Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  “God commands, oh, no,” he moaned, doubling up. More spits. More smoke.

  Things crawling on his leg.

  Desperation.

  “By the power of God, take me, a witness, to that time and place of your coming —”

  Then, barely able to sputter out the senseless sounds, Will said the name.

  “Zar . . . Osirin . . .”

  Again. And again, louder, screaming it, hearing Hanna’s scream in his ear, and shake, and quiver, rocking back and forth as if he might explode.

  A mad dwarf in a kid’s book, sputtering with frustration.

  “The time and place of your coming! Show yourself. By the power of Our Lord Christ, the time and —”

  The Bible slipped from Will’s hand.

  He heard it land.

  The clouds of smoke choked him. There was no air, nothing to breathe. Nothing at all.

  And then . . . there was.

  * * *

  Manhattan Beach

  * * *

  40

  This place, the rocks, the beach, the washed-out night sky — it all was as if he had never left.

  Will felt the odd tilt of the stone slab he was standing on. And the air was full with the stinging, ripe smell of the sea, crashing so close by.

  And Will looked at the sea and remembered how it seemed to him.

  How the ocean seemed hungry, eager to suck at the land, to pull it away. To reclaim everything.

  He was at Manhattan Beach.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  There was someone behind him, breathing, just out of range of his peripheral vision. He heard movement. Steps scraping against the stone.

  I should turn around and face him. Yes, Will thought, have to turn around and face him. To finish this —

  He told himself that. And again. But he didn’t move.

  A hand landed on Will’s shoulder.

  “You cocksucking bastard . . . You stupid asshoIe —”

  Hanna’s voice — dry, an old man’s voice — croaked in his ear. Then Will spun around and saw him. Hanna was dressed the same, but now he was bent over, holding his stomach as if his insides were ready to explode onto the ground. .

  And Will — like some torturer from the Inquisition — started in again —

  His voice screaming above the wind, the waves …

  “By God Almighty, by the power of Our Lord —”

  A gust of smoke belched out of Hanna.

  “Jesus Christ, appear. He commands you to leave this soul. God commands you —”

  Then the name.

  Names have power.

  Rumpelstiltskin.

  Mr. Mztplyx.

  And —

  “Zar . . . Osirin …”

  Tim Hanna curled around, a snake speared by an invisible lance. He curled around, writhing in agony. He looked at Will. His eyes softened. Then a smile that was almost human.

  But a sick look suddenly covered Hanna’s face. And Will heard something louder than the crash of the waves. A cracking, creaking sound. Hanna’s face split open, a ripe coconut, splitting right down the middle. The tear went all the way down the front. His skull, his lips, pulled apart.

  Will gagged again.

  But I’ve got nothing to throw up. Nothing except my own stomach acid.

  But the smell overwhelmed him, a putrid, toxic stench that felt liquid, drowning him.

  The splitting went on, until Hanna’s body teetered to the side, discarded, hitting the stone.

  And there was this thing in front of Will. Will had only one thought.

  This took my family.

  It uncurled — a twisted birth — revealing its shape slowly.

  Will stepped back. He lost his balance on the stone. He started to fall. He yelled out while he fell to the ground.

  While all the while, he kept his eyes on the thing that uncurled before him.

  It was nearly invisible against the black musty sky. Its skin — if it was skin — gobbled up the light. Will saw small liquid pools moving near a head-like shape.

  Black eyes looking out.

  Will’s knuckles clawed at the stone, ripping the skin off. While he cursed, screamed at the thing.

  “No! Oh, no — damn you! Damn —” He got to his feet.

  His ankle hurt.

  In fact, it might fall right in, and I’ll fall down right in front of this thing.

  And it spoke.

  “Your family,” it said. An elephant sound, a trumpeting, honking blast. But it said words . . .

  Will thought it said words …

  “Your . . . family . . . they died so wonderfully. Do you want to hear how they screamed? Do you want to watch now, to see how the little one kicked at my servant, how she called for help, begged to be left alive? Do you want to see that? I can let you see that.”

  No, Will thought. Begged. Please. No.

  Watching. Listening.

  “No,” he begged. “Oh, God. No. I can’t —”

  He closed his eyes.

  Another trick.

  There was a rustling sound.

  Christmas packages being opened. Too fast. Always over too fast.

  Or dry skin peeling away from a corpse left too long on the mortuary slab.

  Will quickly opens his eyes.

  Tissue-thin membranes now dangle from the thing’s back.

  And Will sees.

  Beth pulled into it, her fists bravely up in front of her. Stay away from strangers, they told her. Watch out for —

  In the blackness, he sees Becca, slowly sucked into this purplish mass, her skin peeling off like carrot scrapings.

  She looks out at him.

  She wonders why he won’t help.

  Why? Help me, Will.

  Help.

  And somehow he remembers.

  Somehow he has the sense to remember.

  The one chance he has to help his family. The one way.

  Here. Now.

  Twenty-seven years before they are killed.

