Damned Lies!

by Dennis Liggio

  There was no sky. That’s not to say there was now ceiling or something else. No, where there was sky there was just black. Absence. No clouds, no moon, no vague illumination of any sort. Just a flat blackness, like someone had taken scissors and cut around the sky, then absconded with it, leaving nothing at all in its place. The fire was the only illumination. Where the fire ended there was blackness. Unlike regular darkness where there was a gradation, this was a sudden contrast. I could see the ground revealed by fire light, then as I followed it with my eyes, I found there was a hard line where it was just blackness.

  Don’t wander off? Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Most redundant advice ever. Yeah, I just want to wander out into oppressive blackness. It’s my idea of a good time. Let me just put on a red shirt, suggest we split up, say “I’ll be right back,” have teenage sex, take an unnecessary shower, and wander into the dark place where I can’t see anything and no one can help me. Even the creepy cabin monstrosity was a better option. Standing by the weirdly white fire was a fine place for me.

  So I waited.

  Admittedly I looked at the shimmering line of gems a few times, wondering if I should just go back. This place was creepy to a factor of ten. Scratch that: creepy to a factor of one million. Just waiting there was unnerving. All I could do was stare at the black, stare at the fire, or stare at the cabin. Having nothing to do or look at was probably the worst part of waiting. Next time I enter the Dark (if I am unfortunate enough to have a next time), I bring a magazine.

  I’m not sure how long it was that I waited. I had no frame of reference for the passing of time save my heartbeat and the flickering of the white flames. Even those flames seemed to not flicker as I was used to, as steeped in strangeness as they were. I noticed the flames made no noise. This place was eerily silent for the most part, but occasionally I heard far off sounds. A laugh, a bark, an undecipherable whisper on the wind. The problem is, I’m not sure if I heard them. They were so brief, so infrequent, and so low in volume, I was unsure if they were real or actually in my head – frantic impressions from my subconscious just trying to fill the silence. After I heard one, I’d listen a moment more for repetition, but nothing. Some deep part of my brain stopped me from trying longer than that. Pure instinct told me I didn’t want to listen that far down, to open myself to what things might be whispering and laughing in the blackness.

  My waiting was finally ended by a howl, loud enough that I knew it was real. I swiveled my head and looked into the blackness. My muscles were tensed. After the howl, there was nothing for a full minute. I wondered if it was a false alarm, but then I saw the creature.

  I saw it shamble out of the blackness, scuttling across the ground on legs and feet, a gray thing spit out of the black wall. It was humanoid, but it walked bent-over, using its hands to walk as much as its feet. It was not fluid like a four-legged creature would be, or even a man mocking a four-legged animal. No, the movements were disjointed, depending far more on its left arm than its right, causing its shoulder to always be angled with the right side up. It sometimes shambled diagonally instead of forward, a vast inefficiency in its movements.

  As it grew closer, I could see it better. It had long emaciated limbs, sharp bony joints sticking out. Its skin was a sallow gray, as I imagine decayed flesh looks like if zombie movies carried any truth. Its belly was distended, so it appeared that this bony ragdoll somehow had a flopping beer gut. It had a face of jowly features: the eyes sunken, the mouth carved into a perpetual frown, the skin threatening to flop off the skull at any moment. The head was mostly bald, but white hair haphazardly stuck out from its head at random locations. It spent most of the time sniffing the ground as it shambled, but every so often it would stick its head up and sniff the air.

  When it was close, I could hear its incessant sniffing, just like a dog. It had tracked something here. The old man was probably right, it came here for me. Now I had to hope that the old man’s mojo did what it should.

  As it approached the fire, it stopped and lifted its head. Its sunken eyes stared around. I was struck by the sadness and despair deep in those eyes. I had expected some diabolical hatred, but those eyes were human. Whatever was deep inside that thing felt despair. Yet, as I looked at its hands, I noticed long fingers that held even longer claws. Those claws had dried brown splotches. Even if sad, that made it no less dangerous.

  It looked around, but it made no sign it saw me. In fact, I watched as its vision panned straight over me if I were not there. That's not to say it didn't think I was there. It was confused and took another moment to sniff the ground, then another to look around. I could almost read its actions as it wondered why I wasn’t here, even though the trail led to this place.

  It moved closer to me and I remembered the old man’s advice and held my breath. I watched as it shambled closer to me, sniffing the air and swinging its head around. The thought of being near it revolted me, so as it came closer to me, I took a few steps backwards, still holding my breath as I felt my pulse race. It moved closer to me again, and again I stepped back. Unfortunately, I really wasn't paying attention to my environment, so my footing wasn’t what I expected, and my foot came down on softer ground than I expected.

  I reeled backwards and fell to the ground, landing on my back. The impact caused me to let out my breath loudly. The creature immediately jerked its head in my direction. I quickly inhaled another breath and held it. I wished that the creature had not sensed me. I dared not move; I had forgotten to ask the old man if it could hear me.

