“Yeah. Must’ve been my overactive imagination or something.” Mark said, forcing a smile.
“Well, if we’re done with the homeland security portion of the evening, can we finish the movie?” Steve said, waving everyone back down the stairs.
“That was fun,” Christine said, handing Mark back the spare helmet. “We should really do that again sometime.”
“Yeah, totally. Hanging out is good,” Mark said, fumbling the helmet as he tried to strap it back on the V.
“Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow or something? We could hang out some more.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mark said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the helmet and kept fiddling with the strap even though he knew it was secure. He’d avoided eye contact ever since seeing that look on her face after he’d taken his tumble down the steps. It was only going to get worse, he realized. The whole evening would be beyond a waste if he wasn’t able to look her in the eye ever again. He glanced up and she was just standing there, hands still in her pockets and head tilted down as she tried to catch his eye.
Oh God, do something. Do something, you silly spineless bastard.
“I hope you had fun tonight,” he said, standing up and smoothing out his jacket. “My life’s kinda boring, and that about summed up the highlights. Well, there’s usually less falling down. I think.”
“I don’t know, you’ve been doing it an awful lot since we met,” she smiled.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, looking away again.
“Mark,” she stepped closer, “I’m sorry, that was kind of mean. I’m just glad there wasn’t someone up there or something.”
Yeah, it’s better that I’m crazy. “I know, and I know you’re not being mean. It was just weird. And, well, humiliating.”
“You shouldn’t be humiliated. It was kind of cute.”
He finally looked up, and she was right there, less than a foot away. Her hair had fallen over her face a little but he could still see the green of her eyes reflecting the tiny lights of the walkway.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He reached out, every micron of his willpower keeping his hand steady, to brush the hair away from her face.
“It was in the way,” he said, his hand lingering in the air next to shoulder.
“It was,” she said, and then they were kissing. Every single one of his senses seemed to shut down so he could focus on this terrifying and wonderful new experience.
“So I was wondering if you wanted to go out on a date sometime. Would that be okay?” he said when their lips finally parted.
“I thought I just asked you out on a date! How much clearer do you need it to be?”
“Well, I’m slow, what can I say?”
“Well, to clarify,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. “Yes, I would very much like to go out with you. Tomorrow even.”
“I just wanted to make sure,” he said, and they were kissing again.
“Still need convincing?” she whispered, drawing back but still holding him.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, that’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes really, unless you want to deal with the parental Gestapo.”
“Gesundheit.”
“And good night,” she said with a final kiss before she pulled away.
“Night,” he said, letting his arms fall to his sides and not moving an inch as he watched her back up the walkway.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“You better,” she said with a wink, and the disappeared inside.
He didn’t yell in triumph until he was a block away, racing the V home as fast as it would carry him.
Mark crept quietly through the back door and into the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if Uncle Joe was awake or even home, but he didn’t want to ruin a near-perfect evening by finding out the hard way.
Yeah, near-perfect except for the psychotic hallucinations. Other than that, picture perfect.
It had been easy to forget it all with friends and laughter and kissing (my god, the kissing), but sneaking through the dark he couldn’t help but conjure up the image of those flaming eyes and that sickening, sing-song voice. Not only that, the dream he’d had the night before about the boy watching the house across the street and getting attacked in his room was crystal clear.
Just like the song he’d heard in Clara’s apartment. The same one from the dream.
He stopped, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, opening his eyes as he did.
Nothing strange. Nothing unusual. Nothing black and smoky and on fire. Just a kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pile of pizza boxes by the trash. The only scary thing here was that this was his life.
Mark tip-toed his way through the hallway and then heard a low, faint whisper coming from the living room. He took another step forward and peered into the living room. The room was dark except for a soft light and a large figure on the couch and Mark reached out for the wall to keep from falling down.
He’s here he’s here he’s--
Joe, he realized. Joe, in his usual seat in front of the television.
“Jesus,” Mark said. “You scared the . . .”
He should’ve realized what was going on, but the sudden rush of panic had taken him by surprise. Not only was Joe in his normal seat in front of the TV, he was also passed out drunk. Mark just shook his head, spying the glass with the mostly melted ice.
Mark started upstairs, stealth completely abandoned. He paused at the third step, looking over at Joe. With a pained sigh, Mark turned around and headed back for the living room.
“Joe,” Mark shook his shoulder. “Joe, you need to go to bed.”
Joe’s head lolled back and forth, eyelids fluttering. “Vah . . . whu . . .”
“Joe, you need to go upstairs.”
“I don’t gotta do nothin’,” Joe said, finally lifting his head and peering around the dark room. After several clumsy pans around the room his eyes landed on Mark.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“I live here. You fell asleep watching TV and I thought you’d be more comfortable upstairs.”
“Th’ hell do you know?” Joe pulled himself to his feet, wobbling like human Jenga.