  The images stopped. As if it sensed that Will had turned away from the horror, the screaming.

  It reached out for him, slowly, and Will knew it was still unsure.

  “No,” Will said. “You won’t have them. Not now . . . not ever . . .”

  He took a step closer to it.

  But then he heard boys’ voices behind him.

  * * *

  41

  Will Dunnigan, sixteen and starting to feel quite drunk, saw two people down near the rambling jetty that meandered into the Atlantic. At first, he thought they were two old homosexuals, looking for a quiet spot. Maybe two drunks.

  But no.

  They seemed to be fighting, grappling with each other.

  “Hey, Dunnigan,” Whalen said. “Pay attention. It’s showtime.”

  Tim laughed. And Kiff and Narrio collapsed into each other, giggling. Stewed to the gills. Really bombed. Will grinned at them.

  But he still watched the two shapes, moving around the rock. “Hey,” he said. “I see —”

  He thought he heard a yell. A cry of some kind.

  It was a scary sound.

  “Will, are you going to fucking do this with us or not?” Tim said.

  Will nodded, but he kept on watching the two people.

  “Let’s get to it!” Kiff said. “Bring on the demons!” Mike Narrio laughed.

  Will looked back at the circle, the pentagram, the weird symbols drawn on the stone. A big wave crashed nearby, and Will felt a fine spray on his face.

  Kiff was saying words. Silly stuff.

  Will looked over his shoulder at the two men, the two drunks, the —

  Two . . .

  And gooseflesh ·sprouted on his arms and legs.

  * * *

  42

  Will grabbed it.

  It was like touching Beth’s Play-Doh, or digging his hands into warm clay or into an elephant’s turd.

  Will grabbed it.

  “Your wife,” it roared.

 
A hole opened, and oh, God, Will could smell her. The way her hair smelled after a shower. The perfume she wore. The sweet, wonderful smell of her skin when they made love.

  The hole closed.

  “I can’t —” he said to himself.

  Closed. To the world.

  The creature spoke again.

  If it actually spoke at all.

  “Your children . . .”

  And Will heard them. Fighting with each other, bickering over absolutely nothing. Then laughing. Their squeals as they opened birthday presents. Their call to “Look at me, Daddy, look at me!”, when they dove into the pool. Fearless of the cold water.

  Fearless of everything.

  Signs. Voices. Images.

  Will thought. Watched.

  Desperation.

  He held the thing, his fingers plunged into its fecal-like body.

  Will thought he heard it groan.

  “By God’s power . . .”

  He looked for eyes, some sign of intelligence. But this thing, this mad spirit — if that’s what it was — was completely alien. No eyes. No soul. Eternal emptiness.

  The negative image of existence.

  The end of life.

  The chaos of death.

  Will looked at it. Held it fast, muttered the words. Over and over.

  Until he roared with the waves, drunkenly shouting at the thing, feeling it shrivel, watching it curl up before him, melting like the Wicked Witch of the North.

  Until just he stood there.

  His hands reaching into the air.

  Grabbing at nothing.

  Will heard a chirp.

  A feral sound. A rat worming its way through the maze of jumbled bricks.

  Then Will turned to face them.

  The friends of his youth.

  Still so young …

  Funny.

  Now there was only one there.

  One man.

  And Will Dunnigan thought: Where did the other guy go?

  Kiff was still carrying on with his silly prattle. His mumbo jumbo.

  But now — God, Will felt cold, and the high tide was spraying him, and the bourbon wasn’t sitting so well in his stomach.

  The man stood there watching them.

  “Shit,” Kiff said. “Nothing’s happening.”

  “Yeah, like you really expected something would happen?” Whalen said.

  Will looked at the man, feeling creepier and creepier, and watched him looking at them. He’s watching us, Will thought. Just standing there . . . and watching us.

  And what happened to the other guy?

  Maybe it isn’t too safe here. He stepped out of the circle. Off the star point.

  I’m cold and I want to go home.

  And he knew he’d do that. No matter what crazy ideas Kiff came up with …

  Narrio giggled. Drunk as a skunk. And then he too wobbled away from the circle.

  Will looked back to the man.

  But the …?

  He was gone.

  * * *

  43

  Will climbed up to the street.

  I won, he thought. I won.

  It never happened.

  Nothing happened at Manhattan Beach. We never went to Steeplechase. Narrio never climbed onto the ride.

  It all never happened.

  He reached the comer, the row of small houses with unkempt lawns, unmowed for months. The breeze made the grass dance. The light let him see something that he hadn’t been sure of.

  My clothes, he thought. Blue jeans. Leather jacket. Sure, I’m dressed the way I was.

  But now . . . now I’m here.

  Before men like me wore blue jeans.

  It was just as Dr. James had said it might turn out.

  A one-way trip, Will. You have to know that. You have to accept that.

  You may never come back.

  And now Will knew that it was true.

  He kept on walking, following the street to some faint neon lights in the distance.

  But he also knew this:

  If it all never happened …

  Then Becca . . . and Sharon . . . and Beth were safe.

