Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  Over and over.

  Tim Hanna said, “You liar. You believe nothing, your soul is empty. A damned empty pit. You are a fucking liar.”

  Will repeated, “By the power of God, I command you to obey . . . obey God’s word and—”

  He lifted his eyes from the book.

  Another smell filled his nostrils.

  The signs. He’ll grow desperate, James had said. He’ll call for help. Remember that. Watch for the signs. They mean he’s desperate. Don’t lose your concentration, your thoughts . . .

  Back, nearing the corner of the street, Hanna stumbled backward.

  Will looked up. The smell was barnlike, the stink of animals.

  And then, dropping around Will, on him, landing on his head, his arm, on the Bible, something . . . gooey wet glops of offal, the smell filling Will’s throat. Burning his throat. Choking him.

  Will coughed. The words sputtered to a stop as he hacked at the air.

  I looked away, he screamed inside his head. Then he saw it all slipping away. His concentration. His belief. Everything melting — a dream.

  Something bit his leg. He cried out.

  I’ve lost it.

  They were at the corner.

  Will tried to start his chant again. But it didn’t feel the same.

  Liar, screaming in his ear. Bullshit artist.

  God-hater. Deceiver.

  Dumbfuck.

  Hanna spoke.

  He said, quietly, calmly, “Listen.”

  Will thought: No. I won’t do that.

  But he did.

  The pay phone rang.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Over and over.

  “It’s for you,” Hanna said.

  “By God’s power, obey and —” Will tried to say again.

  The phone kept ringing. Hanna said, “I think you should answer it. It’s for you, Will.”

  A cold spiky hand seemed to close around Will’s heart. He moaned.

  “It’s for you,” Hanna said, his voice garbled, as if coming over through a cassette player in need of batteries.

  “Pick it up. Pick it the fuck up, Will!”

  Will stopped his yammering.

  “It’s a call from home,” Hanna said.

  But Will knew that already. Oh, sweet Jesus . . .. he knew that.

  And he reached out for the phone …

  Joshua James shifted in the seat. It was strange, sitting here in this quiet house, sitting watch over Will Dunnigan’s family.

  Not as strange as other places I’ve been, other vigils I maintained.

  No, I’ve sat huddled in freezing-cold tenements surrounded by stale puke and feces. I’ve walked through tiny Amazon villages in search of someone who was said to be blessed with powers and abilities.

  When blessed was the wrong word.

  James felt sleepy.

  And he thought —

  I can’t fall asleep. I have to stay awake.

  Simple as that.

  Until morning. Until it’s over.

  He rubbed his eyes. He had the TV on, very quiet, almost inaudible. And a book. Father Paone’s Meditations. A simple book of simple prayers.

  Easy does it.

  And beside him, a Bible, its cover worn to a frayed and tattered black hide. My spare, he thought. And —

  I must not sleep.

  He thought of his lie.

  When they asked him why he left the priesthood.

  How that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth. But he couldn’t very well tell them the truth, now, could he? Couldn’t very well tell Will that one time he buckled? I ran from it, scared, terrified beyond belief. My own worldliness thrown into my face, my own secret desires dredged up, dancing in front of me.

  And I was lost.

  I was useless against it. Because each time, this evil, this mocking abomination, would plunge into my soul and find the hollowness and desire there. It fed on it. Like rats. Like ants. Fed on it, growing stronger.

  The state of the human soul feeds it. And I had let mine grow weak.

  No, he thought. I couldn’t tell him that. Not to Will.

  Just as he knew he couldn’t tell Will how he feared the same thing might happen to him. That Will might face the Adversary, so much stronger than he was, that it would be no contest.

  If he forgot in whose name he fought …

  And I must fight this feeling of hopelessness, James scolded himself. That was the worst. That opened all sorts of doors. Bad doors.

  He shut his eyes. They were so heavy with a terrible need for sleep that they ached. He shut them. Just a second. Then he quickly opened them.

  The TV seemed to have no sound now. Fading.

  Fading.

  Must not sleep, he told himself.

  Must.

  Not.

  Will’s hand locked on the phone. It kept ringing.

  “Go on,” Tim Hanna said. His voice smooth, seductive. It was a voice of reason, a doctor asking you to breathe in and out while he listened to your lungs. Nice, normal breaths, please. Or the dentist pleading for you to stretch your maw open just a bit wider.

  Then, a subtle change, “Pick it up, you stupid bastard.”

  “No,” Will moaned.

  It rang in his ear, electric and shrill. Again and again.

  Tim Hanna again, oily now, victorious. “Reach out . . . and pick it up!”

  And shaking, shivering, Will did . . .

  James’s eyes blinked open. The phone was ringing. And, and —

  Becca Dunnigan was standing there, in her white nightgown, looking out the window at the street. A red light lit her face. Faded. Lit her face, and then faded.

  “The police,” she said quietly. “There’s a police car . . . right out —”

  The ringing again. Except, no — it’s not the phone. It’s the doorbell.

  I’m asleep, James thought. This is a dream. Nightmare. Not happening.

  Becca went to the door.

  “What are the police doing here?” she said to James as if he might know.

