by Susan May
A monotone, distorted voice, unrecognizable as either male or female, offered a greeting. The sound surrounded him as if there were no speakers, as if the sound emanated uniformly from the walls.
“Do not be afraid. We offer you friendship. No harm will befall you.”
Of course, they would say that. He knew they would hurt him. They couldn’t help themselves. Their cruel experiments would be justified by calling it science and research.
“We are peaceful beings.”
Another lie. If they would only settle for peace, maybe he and the others would come willingly. Some of them would give themselves up, make the sacrifice to leave their loved ones, so others could go on, unharmed. His study of these beings, their history, and previous behavior in these circumstances told him otherwise.
“If you help us, you will be freed.”
Another deception. How many did they free?
They never released those they’d captured. They were kept until they died, enduring experiments and tests, as if they were not sentient life, but were instead animals, their sole purpose to serve as a curiosity.
Their race and his were so alike they could have a shared evolution, albeit on different planets, but culture separated them. Cruelty and violence, embedded in this alien race’s DNA, always surfaced when fear of the unknown provoked them. Compassion was what set them apart. John’s people would never steal them from their loved ones and claim it was for mutual benefit.
“We have your computer data,” the voice said. “What were you using it for?”
John ignored them, his mind wandering back to Crystal, back to the life from which he’d been torn, and to which he would never be returned.
He could blame the rain for his capture; blame his preoccupation with getting back to Crystal—but he’d known this day would inevitably come. In his mind’s eye he saw his wife’s beautiful face when, only a few hours before, he’d turned from her into the night.
“Hurry back,” she’d said.
They won’t let me back, my love.
Regret pierced his heart. She would never know what had happened, and he knew she would suffer even more because of it.
He could have saved her from that pain and cruelty if he’d only shared his secret. He was too afraid he’d lose her.
He’d tried once. ‘They come during atmospheric disturbances,” he’d told her. She’d laughed and said, “You scientists with your big words. Why don’t you just say a storm?”
The way she’d smiled and laughed at him had almost broken his heart; he couldn’t do it, couldn’t destroy her happiness. He’d hoped the one sentence would be enough, if she would only remember it: They come during storms.
The disembodied voice invaded his thoughts. He detected a note of frustration, perhaps at his refusal to answer its questions. The voice began to repeat the same question, as if it were running a broken, computerized loop.
Already he was weary of them and their pointless questions. These beings comprehended so little. They were unable to even imagine what he knew; therefore, they would never ask the right questions. No matter how many of his race they took, they could never comprehend the truth, even though it was staring them in the face.
Instead of asking about his planet, humanity should be asking about their own world. How long could they treat Earth as if it were their slave? Their true fight was with themselves and the harm they had inflicted on themselves. It wasn’t with him or his fellow colonizers. Even though it was increasingly obvious Earth was now rebelling against their control, they still continued on, ignorantly confident in their superiority to govern that which was beyond their limited resources or comprehension to control.
His people were not warriors or invaders, as Earth’s occupants feared. The humans’ blind belief war could be their only mission was based more on their own history than on his world’s.
Put simply, his people were scavengers of abandoned worlds, so often destroyed by technology and disregard. It was surprising how many civilizations misunderstood the precarious symbiotic relationship they shared with nature. So many different worlds they’d taken, but always it was a version of the same story.
His early reconnaissance party had simply come to wait, scattered across the globe, analyzing and sharing their data. If these humans had listened to their world, they might have foreseen their time left was growing short, their world failing and dying. Soon even the rain would stop. His people’s wait was almost over. After the rain, their turn would come.
© 2011 Susan May
From the Imagination Vault
A reoccurring question directed at a writer is: do you get your ideas from dreams? Wouldn’t that be wonderful! Sadly, it happens rarely.
One night I did awaken from a very vivid dream. Years later, I still remember it. In the dream, I’d left a theater and lost my husband in the rain, just like Crystal. When I went searching for him, I came across a crowd of people in a parking lot who informed me we were in the middle of an alien invasion. My immediate thought was I needed to find him before the aliens took him. If they hadn’t already. I never did find him in the dream, and when I awoke, a feeling of intense loss gripped me.
What stuck with me was the dream’s mood. It felt dark, foreboding, and claustrophobic. This mood is what I wanted to capture with Gone. As I set about writing the story, I knew I wanted it to be about alien abduction but, also, about secrets. How they harm you and the price we pay to keep them. I never imagined in the end, John was the alien. That came as a wonderful surprise even to me, after he was captured and interrogated.
When I was younger, alien abductions fascinated me, and I read many books on the subject. For the longest time, I believed the claims of author Whitley Strieber, who said he’d been the victim of multiple alien abductions. He wrote many books on the subject.
Now I’m older, I’m no longer a great believer. Between running a busy household and fitting in my writing, I haven’t the time to worry about aliens invading or abducting us.
