Darkness Ad Infinitum

by Regalado, Becky

  Sleep would rid him of this horror, he thought. And, besides, he needed the rest. Tomorrow he would be back at work. But his sleep was a parade of nightmares. The aged, evil face again glowed in the darkness.

  The filth must be destroyed. They must be eradicated and sent back from where they have come. Back to the darkness from where they were spawned.

  The voice echoed within the chambers of Cameron’s subconscious. Cameron needed to think. The shell-like hardness of their bodies made it impossible to destroy the beings, but the elongated necks would be easy to cut. Decapitation would certainly prove fatal to the creatures.

  He selected a knife with a large, sharp blade—the biggest and the strongest from the block in the kitchen—and sharpened it to a fine edge before placing it in his work bag. The protection of the hard, cold steel felt comforting. There was no knowing when he may need it—the things looked ravenous and seemed to be watching him. They had selected him from the hordes of people who wandered the city. One was sitting on the bus across from him this morning. It just sat there doing nothing, making its obnoxious wheezing noises. He pretended not to see it until its presence, and the stench it emanated, became unbearable. When the bus arrived at the next stop he disembarked and walked the rest of the way.

  Rowland had arrived at work earlier than usual and was waiting for Cameron. “The trains aren’t running today, so we’ll need to direct people to buses on the main street.”

  Cameron looked tired, for his night’s sleep had been troubled. Nevertheless, he followed Rowland to the street above the underground station where buses were picking up people as a substitute for the trains. Crowds of stranded passengers were waiting buses arriving at regular intervals. Cameron followed Rowland to a makeshift tent and put his work bag in a safe place beneath a table before following Rowland back onto the street.

  “You can direct these people onto the buses as they arrive. If you need any help I’ll be just over there directing those passengers,” he said as he handed Cameron a high visibility vest and indicated an area about fifty meters away. Cameron seemed preoccupied with something and seemed distant. Rowland noticed a serious look drift across his face when he spoke to him.

  Rowland departed, and Cameron’s demeanor became one of intense fear and loathing as he noticed one of the creatures in the crowd. The hellish being was sitting silently on a bench nearby; it seemed to be resting, and disregarded him completely. Passengers awaiting transport seemed oblivious of its presence; they walked or stood around it taking little or no notice of the thing.

  The voice in his head was a screaming horror. Destroy the abomination! it cried. Cameron began whispering obscenities to himself before repeating the command in a strange voice.

  The express bus had just arrived, and Cameron began to direct some of the passengers onto the bus. After the bus departed, more people arrived to await the next one, but Cameron’s concentration was focused on the figure seated on the bench. The creature must be sleeping; its bulbous eyes seemed closed. This was the perfect opportunity. If he was careful, he could approach it without being detected. It seemed relaxed and unconcerned about what was occurring around it.

  Cameron waited for a lull in the crowd before making his way to the tent where he had put his bag. A glint of light shone off the sharpened kitchen knife as he removed it. He could see his blazing eyes reflected upon the cold, smooth steel as he fondled the blade within his hands. Placing the knife beneath his jacket so as not to agitate the surrounding people, he left the tent.

  The thing sat motionless. This was his chance. The voice within was a thundering, demonic rage of blasphemy. Kill it, it screamed. Destroy the abomination!

  He slowly removed the knife from his jacket and approached the bench. The surrounding crowd of people looked aghast at Cameron and began to fan out in all directions. There were screams of horror and shouts of warning. People fled, panic-stricken at the sight of Cameron cutting the neck of the creature. The sharp knife slid through its tender neck easily until Cameron clutched the severed head tightly by the hair. He raised it in triumph, allowing the blood to soak him as it drained from the neck and onto the concrete path.

  “The creatures must be destroyed!” The thin, twisted voice made the onlookers cringe in fear at the horror that lay before them.

  Rowland could not see what was happening from his position due to the excited crowd that had formed. At first, he thought that an accident may have occurred and a passenger may need first aid. He was totally unprepared for the sight that would confront him as he made his way through the crowd of stunned people.

  Cameron had severed the head from the body of a vagrant that had been sleeping on a bus stop bench. Rowland gazed upon the blood covered scene in disbelief; he had never expected anything like this. As the crowds swarmed about him, Cameron called out to the people, “They were spawned from within the darkness before light existed, and they will live even when the light fades. They are the darkness.” He was holding the head aloft, displaying the abhorrent trophy to the horrified crowd.

  When the police arrived, Cameron was standing next to the body of the man he had decapitated, holding the head in one hand and the bloodied knife in the other. Obscenities emanated from him in a voice that was unlike anything that they had heard before. His babbling about some sort of creature that had infested the earth had finally become more subdued.