“Just thought I’d help.” Mark rolled his eyes and headed for the stairs before this got even more pointless.
“Hey!” Joe barked. “It’s almost midnight. What the hell’er you doin out so late?”
“I was at a party,” Mark said, not stopping.
“Dammit stay still when I talk to you! What damn party?”
Mark stopped, gripping the banister as hard as he could. “A birthday party. For me. Y’know, since my birthday is coming up?”
Joe’s face scrunched together as he tried to get as much power as he could to his remaining brain cells. “Your birthday? When?”
“It’s on Tuesday,” Mark said. “Three days from now? Same as last year.”
The Big Wheel of Drunken Emotions spun around and then settled on anger. “You fuckin’ smartass. You can go fuck yourself and your snotty at’tude. You’re not too old to get kicked the fuck out, y’hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Mark turned and headed up the stairs. The threat of getting kicked out had lost most of its weight by now.
“Hey! Dammit, come back here!” Joe yelled, shuffling to the bottom of the steps. Mark kept going, pausing only to slam and lock the attic door behind him. He took the steps up to the attic room two at a time and then threw himself onto his bed.
At least last year he had gotten a card, a stern nod, and a “Happy Birthday.” He should’ve known to expect less as the years went on, but every year he strolled forward whistling like an idiot going “This time it’ll be different!” The only thing that was different was how hard he got shoved back on his ass.
Clara loved talking about the future and h
ow full of possibilities it was. “This is High School,” she’d say. “When your life really begins you’ll look back and see how strong all of this has made you.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing it was making him was more and more certain that the future was a joke. His grades were mediocre and that meant no scholarships, and if Joe wasn’t putting up money for birthday cards he sure as shit wasn’t going to put anything up for college. By the time graduation rolled around he’d be lucky if he was working minimum wage at a burger joint with Joe charging him rent.
All of the red-headed, green eyed, angel-lipped girls in the world couldn’t change any of that. Damned if they still didn’t put a smile on his face though. Maybe, just maybe, she could give him a glimmer of something to hope for until then.
It was that glimmer that let him fall asleep with a smile on his face.
Chapter Seven
While Mark Watson dreamt a figure made his way around the tiny islands of street-light on Briarcliff Avenue, hat pulled low and coat collar turned up. The only sound on the suburban street was the scuff of sneakers on pavement as he hurried towards his destination. He stopped between the two giant oaks and peered through the overgrown tangle of dead and dying bushes.
“Home,” he said in a soft, dreamy voice.
He pushed his way between the overgrown hedges and into the yard. The grass was almost knee high and the only gaps in it were from the cracked cement tiles of the path leading to the door. The entire yard was filled with the thick, damp smell of fall and at the center of everything was the house.
His house.
Time and neglect had savaged the place. The paint was all but gone, and the house itself sagged as if it were in the midst of a deep inhale that would end in a death rattle. He walked through past the rusted sign that proclaimed that “Yes, this wonderful castle could be yours! Just ask Dave Keener (Northern New Jersey’s realtor of the year, 1981, 1983)!”
He’d visited Dave Keener in a dream once. After that, Dave left the house alone, losing it in a shuffle of paperwork.
Not to mention sleeping with the light on for a couple of years.
The figure took a cautious step onto the porch, avoiding the hidden patches of rotted out wood that could break underfoot with the slightest bit of weight. Like the big hole on the top step that Tommy Reardon’s leg plunged into when he ran into the yard and up the steps on a dare twenty years ago. He could still smell the blood on the ragged edges on the hole where the step had bitten into his leg all the way up to his middle thigh.
Tommy woke from a dream shortly after, screaming and tearing at his bandages to make sure that there weren’t really any maggots making their way through his cuts.
The doorknob was stained almost black, and the door itself still had slightly lighter patch of wood in the center where the knocker once hung. He touched it there and the locks released their hold and the door slowly swept open, cutting a swath in the years of untouched dust. He hesitated for a moment, savoring the musk of rot and age that washed over him that he’d waited decades to experience again. It was happening. Finally, he was in this wondrous place again, and this time it was no dream.
Before him a wide staircase headed up to the second floor, and next to it a hallway led into the back of the house. On either side of him was two wide archways; right to the living room, left to the dining room. Each room was spotted with furniture hidden under dusty, molding shrouds.
He walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. Nestled into the wall to his right was a thick wooden door. He walked forward and placed a trembling hand on the cool, dusty wood. He moved his fingertips down to the doorknob. It twisted, but would not open. He concentrated for a few moments and there was a faint metal scraping sound as the bar on the other side unlatched itself and the door swung open. Before him were spindly wooden-stairs leading down into darkness.
He let his fingertips linger on the handrail as he walked, pausing at the small landing at the bend in the steps and then continuing down to the right. Once at the bottom, he was in total darkness.
He didn’t need to see where he was going. He walked forward, between the twin support columns and then tilting his head to avoid the piece of chain hanging from one of the pipes in the ceiling.