Except, on the occasional stormy night since my dream, I do wonder if behind the lightning and wild wind there could possibly some alien creature watching and waiting. After all, Earth is a beautiful planet, who wouldn’t want to live here?
Behind More Dark Doors
I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit behind dark doors. Thank you for reading my stories.
You can find the other collections available in eBook or paperback online. Currently this volume and the other two volumes of Behind More Dark Doors are available in theBehind Dark Doors (the complete collection) at a great discount. If you have enjoyed this volume, grab the entire eighteen suspenseful short stories in one book:
Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection)
From time to time, I’ll release more volumes as I write more short stories in between my novels. I love hearing from readers, so please drop me a line [email protected] if you have a comment about any of the stories.
COLLECTIONS
Behind Dark Doors (one)
Behind Dark Doors (two)
Behind Dark Doors (three)
Read a nine chapter excerpt from Susan May’s best selling psychological thriller, the book readers are saying they cannot put down.
Deadly Messengers
3 massacres, 2 detectives, 1 writer, 0 answers
“A riveting thriller… highly recommend to every mystery thriller fan.” Suspense Magazine
Discover the book readers are calling the most terrifying impossible-to-put-down thriller released this year, by the author readers are naming the next Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl) and the female Stephen King.
Freelancer Kendall Jennings writes fluff pieces for women's magazines. When a horrific massacre occurs at Café Amaretto, she scores an exclusive interview with a survivor. Suddenly, she's the go-to reporter for the crime.
Investigating veteran detective Lance O'Grady and his partner Trip are tasked with finalizing the open and shut case. Seven people are dead at the hands of
an unprovoked killer wielding an axe.
Then another mass killing occurs. This time, arson, and ten eldercare facility residents die in the blaze. Again the killer dies at the scene. The crimes have no motive, and Lance O'Grady is left wondering how evil can strike twice in such a short space of time.
Then it happens again. Even more shocking: a mother with a gun goes on a rampage at a family birthday party.
The killers share one odd detail: none have a murderer's profile. No history of violence. No connection to terrorists. No vendettas. Ordinary citizens suddenly just became killers.
Drawn deeper inside the crime investigation, Kendall finds herself not only clashing with O'Grady but also struggling with old demons. O'Grady resents this interfering reporter, whose presence provokes memories of a personal tragedy.
What Kendall and O'Grady don't realize is they are caught in a plot far greater reaching than just these crimes. Someone is sending a message. And unless they can decipher the meaning, very soon, many more will die.
Deadly Messengers, an unputdownable thriller, poses the question: Does a killer lurk inside everyone? The answer may prove more frightening than the crimes.
Chapter 1
TOBY BENSON PAUSED AT THE alley’s entrance to hoist the ungainly blue sports bag higher on his shoulder. Traveling here, the awkward, precious cargo had caused the bag to slip down his arm, forcing him to stop several times to rebalance the weight.
He stared up the dark corridor of gray shadows and fractured shapes, the towering buildings only allowing the barest slip of light to enter from the full moon overhead. Wall lights hung above the back entrances to the establishments illuminating a collection of trash containers, sentinels to the doors. A perfect location to film a horror movie; just add haunting music and the audience would be clued something terrifying was about to happen.
Toby didn’t notice these things. Somewhere deep inside, perhaps, he registered them on a subconscious level, understood he should be afraid or this wasn’t the place for him. If he did, though, the thought didn’t make it through to that part of his brain controlled by self-preservation.
He saw nothing except a strange mist settled over his vision like a swirling film on the surface of a pond. He heard nothing except the voice in his head, which he imagined came from God, spoken with such authority he couldn’t resist. The voice knew him, wanted to help him and guide him toward his destiny.
At the end of the brick corridor a doorway lay, guarded on either side by two tall commercial waste containers. Pieces of trash dotted about their bases as though rejected competitors that hadn’t made the cut—scattered bottles, empty cardboard fast-food containers, plastic bags, paper, and even what looked like a woman’s shirt. Wasteful. Thoughtless. Humanity’s flotsam discarded to become someone else’s problem.
Human beings were filthy creatures.
He noted the fleeting thought, but decided it was unimportant and unrelated to his future. To the mission.
The back door glowed a fluorescent green as though it were showing him the perfect entry. A signal he was on the right path.
Green meant go to him, but he didn’t fully understand why.
On the opposite side of the building would be the front door to Café Amaretto. Toby knew this area well, the entertainment section of the city, populated with myriad restaurants and clubs, ranging from small cafés to silver service establishments.
As he neared the doorway, the green intensified, the light piercing his eyes, making his brain feel as though it were pulsing. The alley, which had been dark upon his entry, now appeared bathed in green. This radiance, like colored breadcrumbs, gave him assurance this was his mission path.
This way. This is for you.