  Time is a mental construct, Will, James had said. Something to keep us sane, to give order to a universe more complex and chaotic than we can ever begin to imagine.

  Time can be changed.

  And —

  Will took a breath, sucking the air, clean, fresh.

  I did it.

  I changed what happened . . . what will happen. I was the only one who could.

  With only one small problem.

  I have to stay here.

  This is my life now. My time.

  Will kept on walking. The lights grew brighter. He saw people. Stores. Someplace to stop, perhaps. And think.

  About the irony, the terrible irony.

  To think that I saved them. That they’ll live.

  Only because I left them.

  He laughed. And then because it seemed like the right thing to do, something he had to do, he started crying. Full out, crying, for joy, for sadness, for salvation.

  Yes, by God.

  Salvation.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  1.

  One of those lights, that night, had been a bar.

  H was called the Bay Ridge Tavern. And Will went in looking for something to give him some sense of normalcy. A sink to wash the blood off his hands. the smell from his fingers . . .

  But instead. what he saw and heard made him feel more lost.

  The TV was on. Jack Paar was talking to a starlet with mile-high hair. But no one in the bar was listening. The men — there were only men in the bar — were talking loudly, laughing, ignoring the flickering colors on the set.

  A purple blotch sat near the top of the TV screen.

  Color TV had problems back then, Will knew.

  Back then —

  Which is now . . . for me.

  He sat down on a vacant stool.

  The bartender, a bowling pin of a man with a loud laugh and sleeves rolled up, came up and asked what he wanted.

  Will said, “A beer.”

  “Hey, speak up, mac. Can’t hear you.” Then the bartender turned to a bunch of guys at one end who were laughing as if they had just heard the funniest damn thing in the world.

  “Will you fokin’ guys pipe down’” Then back to Will. “Jeeez . . . What’ll it be?”

  “A beer.” Will said. The bartender went in search of a clean glass.

  Will saw a calendar. A cartoon cowgirl. all legs and perfectly rounded bottom.

  October 1965.

  “Here you go,” the bartender said, returning with a glass with a foamy inch-tall head.

  Will reached for his wallet.

  Which wasn’t there.

  James had told him that too.

  Bring nothing that ties you to this time.

  Nothing that could keep you here.

  A wallet could do that. It holds your life, your identification, your money. your credit cards. Photos.

  “Oh, sorry,” Will said. “I —”

  The bartender’s smile faded. He saw Will’s arm slinking back from the futile grab at his back pocket. He noticed the crusty blood on Will’s knuckles.

  “I don’t —” Will started to say.

  But then the bartender — as if seeing something in Will’s eye — -said, “Hey. Don’t worry, mac.” The bartender tapped the heavy wood bar. “It’s on th’ house.”

  Will nodded and said, “Thanks.”

  He took the sip.

  He let the beer rest on his tongue, burning. Then he swallowed it.

  The Paar show ended and the news came on. The newscasters were unfamiliar, and both looked goofily modish. The man was dressed in a suit with flaring lapels way too wide, and his tie glowed an otherworldly red. His hair was long, cut into a silly-looking page boy.

  His woman partner had perfectly straight hair pulled back and she wore brilliant red lipstick.

&nbs
p; The first story was about Americans bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail. And a videotape of General Westmoreland flashed onto the screen, his shirt sleeves rolled up, arms folded in front of him.

  He explained that the raid was “surgical.”

  That it would end any Cong initiative for the rest of the year. No doubt about it.

  We could be out of here by Christmas, he said, grinning.

  Right, Will thought. Will took another sip of beer.

  I feel like laughing, Will thought. A giddy feeling. Right, sure . . . out of here by Christmas . . .

  He felt the bartender looking at him, standing at the other end of the bar talking to his regulars.

  Best move on, Will thought.

  He looked down at his jeans. He looked at his leather jacket. Nothing too out of the ordinary there, he thought.

  But I better leave …

  He finished the beer.

  Got up and started for the door.

  The bartender called out to him.

  “Hey. Fella? You looking for a job?”

  Will stopped. Turned around.

  And — he rubbed his chin. He guessed he was.

  So Will nodded, and he walked back to find out what he’d be doing the rest of his life.

  2.

  It was a life, he guessed.

  The job was clerking in a small grocery, a small market not much larger than a deli. Stock work at the beginning, but then — as the owner got to know and trust him — Will ran the store. He got friendly with the customers. They liked him.

  He was paid cash. And that made things easy.

  The only difficult times were when people got too close, like the owner or regular customers. And they wanted to know where he came from. Where had he been? What had he done?

  Will guessed what they suspected.

  They think I’m an ex-con.

  And that was pretty useful.

  So he’d just smile and say, “Oh, I’ve worked out West, did lots of things. I was married once . . .”

  And the sad look in his eyes was usually enough to close down any further questions. Most people assumed that he was divorced.

  There were women, just friends mostly, but women near his age who were looking for someone just to talk to, and perhaps sleep with.