Where Darkness Dwells

by Glen Krisch

  But Cooper's father had lied. All of those times, all of those tellings, his fondest memories of his father, all lies.

  "Cooper?" Ellie called out.

  From the age when he still sat on his father's knee, until the fateful day when Cooper arrived home from work a mere year and a half ago, his father had lied.

  "Hmm, yes?" he said dreamily.

  "Are you okay?" Ellie asked, concerned. The sun had broken through the remnant gray cloud cover. Birds once again twittered away, happy for the storm's passing.

  "Just thinking is all." He continued walking with Ellie at his shoulder, feeling a wet spider web break across his arm as they cleared a thatch of scrub trees. He wiped his arm clean against his shirt.

  To this day, the memory was crystal clear. His father had been away to Philadelphia on business. After braving the snow-swept, congested street on the way home from the library, Cooper stomped the slush from his shoes on the doormat and pulled off his winter coat. He heard his father speaking in the parlor. A log snapped with moisture under a stoked fire. Quite distinctly, he remembered rubbing his palms together for warmth and thinking he would catch up with his father and enjoy the parlor's warmth. He remembered hoping he was in a good mood.

  But when he entered the room, the new fire banked high behind the fireplace screen, Cooper found his father speaking quietly with an old woman seated in a wicker-backed wheelchair. Hunched over, white hair pulled back from her face, a constant tremor shook through her left side. When Cooper made eye contact with her, a smile swept over her whole countenance--not just her mouth--but in her eyes her smile gleamed, in her cheeks a healthy glow warmed her drawn cheekbones.

  He was struck silent but managed to return her smile. Seeing a Negro woman in their home had thrown him for a loop.

  "Father, a guest?"

  "Yes, a guest. A very special guest."

  Cooper approached the old woman, extending his hand. Her touch was bone-dry, her ashen skin cold against his palm. He could feel a slight tremor all the way through her right hand.

  "I'm Theodore Cooper."

  He could sense his father shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. It was foreign sounding coming from him. Unsure and nervous.

  "Velma Fortune. Nice to meet you."

  "Likewise."

  She held his hand firmly, almost desperately, much stronger than he expected. He was finally able to pull away, turning back to his father.

  "Your trip went well, I hope."

  "We finalized the new distribution contracts. The expansion should go as planned."

  "I'm glad to hear it," he said, not absorbing any of it. "Well, I should get cleaned up. You know how dusty books can be. I'll let you get back to your guest."

  "But son, she came to see you." His voice cracked under the weight of the last syllable.

  Once again he met Velma's gaze, and for a moment, for just a fragment of a second, she looked familiar, recognizable. Then it was gone just as quickly.

  "Theodore, this is your grandmother. She's come to live with us--"

  "Cooper?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry Ellie. Did you say something?"

  "Yes. We're here," the girl said.

  "Really?" Cooper asked, bemused, looking around the wooded surroundings. He didn't know where they were, but he was certain he didn't see a house. "Where might this fabled Greta be?"

  Jacob laughed, not saying a word. He pointed at a sprawling tree ten feet from where they stood, hooking his finger skyward, waiting for Cooper's sightline to follow his gesture.

  A spiral stairway encircled the tree trunk. A wide plank platform sat at the summit of the stairs thirty feet above the ground. The building's walls were tarpaper, and he could see the corner of a closed hinged door. All nestled neatly among the ancient tree branches as if a part of the tree itself. He caught a whiff of a familiar aroma. He couldn't quite place it, not in the strangeness of this place.

  Ellie tugged on his sleeve before starting up the spiral stairway. "That's cornbread, Coop. Greta's famous for it. Come on. It smells fresh from the oven."

  19.

  Charles Banyon wanted to die. He had snapped like a twig when he saw the Fowler boy. Seeing him Underground had surprised him, had stoked his underlying anger into a heated rage. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd brought a rock down on the boy's head. Then the nigger landed a couple wallops with his huge fists. His buddy, Ogie McCoy, went off hollering, bringing back a group of men to pry him from his back. They pummeled the bastard, dragging him off to some dark corner Charles didn't want to know about. He'd heard the nigger screaming, but tried to block it out. He never desired to witness anything like that, or anything else that happened in the Underground, but he supposed unsavory sights were his price to pay.