He’d followed the markers for the past hour, and they’d led him here. A streetlight, a car, a crosswalk sign—they were all just like the door. At first they would shimmer softly with a gentle hum of color against the darkness of night, then intensify as he neared, so he never doubted his path.
The voice buzzed again in his brain. He stopped and listened, tilting his head to the left, then the right, stretching his neck. The sound of his joints cracking like a sharp snap, felt like a mini-explosion in his skull.
Then he was moving again. The voice wanted him inside that door. He wanted to be inside that door.
Ten more steps and he would be inside and then—
Wait.
Toby stopped, his feet felt suddenly magnetized to the ground. He stared at the door a few steps away. Inside the door lay his future, the rest of his life, the thing he was born to do, an act to change the world. So said the voice.
Doubts slipped into his mind, a million ideas and images circling simultaneously as the gray film covering his eyes disappeared.
Why did it matter? Why was he really here?
An urgent idea swept over him. He should be home asleep, or watching television, his girlfriend snuggled against him.
The word desperate hung before his eyes, ferociously demanding his attention, with the same fierceness the door beckoned. He should be home. Not here. Not in this alley. Not ten steps from that door.
Toby wanted to turn and walk away. His legs wouldn’t move, wouldn’t allow him control. His desire to move forward greater than his desire to back away and abort the mission.
Mission?
Where did that come from?
He didn’t go on missions. He went to work. He came home. He made plans for the weekend. Plans for dinner. Plans for the future. He thought about his past, only twenty-seven years in the making. He didn’t walk down dark alleys. Not like this.
Toby began to turn, to walk away, but the sight of the door caught him. The deep green flashing: Enter me. Enter me, now!
He did want to enter. Yes. Be inside, on the other side of the door. The need, strong, intoxicating, overpowering him like a drug. The thought wended through his synapses, drilling into his subconscious until thoughts of his girlfriend and his life disappeared, until it became him and the door, and the thing stowed inside his bag.
Ten steps, he now took, the sound of his boots echoing in the hollow of the alley, the reverberations, earthquake loud in his skull. All doubts evaporated, his steps, the sound of destiny as he approached the door.
He shrugged his shoulders and stretched a hand across his chest to yank the bag from his shoulder, allowing it to drop to the ground at his feet. Bending to it, he pulled back the zipper and reached inside, his hand electrified as he found the prize he sought.
Toby drew the axe up, the smooth weight soothing to his palm, his skin melding with the wood as though an extension of his body. This axe had served him well. Last autumn, when he’d removed the tree whose roots insisted on invading the front pathway, its blade swung true and straight. Now it would serve another purpose. Just as true. Just as straight.
He reached for the door’s metal handle. As he turned the knob, he felt the click of the enabled lock resisting him. He took two steps back, examining the impediment. The gray film swimming before his eyes had returned, blurring his vision. Still he saw what needed to be done.
It would take two hands. He knew this from chopping the tree. He moved his left hand to the axe and swung the weighty and powerful tool over his shoulder. Then back at the door. As the blade slammed just left of the handle, the crack of splitting wood sounded sharp and loud.
A fracture appeared in the door, jagged splinters protruding from the dull, white surface.
Again.
He repeated the action, this time swinging with even more conviction. This time his aim was true. The blade sliced through the wood, hitting the internal lock. The door instantly sprang open as if relieved to be free of constraint.
Toby shifted the axe to his left hand and reached down to pull open the door. Coming from behind the entry, he heard voices and the sound of shattering plates and glasses.
The light from within spilled out, enveloping him in a pool of brilliance. He blinked rapidly, momentarily bli
nded, the light painfully piercing his eyes. Then, as though an automatic recalibration was made, he could see again.
Inside lay a small kitchen, fifteen feet by ten feet wide. Two men, dressed in t-shirts and jeans, wearing white aprons from chest to knees, stood staring at him. To the side, a ponytailed woman, wearing a white shirt and black skirt, covered her mouth with her hands. At her feet lay the shattered mess of an unserved meal and drinks.
Toby looked toward the men, then to the woman. Behind her, he noted another door. The door to Amaretto Café’s dining area filled with patrons enjoying a meal; laughing, drinking, eating, never thinking in the next five minutes their destiny would change. Soon something would enter their lives and they would be part of changing the world. Part of the message.
Those who survived.
“What the hell?” The speaker was a burly man with a carefully groomed three-day beard and blue bandanna tied about his head. His hand clasped a fryer basket submerged in bubbling oil. He hadn’t moved, still standing in the same position since Toby had entered. His eyes were as white as the dinner plates laying on the counter.
“Listen, buddy, we don’t want no trouble. Whatever you’re thinking, we just don’t—”
The third person in the kitchen, a scruffy teenager, skinny, with a pimple-peppered face, stepped back toward the sink. Dishes and pans overflowed the suds as though the sink was some kind of birthing incubator.