  Awake. James knew. I’m awake.

  The doorbell rang again. It’s not the phone. It’s the door.

  Of course, it’s- —

  “No,” he said. James tried to get up. He pushed against the arms of the chair, but he was settled into the soft plush cushion, and his body didn’t move. His legs tingled, the circulation cut.

  “No, Becca. Don’t open the door. Please —”

  She undid the dead bolt. Then the chain. She opened the door.

  A young cop stood there. He looked concerned.

  James finally pushed himself up.

  And then he thought, God, it’s about Will. Something has happened to him.

  The cop was saying something to Becca, but James couldn’t hear it. He saw the young dark-haired cop’s lips move. And Becca nodding. And then the cop took another step inside the door.

  And from behind James, there were more sounds.

  Too fast. Things are happening too fast here, James thought. What is going on?

  Behind him. The oldest girl, Sharon, bouncing down the stairs. Her face was all scrunched up, but it picked up the rotating red swirl from the police car’s light outside.

  Then the little one, Beth, following her sister, coming down the stairs.

  James looked at the cop.

  Still not hearing anything.

  Watching how his eyes moved so slowly from Becca, then up the stairs to Sharon, on to Beth, marking their positions.

  And —

  Ringing.

  The phone. Yes.

  The phone ringing.

  From the end table.

  The cop gestures at it.

  James shakes his head. No. No, he says. James thinks he says. But — funny thing — he doesn’t hear anything.

  I fell asleep, he thought. God forgive me. I fell asleep.

  The cop takes another step in. The red light seems to flash more wildly, more excitedly.

  The cop is mov
ing toward the phone.

  No.

  Not the phone. I have to get to the phone.

  It rings and rings and rings . . . while James takes a step. Then another lurching step toward the phone, on rubbery legs, falling, collapsing, reaching out for the phone.

  His hand closes around the cord, grabbing it.

  Yanking the cord.

  Pulling the phone right off the end table.

  Until it clatters off the table, and the receiver is right there, right by his head …

  “Hello,” Will said. “Hello.”

  An icy breeze cut up the street. There was no one in the entire city except for him and Tim Hanna.

  We were friends. School buddies. And now?

  He’s the darkest thing in the universe.

  “Hello.”

  “Listen,” Hanna whispered gently to him.

  Will heard a gasp, a sound. Then a voice. gasping near the phone. “Will? Will!”

  It was James. Then another sound.

  Becca’s voice. Crying out. Then screaming.

  Will squeezed the phone tighter.

  Then — oh, God, no — please no.

  Sharon. And Beth. Crying out, their shrieks traveling from miles away. Right into his ear. Into his brain.

  Will heard tearing, cutting, more screams, and more screams, and —

  The cord was alive. It wrapped itself around James’s throat like a sleepy snake curling up for a sleep on a sunny rock. James watched it, and pulled at it. But the wire was too strong, tightening too quickly against him.

  And he could see the others. Becca grabbed Beth, holding her shoulders. Holding her daughter tight.

  But the cop — wasn’t a cop anymore.

  He became this dark thing, this purple-black pile of excrement, this gigantic tower of shit, with hundreds, thousands, millions of squirming things moving around and through it. In and out, a feast for worms.

  The cord tightened.

  No more air.

  James felt his eyes bulge.

  The tower leaned close to Becca, backing up, holding her Beth tight, the little girl’s fists raised to the air, cursing at the horror, screaming at it through her endless tears to go away.

  Instead — so quickly — a dozen of the things inside it grabbed Beth. The shock stopped her tears.

  They moved along her skin.

  James closed his eyes.

  Like a vacuum cleaner, they peeled away the skin.

  James started praying.

  The poor sweet baby.

  James heard another terrible yell. And he knew Becca had tried to wrest her daughter from the thing.

  Silly, futile —

  And James kept muttering the prayers …

  * * *

  “It was all planned, Will. From the beginning, this is just how it was . . . in the plan. But then, you know that. You do know that —”

  Will turned to him.

  He recognized Beth’s screams. He wanted to drop the phone and grab Tim Hanna. Just a man, standing in front of him.

  But then Becca’s plea reached his ears.

  Her voice. A disgusting croak. But clear enough — through what must be, yes, blood gurgling in her throat — yes, clear enough for him to hear the word.

  “Will,” she begged.

  And where is James? Oh, Jesus, what have I let happen?

  “You were part of it, Will. You felt his presence and you agreed like all of us . . . You agreed …”

  Hanna grinned in the darkness.

  Another scream. Sharon.

  Will screamed into the phone. “Sharon, honey, run away. Get out of there. Run, baby, run —”

  Run. Run. Run.

  The scream changed. A higher pitch. The human thread pulled even more taut. Playing another, more desperate song. Sharon begged it. Begging this thing. He heard her beg. Please, oh, please, oh. Tearing sounds. More yelling, and —

  Please.

  Will looked at Hanna, not hearing him, trying to remember.

  What am I supposed to do? What is it that I must do?

  I’ve got to remember. I’m here to do something. Now, what is it, what is — ?

  I just can’t . . .