  The creature trotted around, smelling the ground near me. At first I could see it, but then it left my field of vision. I did not move. I still held my breath. I could hear it sniffing, but wasn't sure where it was. Then I came upon an ugly realization. It was at my feet sniffing my shoe.

  I tried to keep myself calm. Sniffing my shoe was fine. It was just a shoe. In a minute, the creature would move away. The old man’s paint would keep me safe. Right?

  That sense of security was broken when I felt it began to sniff up my leg. In another moment, I realized it was climbing on top of me, still sniffing. For a moment I thought all was lost, but then I realized it was sniffing me as if I were the ground. While technically a win for me and the old man’s paint, it meant the creature was climbing on top of me, smelling the entire length of my body as I desperately held my breath.

  I’ll admit the crotch sniffing was more uncomfortable than scary, but as it neared my face I began to sweat. This added to my worries. First, I wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to hold my breath. Second, the sweat itself. Could it smell my sweat? Would the sweat begin to mar the paint on my face?

  It began sniffing my face. Or rather, it was sniffing the air just inches above my face. My heart raced. If it lowered its nose just a little lower, it would touch my face. I prayed that it did not literally put its nose to the ground.

  I watched its face above me, desperately wanting it to go away. I noticed that it had some dog-like drool on its mouth. I saw that it began to drop from its mouth in an ever-lengthening strand. I willed the creature to move away. I willed that strand of drool away from my face and the protective paint.

  And then I had a realization I will always remember. One that I wished I didn’t have. It nearly made me gasp right then and there, but somehow I held on.

  I found myself looking past the drool, into the face of the creature and its sad eyes. Some thread of my mind started examining that face. And in a moment I realized I recognized that face. It was a familiar face, even if it looked so very different now. I had known him only weeks, but he had been a friend during that time. And when I looked at those eyes, I knew it wasn’t a creature wearing his visage, but it was him.

  This thing before me was Kirby, my friend and trainer from the Hobo Boxing Tournament.

  Bile began to well in my throat, but I ignored it, pushing it back down. The old man had said I was marked, but I never really thought about it. He had clearly pointed to the handprint.
Whose hand was that? Whose minion was Kirby? Swearing Jim. It was always Swearing Jim.

  Inside I wanted to scream. I wanted to get up and run away. I wanted to howl. I wanted to just breathe! But I held on, holding it in as my pulse pounded and my lungs yearned for a new breath.

  My mind immediately focused on a strand of drool that was hanging precariously down over my face. The long strand seemed to move slightly, as if it were a pendulum. Forget the idea that the drool would mess up the paint, I would probably jerk and gasp in revulsion if it touched my face. My lungs were bursting. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it. Yet that drool continued to lengthen more and more. I was sure it was over.

  But somehow it wasn’t. I saw the drool began to fall, I knew that this was it. But somehow I was lucky, something in the universe was looking out for me. The creature moved forward, so that disgusting piece of drool fell in my hair instead of my face. I’m not sure I have ever been so happy about something vile getting in my hair as that moment. I almost sighed in relief, but kept on holding my breath, my lungs in agony.

  It moved off me quickly, its examination of that area finished. Then the creature stopped, its head held in the air not sniffing, but listening. I heard something that sounded almost like a whistle. I’m not quite sure, because I could hear little besides my pulse pounding in my ears. Whatever the sound, as soon as the creature heard it, it changed its demeanor. It stopped searching and ran off, disappearing into the same patch of blackness that it appeared from.

  I let out my breath and gasped for air, my lungs rasping and my heart pounding. I had never held my breath so long. I wondered if this meant I should try out for the college swim team. I’ve never been one for Speedos. I gasped, filling my lungs with as much air as I could. Then, a moment later I clawed at my hair, trying to get that awful drool out of it.

  When I was finally breathing semi-normally and wasn’t a shaking wreck, I pulled myself to my feet. The silence of the place never consoled me so much. With shaking footsteps, I walked into the shimmer above the line of sapphire gems. Once again I felt nothing, but I was greeted by the sounds of a roaring fire and howling wind.

  I collapsed on the ground next to the old man, somehow still maintaining a semi-sitting posture. “It’s done,” I said tiredly. “It came and went.”

  “I know,” said the old man. He was chewing on something he put in his mouth when he saw me step back into this place. Then a strange expression came over his face. Something I’m not sure I ever saw again. It almost seemed like… pleasure.

  “You did good,” he said. “I now know where he is.”

  “That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. Then he spit whatever he was chewing on my left arm.

  “Ewww, that’s disgusting! If you’re going to chew tobacco, you could at least – AHH!”

  My arm began to burn. I looked down and saw that he had spit something brown on the hand print bruise I had received from Swearing Jim. It was translucent, so I wasn’t too far off suggesting it was chewing tobacco, but that’s not what this was. Tobacco doesn't burn skin. Had he just spit acid on me? I almost turned to punch him, but in a moment the pain was gone. I looked down at my arm again and was amazed. Any evidence that I had a bruise was gone. My arm was clean. No handprint. I looked back at the old man in wonder.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, not bothering to look at me as he gathered his belongings. In particular, I watched as he threw a handful of white dust in the fire. All flames immediately ceased, and the fire was now just a pile of barely smoking embers, leaving us in moonlight. Then he broke the line of sapphires by gathering them up. “You’re no longer marked, so he can’t track you anymore. More importantly, he can’t track me if you’re here.”

