A single river of red had run down the face of the figure and was mixing into the still-drying oil paint. There wasn’t a cloth so he began to dab at the spill with his brush. It stopped and he began to assess how much damage had been done. He found himself following up the smeared trail of red to its source, the mess where an eye should have been. Something was bothering him. He sniffed the paint scented air and noticed a sort of copper like smell. Thick and rich. He didn’t think much of it. It was barely present, just about noticeable. A streak of red shot out of the other eye crater, only too quickly. It darted like mercury down into an area of shadow and disappeared.
“What the fuck?” Josh said in a whisper and blinked. Then the painting was normal again. Just the vague trace of the original run-off remained. He just stared for a second, stunned and with a hint of fear beginning to grow in him. The paint had seemed not to run down the canvas but instead had seemed to pour down the face. It had followed the contours of the skull beneath, ran down the neck, and when it had reached shadow, had actually seemed to flow beneath.
Josh froze, trying to understand exactly what he had just seen, but couldn’t...
Apsis Books titles by Lucas T. Harmond
Dark Side Darker
Look For
Shadow Man
In Hardcover, Paperback, and Ebook
Dark Side Darker
By Lucas T. Harmond
Published by Apsis Books (an imprint of Prohyptikon Publishing Inc.)
Kindle Edition
Edited by Carmina M. Dragomir
Copyright 2011 Prohyptikon Publishing Inc.
The Moral Right of the Author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be used, stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the Publisher.
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ISBN 978-1-926801-18-6 (Hardcover)
978-1-926801-19-3 (Trade Paperback)
978-1-926801-20-9 (Ebook)
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, establishments, events, and locations portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Contents
Before
Josh
Harper
Weed, Cathedral, Factory
Others
Dream Time
Random Encounter (one month later)
Karen
The Proverbial Fan
"See You At the Mall, Man..."
Carthy
A Dance Before Dying
Start
Pilgrimage
"More Things in Heaven and Earth..."
Burn Baby Burn
Aftermath
The Hunt
Complications
Down Time
Death of a Party
Floyd
The Drug
Revelations
"We Live Inside a Nightmare..."
Living in Echoes
Amongst the Sleep
Dark Place
"Trip Like I Do..."
Meditation
Reality Check
Just Killing Time
Escape
Another Stakeout
Spiders
Picking Up the Pieces
Breakdown
Voices in the Dark
Meat Puppet
Clean
Behind Dark Glass
"May Cause Paranoia..."
Short Visit
Picking Up the Trail
Info
Spider in the Web
Static
Mr Jack
The Site
Taken In
Drilled By the Man
Battle Royale
BEFORE
DETECTIVE IAN MCCALISTER watched heavy rain spattering onto his window screen from sleep weary eyes; it was late and he had been heading home after his shift. He yawned and cursed that he’d been the one to get the call. It had been a frustratingly long day and entirely non-constructive. A day of picking up leads and questioning witnesses on a particularly nasty armed robbery of a post office, which had left one dead and another poor girl with only one hand after the sawn off shotgun that her boss had been wrestling against had gone off. Very nasty indeed.
The day had got him—and his team—no closer to finding a suspect. They’d been checking through a list of veterans who might have worked a job like this but so far nothing had turned up. As for the robbers, they’d both been wearing black bike helmets and had taken off on a fast bike, which none of the witnesses’ seemed to have gotten much of a look at. Two had even thought it was a different colour for Christ’s sake! It had been a frustrating day and didn’t seem to be letting up.
McCalister sighed and rubbed the tiredness from his bloodshot eyes. This was the last thing he needed right now. He just wanted to hit his bed like a block of concrete and let the deep embrace of sleep excise the demons of his day. What he didn’t want to be doing was tying up the shoe laces of some rookie who’d got into some kind of mess. Whatever the hell that mess might actually turn out to be.
“Our’s is not to question why,” he mumbled to himself as he slowed the sleek BMW to a halt at some traffic lights. He watched the warm red glow rippling through his screen.
Ten minutes ago he’d got a call from headquarters. After it had finished he’d been none the wiser as to what it had been about.
“Fuckin’ kids!” He mumbled as he pushed the car forwards again. He’d been asked to check on some new recruit who’d called in babbling in terror. The operator had told McCalister that he hadn’t been very helpful, pretty much refusing to tell her what it was he’d discovered. Before this, the lone officer had been sent to a possible disturbance in the wealthy suburbs of Green Acres. It seemed it had been too much for him. McCalister cursed that they ever let these young fish out without a partner, but he supposed, with the recent cutbacks and lack of new flesh it wasn’t always possible.