  His anger had gone, leaving in its wake a desperate sadness.

  When he'd stumbled away from the wreckage of Jimmy Fowler's body, his skull was seeping blood. A lot of blood.

  Yeah, he'd snapped; Jimmy was dead. Dead and damned.

  Leaving the body behind, Charles had rushed to the hooch still and its flowing silvery oblivion. He'd filled an empty wine bottle with its liquid succor, and immediately commenced in emptying it down his gullet.

  He didn't know when he started crying, or how he'd scraped his knees bloody. The bottle now nearly empty, the cave wall he leaned against seemed to spin a contorted whirl.

  Regret. Mindless, aimless, stupid Goddamn regret. Smashing the Fowler boy's skull, just another regret in a lifetime of regret. He'd end it all; he lived and breathed to end it all, if only…

  Mabel…

  Jimmy Fowler would never leave this place, this eternal hell. He used to come over to the house all the time, even staying overnight when the boys were young. George still got along with Jimmy, HAD gotten along with him, he reminded himself. But his recent visits had been few and far between. George had been embarrassed of him, embarrassed of the booze-swilling bastard he had become. Elizabeth was not so much embarrassed as ashamed. Charles would see it boldly articulated in her face, unshielded by her youthful honesty. Mabel existed within Elizabeth. Whenever his daughter would cast her shamed eyes on him--her steadfast expression altogether too old for someone her age--he felt his wife staring at him through her eyes.

  Mabel, let me be. Let me end this misery. This loneliness.

  He tipped the bottle, emptying the last quarter of the bottle into his waiting mouth, the far-off candlelight setting the bottle aglow. The earth seemed to pitch beneath his feet, throwing him violently into a rock wall. The bottle shattered in his fist as he crashed, the glass fragments tearing deeply through skin and ligaments. Pain lanced his palm.

  He closed his eyes, hoping to black out. Even if his eyes had remained open, madness would blind him, and if not madness, then burning self-hatred would certainly do the trick. He rubbed his slurred-numb and bloodied hand across his chin and wasn't surprised to find it coated in vomit.

  He was staring at the doorway when he opened his eyes. The rough log door he had constructed by his own will and labor. A new bloody handprint was smeared along the edge, as if someone fought being placed on the other side. Behind the door a small cubby of a room. No lights, no water or food or anything else a living person would need to survive.

  I've ruined everything. I can't do this without you.

  He pressed his bristled cheek against the door, ran his fingers down the grain. He heard a stir from the other side. A low growl muted by the door's imposing thickness.

  I was a coward. Couldn't bear to live when you didn't. I've done this to you.

  He slumped to the floor, splinters digging into his face. The floor beneath him seemed to steady, the earth itself with its incessant spinning having slowed. His nausea, while still present, leveled off. He was sobering.

  The growl intensified, becoming a howl. Her nails dug at the rough wood, seeking escape. He had done this. This madness, this cowardice.

  "Ch-cha-chaaa," Mabel moaned, trying to articulate
his name through her undead lips. She slammed against the door, repeatedly, rhythmically, a mocking heartbeat. Four inches of wood separated them. For all his good intention, it could have been a mile.

  He didn't save her in time. Mabel died giving birth to Elizabeth. He could vividly remember the tension leaving her grip as he stood by her bedside. Her hot skin had cooled, and as it did, something slipped away from her. Her soul, her essence? Naming the sensation was pointless. She had died, yet he still brought her to the Underground, carrying her in his arms, her head lolling lifelessly, her birthing blood soaking his clothes. He had known about the tunnels. All his life the knowledge had been there, in the periphery of everyday, spoken about by his father and uncles, all of whom had toiled in the mines. He'd never given it a second thought, had never desired to seek the root of the mystery. Not until Mabel died. He had known about the Underground's powers and had brought her here and now she was this… this monster.

  "Cha-Char-CHARLESss!" She pounded the door, shaking it within its frame, the wood vibrating against his cheek.

