddie, still standing before me like some sick haunted house attraction, reaches up with a bloody hand, grabs the handle of the hatchet that’s still buried in his head, and wrenches it free with a half-dozen strong-armed tugs. Blood geysers out of his head, onto me, onto the ground, and down his expressionless face. I try to wrestle free, try to kick out, but can barely move without a mountain of excruciating pain.

  And as Pops-Eddie hands the hatchet to Jessica, all I can hope for is that some tiny spark of love in her for me will spare me a slow and painful death.

  Jessica holds the hatchet in her hands. Looks at it curiously as blood trickles along the blade.

  From the woods, louder than ever, the whispers turn to deep-throated voices: MALTOR! MALTOR! MALTOR!

  Jessica raises the hatchet, steps toward me. Her eyes, glowing bright gold, pin mine.

  Lou Scully, Pops-Eddie, Christine, they all join in the chant.

  MALTOR! MALTOR! MALTOR!

  Jessica takes a step toward me, inches from my legs. With her tiny reach, the blade of the axe handle will slice into my wound, cause me to bleed to death in minutes.

  There’s no avoiding it.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and await the blow.

  Suddenly, from somewhere in the woods, comes a monstrous cracking sound, as if something, somehow, just snapped a huge tree in half. The chant MALTOR! fades, then ceases. I open my eyes. Shea and Danny release me, then step away from the center stone. Lou, Christine, Lisa, Pops-Eddie, and even Jessica, also scatter from the stone, like bugs trying to avoid being squashed.

  At some point a fog formed, rising up from the ground all the way to the treetops. I watch it as it swirls and pulses throughout the open area and gathers into a dense figure before me, rising fifteen feet high, amassing into a compact, recognizable shape.

  The Isolate demon.

  I’d beheld its terrible form twice in the past, once in a dream when it revealed itself to be the father of Christine’s baby, and then again after I murdered many of its children.

  And here it is again, looming from the center of the roiling fog that forms its head, two golden lights burning, a black hole for its mouth with a laugh blaring forth like a blast from a foghorn. The glow of its eyes spreads as the demon takes on a more definit
ive shape, skin darkening, muscles forming in its arms and legs, golden veins pulsing throughout its body, igniting the six horns and braided hair upon its head. A thick black tongue juts from its vacillating mouth, dripping venom that sputters on the ground like water in a hot pan.

  The earth shakes as it steps forward, sending agonizing bursts through my body. In the woods, the Isolates scuttle and scamper, howling with presumable fear and uncertainty. The human monsters so intent on killing me have fled behind the barrier of tall stones. The demon raises its head to the sky and bellows thunderously, silencing the woodland insects and generating a cold gale of turbulent wind that whips the naked branches above.

  I peer up at the thing, terrified, awaiting my fate of death. It peers back down at me, its glowing golden eyes burning deep holes into my soul. Its mouth draws down, lips swelling like balloons and revealing huge green-black stubs for teeth. The wind picks up, even stronger, sending grit into my face. Nearby, branches crack in the trees.

  Then as quickly as it appeared, the fog crafting the beast dissipates. I can feel the shifting wind of its exodus, the fog breaking up and forming a tornado that whips itself into a circuitous frenzy. Snow, mud, and leaves exit the area in a windswept rush.

  The fog that had been the great creature shoots down toward me.

  I scream, and in the woods I hear them rushing and racing, whispering amongst themselves a single, disturbing word: Maltor.

  A sudden surge of adrenaline beats back my fatigue, my pain, allowing me to rise up from the center stone and stagger only a few steps forward before realizing that I am still bound and am unable to move. I collapsed to the ground, right where I lay minutes earlier. Face down, I twist my body around onto my back.

  The fog-beast is gone, but the wind it produced remains as strong as ever. It whips at me fiercely, sending soil and wet snow into my face. I look around at the coalition of stones that remain undisturbed in their intimidating stance. Their circuitous path makes me dizzy, and I find myself suddenly gasping for air. I wonder how long I’ll be able to lay here before I die, a victim to the elements, when Jessica appears, her eyes glowing gold, the bloody hatchet raised high in her hand as she howls and brings it down right into my gut.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I wake up.

  Surrounded by darkness.

  Minutes pass before I attempt to move…before I realize I am still alive.

  My hands, my legs, they are no longer bound.

  I move to stand. Pain. In my gut. In my head. Something is not right…I do not feel like…like myself.

  My bare feet are sticky against the floor. I reach out, feel a wall. A doorway. I…I am in my bedroom.

  I step through the doorway, into the bathroom. The tiles are cold and sticky against my feet.

  I blindly search out the light switch.

  Turn it on.

  And behold my face in the mirror: my split and bleeding lips, the various cuts in my skin, the bruises on my cheeks, and…oh dear God no…the golden glow that begin to rise in my tormented eyes.

  Epilogue

  Dark basement.

  Heavy breathing.

  The grainy shuffle of feet on a cement floor. Edgy fingers tapping a table’s rough surface. The reek of things moist and damp.

  Somewhere upstairs a clock chimes. A useless breeze sweeps a single candle’s flame.

  Ten seconds of deep, labored breaths.

  A hand moves to grab a needle, and places the point against a vein…