by Неизвестный
"You know, that parti-colored box of yours is a lie-detector, of sorts," Gruber continued, lowering his head like a practiced predator focusing on his naive prey. Success! That statement snagged Linda's wandering attention. He smiled, and his lips pulled back above his gums like a goblin shark's, revealing rows of crooked teeth.
Linda laughed. "A what? How would that work? I can't even get the damn thing open. Besides, I'm pretty sure it's just an old, busted up jack-in-the-box." Not unlike you, she thought snidely.
"Ah ha!" Gruber continued. “Allow me to show you how it works. It's in the fascinating tradition of Rome's La Bocca della Verità—The Mouth of Truth. Tell a lie whilst your little hand is in its cold stony mouth, and it'll bite it right off! Now, this box—"
My know-it-all neighbor wants to corral me at my own party, Linda thought with more than a little annoyance. What a creep. "Maybe later, “Linda interrupted. "Like next week, or something." She smiled her most dazzling plastic smile, the one she saved for old college enemies. “I have to circulate now."
And she smoothly slunk around his slow, arthritic frame to join the nearest cluster of babbling guests, having given up on meeting that fit, cute-as-a-greeting-card-puppy Marion. He'd already left with Shoshonna.
* * *
Later the next afternoon, as Linda gathered empty bottles, glasses and other assorted party-trash, she remembered Gruber's spin about the odd box. What if it isn't an old broken toy? What if it is something more? How weird would that be? She dropped the trash bag in her hand and sat down on the sofa.
She examined the box more closely, looking for a seam or thin slot of some kind. If I find one, she mused, I could pry the lid off with a kitchen knife. Probably nothing inside but a bunch of rusted springs, a cracked plastic clown head, and rotten discolored cloth. Maybe I can make an art-piece out of it, something to wow my buds.
With this new project in mind, Linda was determined to get the thing open. She again looked at the hexagonal hole on the one side. About big enough for the tip of her little finger. She stuck it in there, and—
She pulled it right out. Nothing opened, nothing bit her. She flexed her pinkie. So much for Mr. Gruber's obnoxious "Mouth of Truth" blather. This box was too much trouble to bother with, she decided. Besides, she'd already gotten more than seventy-five cents worth of amusement out of it. And she didn't want to give Gruber conversation fodder, ready and waiting, for the next time they bumped into each other. She threw the box into the plastic garbage bag.
* * *
Less than a week later, as Linda was about to leave her apartment on errands, Mr. Gruber knocked on her door. She spied him through the peep-hole, and debated whether or not to answer it. He answered for her.
"Ah, Linda," he chirped, "I found something that belongs to you."
She opened the door. "Hiya, Mr. Gruber. What's up? I'm just on my way out and kinda in a hurry, so—"
"So," he beamed, "I found this on the ground by our dumpster! It's your mystery box! Someone must have stolen it from your party, and thrown it away. How mean some people can be. I knew you'd want it back—so here it is."
"Ugh. Thanks, but I don't want it back. I'm the one who tossed it. But you can keep it." Linda crossed her arms peevishly.
"Oh, well, alrighty then," Mr. Gruber muttered as he turned away. "I'll gladly keep it for you, in case you change your mind." He held the box tightly against his bony chest.
"I won't," Linda snapped before slamming her door and locking it. Great, she said aloud to no one, now he's digging through my garbage. She wondered if she should look into obtaining a restraining order against him.
Lost in her ruminations, she didn't hear her phone until the third ring. She dug it out of her second-hand patent leather purse. It was Shoshonna.
Linda was still angry about Marion wandering off with Shonna. "Hey slut, what's up? I'm on my way out the door—whatcha need?"
"I just want to apologize," Shonna began, breathlessly, “for sneaking out with Marion. It's just that, umm, you were busy, and he—"
"—wanted to get busy? Girlfriend, I don't care," Linda said, though she and Shonna both knew this was not true at all. “And if he's that easy, I don't want him."