It was right in front of him now. He stopped and put his hand out, feeling the warm metal. All the years of neglect weren’t enough to put the fire out. He dropped to his knees, running his hand down the metal until it reached the glass window in the front of the furnace.
“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, Lord. It’s been difficult to be away, but it was necessary.”
His hand moved to the handle. He twisted it and the door opened with a shriek of rusted metal. He brushed the hat off his head and leaned forward, resting his head on the edge of the chamber. He took a deep breath of the stale, ash filled air until his lungs were full and he thought he was going to burst.
He could feel Him in there, just below the surface. An ember waiting to catch flame.
He reached inside, his hands moving through the ash until his fingers found the long bundle of cloth. He drew it out, shaking the ash from it before unraveling it. The long, thin black cane topped with silver was as lovely as he remembered it. He turned it slowly over in his hands, moving up to the dragon’s head that served as the cane’s handle. He flicked the switch at the dragon’s neck and drew the long, thin blade out of the shaft. The sound of the instrument being freed was as glorious as remembered. He swung it through the air, spinning and slicing through the darkness. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the blade smoothly back into its sheath.
He dropped back down on his knees in front of the great steel furnace. He closed his eyes, both hands squeezing the cane in front of him. “Thank you for bringing me back, Lord. I will feed you and make you strong again.”
There was a slight stir in the chamber of the furnace. A tiny breeze shifted the dirt and ashes.
“Yes. Yes, yes,” he said.
A warm and smoky breeze passed over him. He drew it deep into his lungs and it filled him completely. He held it inside, concentrating, bearing down on it until he could feel the fire explode in his lungs.
It spread through his insides, burning everything. He screamed in ecstatic agony as the fire took him over, sizzling in his ears and then bursting through his eyes like tiny, volcanoes. Fire burned up his throat and the smoke and embers that burst forth pooled around him, clinging to his body. He shaped it whimsically around his body as the coat, hat and gloves he remembered so well.
“I will nourish You,” he said, kneeling with reverence before his steel god. “I will bring you the blood that You require, and I will make him ours once again.”
Clara Washington woke with a scream. The dream that startled her awake racing from her as she realized she was safe in her own bed. The only sound was her own gasping breath, and she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe steady and even, willing her heart to calm down.
Mark.
There had been dreams like this before; when her husband died, when her daughter had her car accident. Sometimes all she could remember were small details that would pop up in the moment and she’d find out that she’d been seeing something as it happened. Others times it was what was about to happen. It didn’t happen often, but she’d learned to trust it and be on the lookout for signs of what was about to come.
This one had been a doozy. The specifics were fading fast, but she could see Mark in the center of it. Just focusing on the details made her shiver, but if she had to make a guess she figured she’d been shown something that was coming, not what has happening.
She got out of bed, put on her robe and headed for the kitchen. She noticed the time and knew that it’d be too late to call to make sure he was okay. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with that ogre of an Uncle that he lived with. Even when Martha was alive she’d only talked to him a few times, but it was enough to know that they wouldn’t ever like each other beyond st
rained small talk.
What she needed to do was get something to drink, take some deep cleansing breaths and get some sleep. After some focused meditation in the morning she could tell Mark whatever she could remember about her dream and what she thought was going to happen.
The smell of something burning stopped her in her tracks, hand on the refrigerator door. She wondered for a second if she’d left the stove on when something peeled itself from the darkness and grabbed hold of her wrist, crushing it. The sound of breaking bones echoed through the room and electric piranhas ran riot up her arm.
Her wrist twisted upwards, raising her arm and dropping her to her knees in pain. She looked at the hand covered in swirling black smoke clamped to her wrist, watching it swirl and writhe like a living thing. Two points of fire began to blaze in front of her. She forgot about the pain in her wrist, but she suddenly remembered her dream and why she had been screaming.
“I’m here,” he said, kneeling back in front of the furnace. The fire in his eyes blazed brighter than before. “I’ve brought it for You.”
He drew the blade from its sheath. Drops of blood pooled on its edges, ready to spill to the floor, but he held them there with sheer force of will. He took the blade and stuck it gently in the pile of ashes in the furnace’s chamber. The blood ran down the blade, congealing in the ash.
After several seconds there was a rustle in the ashes. The warm breeze was back, joined by the sizzle and pop of fire trying to spark to life. The flames in him pulled back, healing his body as fire and smoke rolled down the blade and into the furnace, feeding and nurturing the newborn flame.
There was a rush of warm air and the fire caught, lighting the basement and filling it with the acrid smell of burning blood.
He pulled the blade from the chamber and slid it back home in the sheath, placing it in front of the furnace and leaning forward as close as the heat would allow. He drew a deep breath, taking the aroma into his lungs and savoring it. He peered into the flames, eyes wide and tears running down his cheeks from the stinging heat.
Shadow of the Past Page 5