  I'm so sorry, Mabel. He whimpered silently, his tears flowing thicker as he continued to sober.

  She stopped pounding the door and gave off a slight whine. For a moment, she sounded real and human and so alive. Then from the other side, only silence.

  She wriggled her fingers through the small gap under the door. Gray skin, filthy fingernails splintered at the tips, overly long, still growing after death. They flicked like curving miniature swords.

  His hand trembled as he impulsively reached for her. He stopped short, an inch away.

  He could feel his wounded hand healing, his torn skin and sliced ligaments reforming, his bloodied knees scabbing, scarring, becoming soft pink skin. The immutable persistence of the Underground.

  Goddamn it. "I'm going to make this right, Mabel. I'm going to do whatever it takes."

  Mabel's fingers twitched at the sound of his voice. She grunted, "CHAR!CHAR!CHAR!"

  He touched her fingers. The tips of his met hers, and their coldness, their roughness, only solidified his resolve. While George was dead, his poor sweet boy, Mable lived on in the form of Elizabeth. He concentrated on the coldness of his undead wife's fingers, and promised himself he wouldn't let anything bad happen to his daughter. This time he would follow through. He could no longer turn a blind eye toward the child Mabel died giving birth to.

  Unsteadily, he gained his feet. Looking at his clothes as if for the first time--the grime and vomit stained rags--he felt the shame often reflected in his daughter's eyes. This brought on a pain sharper than anything he'd ever felt before. Even worse than witnessing his wife's existence in the Underground.

  "CHARRRR-LESSS!" Mabel cried from the other side of the door. Leaning on the cave walls for support, Charles Banyon stumbled his way through the tunnels--the cries of his undead wife haunting his every step--to the waiting daylight, and hopefully, to the forgiveness of his daughter.

  20.

  The home sat across two wide, buttressed limbs spreading parallel to the woods below. Cooper's stomach flipped as he looked down. They were nearly to Greta's door, thirty feet from the ground's safety. Cooper was afraid of heights. Ellie and Jacob were obviously not. They fairly capered up the rain-wet steps encircling the tree trunk.

  Ellie knocked on Greta's door. When it opened, Cooper was disappointed when old Greta turned out to be no older than his own father. His mind had drawn her from the same palette as Eunice Blankenship: bowed by gravity and brittle with age, struggling through an unseen battle, fighting to live through one more day. Seeing her in the flesh, Greta held none of these characteristics.

  "Children. You've brought a friend. Come in, come in."

  "I hope we're not putting you out," Ellie said.

  "Nonsense," Greta said, holding the door wide. Her face was broad and welcoming, her movements crisp, precise.

  Cooper was the last inside. His head nearly touched the ceiling, and the spare furniture and kitchen appliances inside the one room catchall house seemed to be on a smaller than normal scale. With a familiarity of their surroundings, Ellie and Jacob took seats at a short table with four completed place settings. Greta was taking chilled milk from an icebox, while the children looked hungrily at the steaming bricks of cornbread on the plates set in front of them. Cooper sat, his knees bumping the table's underside. A wood burning cook stove was in one corner, still warming the squat home with its radiant heat. Chunks of corn textured the bread's surface. Melting sweet butter ran through the nooks and crannies in lavish rivers.

  After pouring the milk, Greta replaced the glass pitcher to the icebox. She let out a contented sigh as she sat in the lone empty chair.

  "Expecting company?" Cooper asked. He found it odd to see the table set for four. It looked like she had cut the cornbread even as they mounted the steps to her home.

  "You must be Cooper." Greta stared at him, as if plumbing for knowledge.

  "Cooper, Greta Hildaberg, Greta, Cooper," Ellie said, making a formal introduction.

  Greta squeezed Ellie's hand. "I'm sorry for your loss, dear. I wish I could've warned him."

  "Did you see anything before it happened?"

  "No. If I had I would have done anything possible to bring about a different end."

  Ellie seemed satisfied with Greta's answer. Cooper felt bad for the children so implicitly trusting an eccentric old lady living in a tree. He didn't trust what he might say, so he took a bite of cornbread. It tasted as good as it smelled.

  "And Jimmy?" Jacob asked, his voice faltering.