"Well, I'm also calling to tell you he told me he wants to meet you. So I gave him your number." At this point Shonna sounded resigned to the fact that, once again, Linda was going to get the guy she wanted. Linda smiled. Too bad Shonna couldn't see that.
"Well, thanks, I guess. Gotta zoom, so I'll talk to you later," Linda snipped. “‘Later’ as in after you're dead," Linda muttered after she hung up. Why did she always end up with such petty, unreliable friends? Maybe she should take some classes at the local college, meet some new people. The denizens of club land all tended to be so shallow and dull and drug-addled. Just like her parents warned her they would be.
* * *
Marion did call, once, but Linda didn't answer. Life's too short, she decided, to waste it on libertines. So the next few months passed with Linda becoming more self-analytical and withdrawn, more and more out of sync with her clique, until they finally dropped her all together. She hardly noticed.
Had she been aware that her one-time gal pals were now referring to her the "cave troll," she might've been hurt. Or not. She'd reached an epiphany: people like Shonna were not people at all; they were merely obstacles to her finding her true self. So, in her mind, she swerved around them, avoiding conversation, confrontation and collision.
The only person she now saw on a semi-regular basis was Mr. Gruber across the hall. He'd smile and nod knowingly at her when they bumped into each other, usually when Linda was taking out her garbage. It was as if he was aware of her transformation, and approved heartily. Or perhaps he thought she was coming around, finally, to his advances. He began giving her little odd gifts, for instance, his old paper-cutter, a tarnished silver money clip, and a spiral bound copy of poems he wrote in college. And that box; she finally relented and accepted the box.
Linda took these gifts, awkwardly, and piled them in a corner of her den, behind an over-large potted plant.
Then one afternoon, as Linda opened her mail box in the quadruplex's front hall, Mr. Gruber tapped her shoulder.
"Guess what I found!" He announced, barely containing his glee.
"I couldn't begin to guess," Linda sighed. This old man and his cutesy games.
Mr. Gruber opened his hand to reveal a small, shiny brass crank. "It's for the odd box. Now we can get it open!"
Linda took the crank from him and held it up for study. "I suppose it will fit. Thanks."
"Well," he enthused, “let’s go try it out! Aren't you boiling to see what's inside?"
With a bit more prodding, Linda led Mr. Gruber back to her apartment, and the waiting box. She took the small crank and easily inserted it into the hole on the side of the box. It fit. She gently turned the crank, and with a muted pop, the lid sprang open.
"Well, I'll be damned," she muttered.
They both leaned over, heads bumping, to look inside. Nothing to see but an uncanny darkness within.
"How is that possible," Linda wondered aloud. “How can it be so dark inside?" She shook the box. Where once she had heard bells and springs softly jingling and jangling, now she heard nothing.
"OK," Mr. Gruber grinned, “now we'll play the mouth-of-truth game."
Linda laughed. This guy was amazing in his clueless perseverance for her company. Perhaps if she played his childish game, he'd leave her alone. At least for a while.
"Fine." Linda sighed. “What am I supposed to do?"
"Yes!" Mr. Gruber crowed. "Place your hand in the box, and answer three questions truthfully. Or else!" He cackled.
Linda placed her left hand into the dark interior of the box. She was right-handed, in case anything—unpleasant—happened to her hand. She had to form a fist to make her hand fit inside the box.
"OK, ready," Linda said, sitting up straight, preparing for battle.
"
Which is more pleasant: Cool solitary places or hot crowded ones?"
To Linda, the question meant forest versus city. She'd lived her entire life in an urban setting, crowded, noisy, hot and smelly. To her mind, forest living meant quiet isolation, clean air, cool water, and rest. But city life was so exciting! Everyone wanted to live in a big city!
So she answered: "Hot crowded place, of course. Anything else would be boring and—" Before she finished her sentence, her hand was pulled, impossibly, further into the box.