  But as he stood before the dismayed crowd, he repeated the words that the voice within his head whispered: “Silent, placid, and timeless, the eternal black void has always existed. Before the first glimmer of light, in time immemorial, what horror was spawned within its ancient depths? What lies hidden inside the sempiternal blackness ready to devour those that walk within?”

  As the police were leading Cameron away, Rowland stood before him. A seditious smile lined his face as he glared at the blood splattered figure. The smile was replaced by a grim look; he realized that everything comes at a cost. Even before he had made the bargain, he had been aware of the consequences—and now, as he looked at Cameron, he felt that it had been worth the price. Suddenly, an entrancing soft light hovered in front of Rowland before it disappeared. An unusual numbness filled his head. Surrounded by the astonished crowd, Cameron looked distant and unreal. Black, deformed skeletal trees that lined the roadway moved oddly beneath the turbid canopy of dark, grey sky that had suddenly appeared overhead. Thoughts of his wife, Judy, began to drift through his mind. She had looked somewhat odd this morning when he had left home for work—somewhat alien. Rowland began to feel strangely lethargic before an overwhelming compulsion to sleep suddenly overcame him.

  Lawrence Salani lives on the coast in Australia, near Sydney. Always having lived by the sea, it is sometimes reflected in his writing. As well as writing horror he enjoys fine arts painting and drawing. He feels that painting and writing are analogous and that inspiration and ideas from one can be used in the other. Favorite authors are H.P. Lovecraft, Austin Spare, William Blake, and too many more to mention. His published works include “A Fragment of Yesterday” in Eclecticism E-Zine, issue 5; “Summer Heat” in the Night Terrors anthology (Blood Bound); and “The Angel of Death” in the Danse Macabre anthology (Edge).

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  He picked up the black chicken carcass by its foot, carefully avoiding the bloodied, cut-up neck. Giving it a good once-over, he decided that no one in the house was going to eat this foul, rotting corpse. Even the cat hadn’t nipped at it, which proved that it must have been lying there for a while. This was a pointless murder, and while John felt that everyone was entitled to their own beliefs, he found he drew the line at the sacrificing of chickens.

  The person to blame arrived just in time. With her hair tied up neatly and her broom in hand, she turned the corner and stopped mid-step to stare at him.

  “Mrs. Martha? Um, it’s not ok to cut up chickens in this house. Not for any reason other than eating them. Please don’t do it again.”

>   She looked at him, then at the bird, then at him again.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “I’m glad we see eye to eye on this.” He pointed at the dead bird. “Now, take care of this, will you? And clean up the floor a bit.”

  “Sí.”

  If only ritual sacrifice weren’t so messy. But, all’s well that ends well, he supposed. Martha was not a bad person. She cleaned, was great with the kids, and got along well with his wife. She could cook a mean chicken pasta, too. He watched her toss the perfectly severed chicken head into the trash and quickly sweep up the remains from the floor. Well, the woman could obviously butcher. Martha finished soon enough, and John continued from where he had left off before he’d spotted the creepy offering: cleaning the cabinet and all the silverware in it.

  He let his hands roam all over the surface of the cabinet. The wood had worn out perfectly over the years, earning it the faded glow of a proper antique. Everything in this house looked authentic and beautiful. Everything, except for that painting above his head. He didn’t really want to, but he turned his gaze to the weary frame and all it encompassed. It was stained and old—really old—but there was no mistaking what it depicted. A prairie, or a field—some vast place where nothing seemed to grow above an inch.

  In the middle of all the nothingness stood a statue, or a pile of some sort stretching way up into the air. Among the greenery, the amassment was all black, which in his opinion made the whole thing even more bizarre. He scrubbed the silver spoon in his hand again and again, completely unable to peel his eyes off the offending decoration. Maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so bad under all that crap. A thorough scrubbing would reveal the exact nature of the pileup. He dropped what had become the shiniest spoon in the whole world and let out a frustrated sigh. Oh, who was he kidding? No amount of cleaning could fix that mess of a painting. It simply didn’t match the rest of the house’s beautifully aged rusticity.

  He was sure to find a lot of trash amidst the rubble—more crap than valuable stuff, which is what made him accept the deal in the first place. The deal. What a crock. As if anyone else, even any charity institution, would be interested in a run-down house in the middle of nowhere. It was either him or complete and utter oblivion for this house—of that he was sure. Still, there were rules in his uncle’s will . . . rules he had to follow just to be allowed to step foot inside this dump. Rules . . . good rules, like to keep Martha on as a helper. Rules that seemed unimportant, like staying here at least once a year. But also silly, senseless rules, like to keep the painting right where it was. That horrid painting . . . that blackened, stupid thing in the middle of the hall. For all of time. Where everyone could see it.