  “It got your agreement. Kiff. Whalen. And we all agreed. And Mike Narrio was given to it.”

  Will shook his head. Not true. Not true. I never —

  “Kiff knew. He knew what he’d done. Spent his whole life trying to wipe it away.” Hanna grinned. “Crazy Kiff . . . But you can’t do that, you know. Not allowed, kiddo. And Whalen pushed it away. Even though he saw the broken rails of that ride, saw the way they just streamed into space. He knew. And he tried to run away.”

  Hanna paused. And stepped closer. Just a step.

  But there was something about it, something that Will could see. Even though Will was shaking, rocking on the sidewalk, back and forth, mumbling, biting his lip.

  He saw it.

  What happened to them? What happened to my family?

  “Dr. James,” he said quietly into the receiver.

  He heard sounds on the phone. Sliding. the movement of something heavy dragging across the floor.

  “Dr. —”

  James’s throat kept contracting, trying to suck air through his nose.

  He saw bits of their bodies in the thing. A bit of bone, Sharon’s hair, slowly subsumed into it. A single small blue eye looked out at him.

  But now it moved toward him.

  And — oh, forgive my weakness, James prayed — he hoped that he’d die before it reached him.

  But that didn’t happen.

  A dozen things squirted out of its body and landed on him, and he felt every tear, every pull at his skin, until it was a blessing to join the horror of its body …

  “You blocked it, Will. Blocked it right out. Simple as that. But you can’t hide secrets forever.”

  Will held the phone away from his ear. There was nothing more to hear. No.

  Nothing at all.

  But.

  Must remember.

  Have to remember.

  Can’t listen to this.

  “You blocked out your . . . agreement to Narrio’s death. Your part. I understand, but you know it’s true, Will. You did it.”

  Remember.

  The wind made him shiver more. Icy cold. He let the phone fall. The streetlight was a kaleidoscopic blur. I wonder why it’s so blurry?

  Of course. Of course.

  My eyes are so wet.

  The phone swung like a pendulum, banging into the pay phone’s pillar.

  The Bible was there, still clutched in his aching claw hand.

  “You did it.”

  Will didn’t move.

  He’s right, Will thought. I let it happen. I agreed. Just as I blocked out the memory of that black shape in the center of the circle. I let it happen —

  Then he remembered James’s voice.

  Watch the lies. The deception. The tricks. The paradox. You’ll be tied up before you know it. Lost in a maze of thoughts. And then it will be too late.

  Tim Hanna took another step.

  A cautious step, a shriveled part of Will’s brain whispered.

  Hiding it. But cautious.

  “You did it!” Hanna laughed gleefully.

  Will shook his head.

  It’s just a trick.

  I’ve got to remember. Got to remember what I have to do . . .

  And now.

  Oh, God, now I do.

  Will staggered back, shaking like a drunk into the pay phone. He saw Hanna’s grin broaden. Will’s stomach heaved. Even though it was empty, it went tight like a rag being wrung dry.

  But now I pull the trick, Will thought.

  He staggered back some more, while his good hand reached down. Into his bag, his magician’s bag of tricks.

  “No,” Will mumbled, shaking his head, hoping to keep Hanna’s eyes on his. “No. You’re lying.”

  His family’s screams seemed to echo in the air. Becca shrill, faint, calling
for him.

  “Will.”

  He wanted to reach out and grab Hanna. Lock a hand around his throat.

  But he waited.

  Another cautious step by Hanna.

  Hanna didn’t notice anything odd.

  Another.

  And another.

  And Will held up the book.

  Maybe you won’t even need it, James had said. Maybe it’s not even important.

  But take it, he said. Take it. While you do what only you can do. Only you can do it . . . because only you were there.

  Will held the Bible. Just pages. Filled with words. And some of them were silly words.

  Dumb words, stupid words, false words, idiotic —

  No.

  Hanna saw him holding the book. And he had jumped into Will’s head, shoveling in thoughts and doubts on top of him like manure.

  “No,” Will said.

  The Bible was there just to help.

  Will had to do this himself. Because I was there at the beginning.

  At the time that it happened.

  He took a step toward Hanna.

  What’s precognition? James had asked, flipping through Dunne’s book. What is it but a jump in serial time? And why? Because serial time is merely a creation. There are many times, many possible selves. Time is a creation of our minds, a tool for our lives —

  Another step.

  Hanna looked at the book. His face sneered, he spat. Again, and again, at the ground. And tiny smoky plumes erupted from the sidewalk, a miasma to protect him from the hated text.

  And time can be changed, Will.

  Will grabbed Hanna.

  Hanna spat at Will, spraying acid droplets onto Will’s face, dribbling onto the book. And a different smoke filled his nostrils.

  Will felt a yawning expanse of chaos.

  He touched Hanna. And he felt the hater, the annihilator, the Adversary Incarnate, the end of existence.

  The words came out too slowly, swallowed by the foggy mist summoned by Hanna’s spit.

  Watch for the signs, the voices, the stench. It means he’s growing desperate, trapped . . .

  Will spoke.

  “By the power of God, He commands you.” Something clutched at Will’s stomach, right into his insides. Clutched it and twisted it.