"What the—" she gasped.
"Next question! Which would make you happier: Owning a mountain of loose gold—say, coins and jewelry—or world peace?"
What a silly question, she thought. Of course, like a beauty pageant contestant, she'd answer "world peace." But really, who wouldn't want, if possible, their own private stash of real gold? She briefly imagined her naked self rolling around mounds and mounds of loose gold. The idea made her mouth water. She blinked the image away.
"World peace," she scoffed, attempting to hide her lust for all that secret, tax-free gold. Again, her hand was pulled farther into the box. Now the box reached up to her elbow.
"This is not happening!" she cried. “This is not possible! How are you doing this? Did you drug me?"
"I am not doing anything, missy," Mr. Gruber snipped. “It’s your ownself doing this. One more question, and please, be honest. Now. Who do you love more: Your friends and family, or yourself?"
Linda gaped at Mr. Gruber. How could he continue asking questions, so coolly, when this box was eating her arm? She attempted to pull her arm free, but it wouldn’t budge.
"I thought you said, like that Roman thing that the box would bite my hand off if I lied. Not eat me!" She was bordering on panic now.
"No, I said it was in the 'tradition' of La Bocca della Verità, not that it was exactly 'like.' I just meant untruthful answers have consequences, that's all. So?" Mr. Gruber crossed his legs and arms, making himself appear smaller and even more gnarled. Like a goblin, Linda thought. "Well," he prodded. "I'm waiting."
Linda's mind raced around her two answers. She assumed she was expected to say "friends and family," of course. To say otherwise would be monstrous. But, in reality, she didn't love anyone as much as she loved herself. Even people she barely knew picked up on that. Her friends just accepted that about her; in truth, they were as self-centered as she was. And her family, well, they'd just given up on her.
"You nasty little goblin," Linda hissed. "I don't have to answer that question if I don't want to."
"Then you'll live out the rest of your days with a box on your arm. Explain that to your groovy party pals!" Mr. Gruber laughed. "And, my lovely Linda, I'm not the goblin—"
Linda grit her teeth. "Of course I love others more than myself, how could you even ask such an awful—"
And into the box she went, entirely.
"Humph," Mr. Gruber scoffed. "You cocky little liar." He closed the lid on the box and placed it on Linda's mantle.
* * *
It's dark there, but her eyes soon adjusted. She sat hunched in a corner, her back against cool, smooth walls. When she looked up, there was no starry sky, but there was a thin line of light limning the square border of her firmament above.
What an odd, and oddly pleasant place this is, she mumbled to herself. Not far from her, she saw a pile of loose gold; coins and rings and bracelets and statuettes and all manner of curious little objects that slid down the mound with a satisfying, slushy sound. She scampered over to the pile, only to have it move farther away. What a delightful game! Instinctively, she knew she'd eventually reach the golden hoard. Just thinking about all that bright and shiny coinage made her drool. She wiped her mouth with her right hand; her left hand was permanently clenched in a fist. She stroked it like a beloved baby, cooing sweetly, softly, to it. She sighed. This was so perfect! Everything she always wanted, without strife or struggle. Without noisome people-creatures gabbing and grasping for her attention.
Once, and only once, did her quiet world tilt and shake, raining springs and bells down on her head like a storm of cold hard rain. Sending her pile of treasures scattering. Then it all just disappeared, and she was alone again with her untroubled, golden twilight of a world. Until she heard muted, yet thunderous voices. Until she heard a great gear scrape and turn. Until blinding light exploded overhead. Until a ferocious hunger, that she had smothered for what felt like an eternity, bloomed. And like a famished baby bird, she opened her greedy mouth, wide.
Hillary Lyon lives in southern Arizona, where she is the founder and editor for Subsynchronous Press, publisher of two poetry journals (The Laughing Dog, and Veil: Journal of Darker Musings). She holds an MA in English Lit from SMU. Her stories have appeared online at Lorelei Signal, Hogglepot, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, and Flashes in the Dark, as well as in print in Midnight Screaming, Night to Dawn, The Scareald, and several anthologies.