  He stood up and walked to the house stairs without waiting for a response.

  “Time to move the house,” he said.

  Unpaid Debts

  July, 1994 - ??????

  The old man had retreated to his study, giving me the run of the house. When he had let me out of my room, he had told me the second floor was off-limits. In addition, in full Bluebeard style, the first floor room behind the mysteriously heavy and locked door was forbidden. This is where he often retreated, the door locking behind him. I called it the study, but I had no idea what the room was.

  After my adventure in the Dark, he sequestered himself in this room. Singing began a few minutes later. Despite the walls, the singing filled the house. There was not a room in the house you could not hear the singing quite well. I wondered if that was intentional. Even the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling of every room resonated with the sound. Honestly, it made my head throb and I felt a little dizzy. I retreated to the deck outside.

  He had also told me not to step off the deck; stay in the house or on the deck. He was full of admonishments today. But at that time, I had no problem with it. There was nothing for miles around. The sole point of interest around us was the fire pit that had ceased smoldering. There was nothing to look at, but it was better than being inside with all that sound. I stood on the deck, leaning on the railing and staring out into the wastes.

  I sensed her before I heard her, that latter probably impossible, since she moved with an amazing silence across the planks of the deck. Emily came around the deck from the back side of the house. At first I didn’t turn to face her.

  “Climb out a window or something?” I asked, referencing the fact that there was only the single door to the house.

  “Something like that,” she said, walking over and leaning on the railing about ten feet to my left.

  “I had to get out of the house,” I said idly. “Something about that singing rattles me. Not sure if it’s the fillings in my teeth.”

  “Trust me,” she said, “you have no idea how much I agree with you. He wants me to stay in the room when he does this, but… I think I’d be ill if I stayed in there.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, seems like it could get that bad.”

  “I’m guessing things went well out there,” she said.

  “I guess it did,” I said. “Why did you think that?”

  “He’s happy for once,” she said. “You can feel it all through the house.”

  “Yeah, I bet that is a rare event.”

  “How are you after all that?” she asked.

  “Me? I guess I’m okay,” I said. “Rattled, mainly. That Dark is some fucked up shit. I’m not hurt, I guess, if that’s what you’re asking.” I raised my left arm to her and showed her the bare skin where the handprint once was. “No longer marked, that’s something.”

  “That’s good,” she said, trailing off. “But that’s how he works. He makes you think he’s doing something for you, but it’s ultimately doing more for him.”

  “Well, I have no illusions that it was all done for him. I just got something out of it.”

  “Yes, but after a while, he stops pretending that you’re getting something. Then it’s all about his plans.” She paused. “Please leave as soon as you can.”

  I waved my hand at the expanse of wasteland. “Go where? There’s nothing for miles. I don’t even know what direction to go. I’d need a map, a compass, a canteen of water. Stuff he’s not going to just give me when he thinks he needs me. Maybe when we’re done.”

  “He’s never going to be done with you, not before it’s too late. Just leave while you can.”

  “What about you?” I said, turning towards her pale face. “You could get a map, we could leave together.”

  “No. I can’t leave. I told you that already. But at least you can. Trust me, being out there would be much better than being here,” she said gloomily.

  “Why does he keep you here?” I asked.

  “He believes that being with me will bring him power,” she said. “I don’t want to be here. I wish I was… elsewhere.”

  “Then leave! Walk out into the desert. Or come with me. You act like he has you in chains, but you are out here disobeying him
right now. I’m not sure what codependency he’s brainwashed you with, but it doesn’t have to be that way. You can walk away if you want to.”

  There were tears in her eyes when she looked away. “You think you know what’s going on, but you don’t! Stop trying to fix things you don't know about! You just think you can make everything better by pushing and forcing! That's the same as what he does!”

  There was a silence as she looked away and sobbed. My face flushed with embarrassment. I looked back at the wastes. Perhaps I was pushing, but wow. Things were not right in her head. I stared out into the broken earth beyond us, trying not to focus on her crying. The sound of the singing was louder, reverberating through the entire house.

  A few minutes later she spoke again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t really know you, and I realize you’re trying to help. But you can’t, really. No one can. Just let go of the idea, please. But I can help you. Run. Trust me. Please leave when you can. Others have come before you, others who sought him out. He chewed them all up, taking everything he could, then cast them off.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I said. “But I’m strong. I can keep myself from getting too deep into anything weird. I've had some weird shit in my life before.”

  “That’s what the others said. And they were wrong. Very wrong. He is a wicked man, more wicked than you think. You’ll think you’ve beaten his game and you’re playing him, then he’ll drop the curtain and you'll realize it’s been his game the entire time.”