Either way, the officer had clearly found something terrible and, since he wasn’t answering their calls, it wasn’t even clear if he was still on the scene. As the disturbance was reasonably close to his home, it was him who’d been lucky enough to be assigned the task of finding out. It sounded like the typical sort of mess he always seemed to have put on him. He tried to think back to exactly what the girl on the speaker had told him, but it didn’t really reveal anything new; in fact, she had seemed slightly phased and nerved by whatever this young fish had told her. Hysteria, as well he knew, was contagious. Even he was beginning to feel its bite. He dreaded what he was going to find at 103 Long view Avenue.
But Ian McCalister was a betting man and he was willing to place short odds on it being nothing good.
He turned onto Long view about five minutes later and it was pretty much how he remembered it. All expensive cars, white washed walls, ivy climbers, painted wooden shutters, big gardens and even bigger houses.
The rain was getting heavier by the minute and he’d heard the distant rumble of thunder once or twice but as of yet still hadn’t seen any lightning.
As he neared the house, he became aware of a squad car parked on the opposite curb. It was too dark, despite the street lamp above, to tell if the officer was inside.
The house itself was largely obscured by a huge oak which was being pelted by the sweeping winds.
As McCalister rolled up to the curb, he peered into the police car opposite. He picked up the receiver of his radio.
“Okay Karen, I’ve just got to 103, the squad car is still here and I’ll call back just as soon as I know what the hell’s going on. Okay?”
“Yeah, reading you clear, Ian. Be careful.”
“I’ll try,” he grumbled more to himself. He sat there for a few seconds taking in his surroundings, sighed once more and then got out of his car.
“Fuckin’ hell!” He complained as the full extent of the night blasted over him, hard sheets of rain pelting into his face and wind ripping at his lightly clothed body.
The twisted limbs of the oak above him groaned ominously and whirlwinds of damp leaves danced along the cracked pavement towards him. McCalister shivered and wasn’t certain why. He had an uncomfortable feeling as he looked towards number 103. The house stared back with its large black windows.
Deciding he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, he swept his suit jacket around himself and made for the squad car. It wasn’t till he was a metre away that he realised someone was inside. The young cop was staring out of the gloom at him, with slightly too-wide eyes. McCalister tried the door but it was locked. The kid made no move to unlock it. He tapped on the glass and waited. There was no reaction from inside, he didn’t even flinch. Instead the young lad just kept staring straight into McCalister’s face as if he wasn’t there.
Slightly annoyed, he smacked the window again; this time it seemed to bring the cop out of his trance and he cautiously moved to flip off the lock. Wary and far-too-alert eyes were piercing into McCalister as he opened the door and noticed—with an insight that disturbed him—that the officer looked ready to attack.
“It’s alright, son,” was the first thing McCalister said; and when the kid continued silently eyeing him, he went on to say, “Detective Inspector Ian McCalister.”
He offered out his hand but the kid just stared at it.
McCalister took in the image of him. The recruit looked about ten years younger than him, probably early twenties. Short, conservative hair and some slight stubble over a rounded jaw, but above all else, the eyes are what stood out. The kid looked insane, his grey irises staring back with an unsettling intensity. His pupils were just pin pricks in glass and despite the fact they were settled on McCalister’s face, it looked as if they were focusing on a much farther point. Much farther. McCalister had seen that look before; when he saw it here, he took it as a bad omen.
“Are you alright?” The kid didn’t seem to comprehend.
McCalister tried a more direct approach. “What happened here?”
“I’m not going back inside,” the officer told him calmly.
“What?”
“I’m not going back inside,” he repeated in the same monotone voice.
The wind momentarily picked up and McCalister pulled his jacket closer around himself for some protection as he was pelted by the hard, icy rain. Above, the sound of thunder cracked the sky open and lightning blazed over the surrounding houses like a camera flash. McCalister found himself glancing suspiciously back at 103 and then returned to face the officer.
“What’s your name, son?”
Again no response.
McCalister lost his patience. “Listen mate—I don’t know what you’ve seen but this isn’t helping. There’s a right way to go about this and,” he paused wondering if any of it was sinking in. “And, a wrong way. Now what’s your name?” Slowly a smile began to appear on the kid’s face. It spread out and became a malicious and mocking sneer.
“Right—don’t think this is over, son!” McCalister barked and turned to make his way back to his own car.
“They’re all dead.”
McCalister turned. “What??”
The lad had retreated into the gloom of the car but his dark smile still gleamed in the light from the overhead lamp. McCalister saw it in a different way now, saw the desperation in his eyes, realised it was a defence.
Before the end of that night he would begin to understand what it was defending against.
“They’re all dead,” he repeated.
McCalister took a step back towards him. “Who is, son?”
The officer shook his head. “They ‘all’ are sir, all of them! They’re all dead!”
He seemed to be coming out of shock now and hysteria was creeping in.
McCalister raised his hands to calm him. “Okay, okay. Listen, is there anyone still in the house?”
“No they’re all dead.”