TINTYPE
by
ELIZABETH MASSIE
(Originally appeared in Dark Discoveries, Issue #25, September 2013)
Oliver sweated heavily at night, even in the colder months, because evening was too silent, too dark, and that was the time that memories – the worst of them all, the most foul and intimate and dreadful – jeered and paraded across the bare walls of his tiny room or across the backs of his closed eyelids.
War was hell. General Sherman had made that clear. He’d written, “Some of you young men think that war is all glamour and glory but let me tell you boys, it is all hell!”
But for Oliver, still a young man at twenty, it wasn’t war that was the greatest of all hells, for war had an end to it. Rather, it was the weeks that followed the war. The months after the last cannon was fired, the last bloodied soldier hit the ground, the last man stumbled free from a prisoner of war camp. Yes, that was hell. The time after. When one could think. Was forced to remember over and over again. To marvel in horror what he had seen, what he had done.
The late November wind was fierce. It howled through the street below like a banshee seeking the next to die. It shook the shutters and window glass of Oliver’s grimy fourth floor Philadelphia boarding house room.
Oliver lay on his cot, hands clasped to his chin, his heart pounding, staring at the ceiling. There, too, the dreaded memories danced. Danced and taunted, leered with dust-bleached eyes and threatened with skeletal fingers that clicked like bits of tin. Oliver shook his head and dug at his eyes, but the visions remained.
Accusatory grins filled with blood-stained teeth.
Oliver rolled off his cot, kicking the blanket away, and walked to the window. There he leaned, panting, his forehead against the glass. He watched as dead leaves spun about in macabre, air-borne pirouettes and stars winked accusingly in the distant blackness. Two blocks away, beyond the roofs of shorter buildings, he could see the moon’s reflection on the Delaware River. Ripping, undulating, damning.
“It will never leave me,” he whispered, his breath fogging the pane. “My sins will never be forgiven.”
Turning back, Oliver shuffled to the cane chair by the bed. He sat and looked at his shoes, overturned on the floor. They still bore the mud of Georgia. No matter how many times he’d scrubbed them, it remained.
The memories remained.
* * *
He was captured at the Battle of Mansfield and transported with thirty-seven of his fellows to the Camp Sumter prison in Andersonville in April of 1864. What he saw as he entered the gates of the stockade with his fellow Union soldiers froze the blood in his veins.
The prison was little more than a huge outdoor corral for human beings, surrounded by a tall and solid wooden enclosure. Mud. Flies and gnats as heavy as fog. A central, rancid swamp in which human feces floated and rats swam. Moldy tents, both issued and makeshift. Mounds of debris. And most horrific of any sight possible – men who were no more than skin stretched over bone, men shuffling about with eyes sunken back and away from reality, some nearly naked and
others completely so, dotted with welts and sores and streaks of diarrhea down their pitiable legs.
“Heaven have mercy!” said Robert, a freckle-faced redhead from the 48th Ohio regiment, and Oliver’s best friend since joining up in January. “We’re going to die here. Would that I have been hit by a ball in the forehead and died on the spot!”
“Don’t say that,” said Oliver, though he was thinking the same. “We’ll get out of here soon. We aren’t going to end up like…” he cocked his head in the direction of one man, naked, lying in the mud like a corpse dug up from a grave, yet still breathing. “…like him.”
“Oh, yes, we will,” said Robert. “Ain’t nobody gonna get out of here alive!”
“Shut your mouth, Robert. We will. We will.”
Robert grabbed Oliver’s sleeve. His eyes were wide, red. “How, tell me! How, when this is Hell itself?”
Oliver didn’t know. His gut was so knotted, his mouth so dry, and his mind so twisted that he could only utter what he wanted to be true but knew could not be true. “We will. We will.”