  "He's not in the army, is he? Me and Jacob know he's not, but no one listens to us."

  "Do you know what happened to my brother? Where he is? Anything, please," Jacob pleaded.

  "I wish I could close my eyes and see the answers written there. It simply doesn't work that way, child."

  "Greta?" Jacob wiped away a single streaking tear.

  "No, he's not in the army. I wish it were true." Greta frowned at her folded hands as if they had done her wrong. "You see, my visions, if that's what the townsfolk like to call them, well, they aren't my visions of the future at all. There's a peculiar trait in my family, going back, oh, I can't count the generations… but I do remember them. Every generation before me, I remember their memories. The memories of those who came before get passed on at the time of death like an inheritance."

  "So your visions are of the past?" Ellie asked, confused.

  "My family's memories go back a long time. From the time my ancestors were peasants in Europe, to even earlier generations, when they lived in barbaric tribes mixing with Orientals, Africans. The newest memories are the strongest, the most fully formed, of course. They get weaker the closer you get to the base of my family tree."

  "But you've predicted the future. Like how Odette Fischer would win the pie contest last year with her secret recipe, her raisin custard. Or when you warned of Claude Cloutier having his heart attack while tilling his field," Jacob said.

  "Sure, I know things about the future, but you have to understand, they aren't my visions. They're my mother's. She could see the future. She was the only person in all of my family's generations who not only saw the past and past lives, but the future and the coming generations. Upon her death, I inherited my mother's visions of the future."

  Cooper had heard enough. "I'm sorry, but maybe I should step outside," Cooper said while standing. "I don't feel like I'm much help here."

  "Cooper, you're a part of this. You might want to stick around."

  "A part of this? So you're saying that I'm somehow connected to Jimmy Fowler's disappearance?"

  Jacob looked accusingly at Cooper, as if the question had solidified his own conclusions.

  "No, but you will be instrumental in what is to come."

  "I'm sorry, but I don't believe a word you're saying. Kids, I think we should go now. This is a big waste of time."

  "Greta, please go on," Ellie said quietly, as if she didn't want to of
fend Cooper for speaking up at all.

  Greta closed her eyes in concentration. "There are places where even God won't go. The Blankenships learned this," she said, opening her eyes. She paused, letting out a sigh, looking at Cooper. "But it was too late for them to do anything about it. They were drawn in, consumed in darkness. When they were gone, God turned His back on Coal Hollow. From that day on, no man of God would step foot inside the town limits."

  "Jimmy, my brother, do you know where he is, Greta?"

  "I can't see that. Mom didn't know, didn't foresee this. But she did know he's somewhere close."

  "Is he… is he…?"

  "He's, more than anything, wanting to escape the hell he's a subject to."

  There was a quick, familiar knock on the door, then Arlen Polk entered, carrying a wooden crate laden with groceries. He seemed surprised to see others sitting with Greta.

  "Momma, I got your cooking things." He kept his eyes lowered. He could've just climbed from a coal bin. Black dust coated his skin. His greasy hair stuck out in weird spikes.

  "Thank you, Arlen." Her son stood staring at Cooper. "You remember Mr. Cooper, right Arlen?"

  "Yeah, Mom, I told you 'bout him. We found the, uh… we… went searching together that one night." He turned to Cooper. "I'd shake hands, but after the…" he said, then stopped as he looked at Ellie, "The uh… service, I went to my gopher hole. Then, I 'membered Mamma's cooking stuff, so I went to town."

  "Such a good boy, always thinking of my well being," Greta said to Cooper, smiling. She turned back to Arlen. "Honey, we're about done here. Why don't you clean up, and by the time you get back, I'll have something on the stove for you."

  "Sure, Momma." He went to his mother and kissed her cheek. She feigned a giggle at his quill-like beard, and then patted him on the head and shooed him away. Arlen moped as he went out the door and down the stairs.

  "I'm sorry, but that's all I have to share. I wish I could be more precise. If I knew anything else, I would say so. There's an unpleasant undercurrent in this town. It will pull at you unexpectedly and drag you under its surface if you don't watch out. Just please be careful."