McCalister nodded. “Okay can you show me where?”
Now he went back to his original line. “I’m not going back in there. I’m—I’m sorry sir but I won’t. I won’t go back in there!” His voice was fast rising into outward terror.
McCalister took a step away. “Okay son, okay.” He sprinted back to his car watching the darkened house the entire way. Whether it was paranoia or not he couldn’t say, but he had the feeling of being watched from every one of those dark windows.
He opened the door and reached for the radio transmitter and stopped. He almost didn’t call in. Finally he managed to throw off whatever doubt he had and grabbed the mic.
“Karen, it’s McCalister again. Listen I’m still not certain what I’m up against but our boy here seems pretty brain-fried. Probably going to have to send someone to pick him up. Also, it sounds like we’re going to need some meat wagons.”
The voice on the other end sounded understandably concerned. “How bad is it?” McCalister shrugged to himself. “I don’t know yet, I haven’t been inside.”
“Do you need backup?”
McCalister lowered the mouth piece, silently weighing up his options. He looked over at the shaken officer and then back to the house. He was shaking his head as he began to talk into the mic. “I don’t think I’m gonna’ need it Karen.”
“Ian are you...”
“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. From what our boy says, anyone who is in there isn’t going to be a problem.I’ll call in once I know what’s happened here.”
“Okay McCalister.” The line went dead.
McCalister stood in the storm for a while, bracing himself against whatever he was about to see and then made his way up the wide driveway. He picked his way between the four cars which were parked there and moved towards the porch. A security lamp glared into life, temporarily stunning him. When his eyes re-accustomed, he saw the door inside was partially open. He looked up at the large grey house— ivy had snaked its way up most of the house’s left-hand side, there were three large windows on the top floor and a room built into the attic. Looking up now, he noticed the window of this room had been partially shattered. Wet glass glinted from between the borders of flower beds and lay spread at his feet.
McCalister slipped a little on a pair of white surgical gloves before opening opening the porch door, and a strange musky smell hit him instantly. He recoiled slightly as it rushed over his senses. McCalister felt slightly lightheaded all at once, and had to lean against the frame to steady himself. The initial sensation was close to being stoned. Slowly he began to recover. What the hell was that smell? So thick and sweet like—incense?? yet, there was something unpleasant about it, some kind of subtle sickness, an almost acrid quality to it; and the way it had made him feel—was it... chemical?
Even less certain now than he had been before, he used his foot to push the door fully open.
“Jesus,” he said and stopped short. The first body took him by surprise. The girl’s slim naked body was lying just a few metres from the door, face down on the bare wooden floor of the hall. Nail marks had raked scars down the boards and some of her fingernails had been torn loose by
the force of her grip. She’d been dragged a good metre backwards. McCalister fought off the hot acid burning in his throat and stomach and let ice grow inside him as he’d learnt to do so long ago. There’s nothing I can do for her now, he reminded himself, but still...
He’d seen a lot of bodies in his time but rarely so savagely attacked.
His horror grew as he noticed a second white shape sprawled on the staircase in front of him. The teenager—probably about the same age as the girl—was also naked and draped over the wooden steps like a rag doll. His head had been torn from the neck and a flap of skin and gore half-covered his protruding spinal cord. A dark red cascade of blood was steadily running down over the steps and collecting in a puddle at his twisted feet.
“Oh god... Jesus...,” he said in little more than a whisper. He again looked at the girl. Her back had been lacerated, those deep red wounds looking all the more horrific against her icy marble skin. The frenzy of the attack was unimaginable, blood was everywhere, the walls, the floor... everywhere. McCalister couldn’t quite throw the impression that they looked like claw marks, no matter how hard he tried. The urge just to run from the house, just to get away from all that ugliness hit him hard at that moment, but he knew he’d seen what he had seen, that running couldn’t help him now.
He nearly reached for the light-switch, but at the last second remembered the possibility of fingerprints remaining there. Instead he removed a small torch from his pocket. He flung its powerful beam around quickly, trying not to settle on the bodies.
The thought of his daughter in America hit him; she and the dead girl were about the same age, so young, but somehow he managed to control his surging disgust and rage and focused on his job, turning himself into a mechanism. It was the only thing he could do for them now.
There were four doors leading off from the long, dark hall, one to his left, two along the right-hand wall and one facing him at the end. They had all been flung open. His torch beam revealed bloody hand prints on the furthest which seemed to lead to a kitchen. McCalister stepped around the body, not wanting, but being unable not to look at the poor girl’s mutilated form.
He had to stay focused.
He cautiously moved to the kitchen door and rapidly scanned it with his beam. Most of the expensive-looking kitchen units had been torn open, their contents smashed across the tiled floor. There were hand prints everywhere. The taps of the sink had been left running and water was spilling onto the floor.
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