  He got up and closed the cabinet doors, emphatically refusing to throw another look at the half torn canvas above his head. The doorbell stopped him on his way to the kitchen.

  “Coming!” He answered cheerfully, as if he was back in New York. But he didn’t expect any real visitors. He’d only been here for a couple of weeks and aside from Amanda, his uncle’s realtor, no one had stepped foot inside the house. Traveling the distance between the nearest places with any signs of life and here would have been quite the feat, apparently. That and the fact that active segregation was a practice here; a common thread among the native tribes of the wet and wild Scottish mire. They sure seemed to love their peace and quiet around these parts.

  Sure enough, Amanda’s face greeted him through the foggy stained glass of the door. She stepped inside, and pointed at the stack of paper peeking out of her bag.

  “Can’t sit for long . . . I just came by to drop off some papers for you to sign.”

  “More papers? What’s it about?”

  “Bunch of technical gibberish. You’ll see.”

  He laughed as they both sat down on the couch near the entrance. “As long as it’s not more rules and regulations, we’re fine.”

  She threw a casual look at the picture on the wall. “You poor man. I would sympathize, but I’ve witnessed far worse deals than the one you got. You got a house. I mean, seriously—considering the kind of man your uncle was, I’d say you got off easy.”

  “Well, that’s true. And you knew him better than I did. So still no idea what the painting is all about?”

  “No. Your uncle was a very peculiar man, always searching for the most special things to collect. He was guided by the same rules you are. Trust him.” She changed the subject swiftly. “The house seems to be getting better and better! You’ve put a lot of work into it.”

  They chatted while he signed the papers, and soon, true to her promise, Amanda rose to leave. Before leaving, she gently reminded him, “You got a good deal, John.”

  Her pristine demeanor softened, revealing a lot more than she had previously let on. “Just relax and enjoy it. This is going to be your home for a long time.”

  The door creaked shut behind her, and, just like that, he was all alone again.

  Well, almost.

  “Martha?”

  Her pleasant face popped up from behind the kitchen door.

  “Sí?”

  “When did they say they’d be back again?”

  “They be back soon.”

  That was good enough.

  He made himself a cup of coffee—coffee, not tea—and brought a lounge chair out to the patio. The view was less . . . full than he expected. When he’d first heard of this place, endless prairie to the foot of the forest to the west, he’d hoped all the mingling trees would be a relief from all the flatness. They weren’t. It was the middle of the day in spring and there was no sun, no real warmth . . . nothing. He’d been having doubts; but on days like this one, they were more than just doubts. They became huge, inescapable questions which ate away at him. How would they ever get used to this place? How would the kids adjust to their new schools? How long before his wife was freaked out by the bad luck with everything? Before the emptiness would run her off?

  But all this was too much to ponder now, so he zeroed in on the easiest target—the one thing he could hold responsible for being the bane of his existence. The one thing that, in fixing it, would make everything else would run smoothly. Forever and ever, amen.

  The painting.

  Just as he shifted his attention, but before he got too wrapped up in it—at precisely the right moment—he saw them pull up in the car.

  Together, they unloaded the groceries inside and talked for a while before the kids ran off on a hiking adventure. He was left alone with his wife, and they were enjoying the comfort of their silent kitchen.

  “Did you see how clean the cabinet is? It’s perfect now.”

  “Yeah, but it’s packed. We should secure it better.”

  “I can design some upholstery. Put a better key on the door. No biggie.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “I’ll clean up the painting, too.”

  Worriedly, she turned to face him. “Aren’t we supposed to leave it be?”

  “I’ll just clean it where it is. Nobody said anything about that. Besides, who’s gonna know?”

  “Well, there’s Martha . . .”

  He shook his head dismissively. “I don’t think the chicken-slayer will mind. Did I tell you I found another one of her macabre art pieces in the hall this morning?”

  “Jesus. I’ll have a talk with her.”

  Early the next morning he began creating a cover for the cabinet. He ground some planks together, sat them up, and joined them all at the base. It would need to be trimmed and painted, but it worked well enough around the cabinet for the time being. He put a new lock on the cabinet, and finally felt ready to proceed with the next project that had been bugging him for so long. Dozens of bottles, rags, and sponges surrounded him, and his ladder was propped against the wall. He debated whether or not he should take down the whole thing to clean it, but in the end, he chose to abide by the rules. At least until his hands got tired, and then all bets would be off. He meticulously watered down the painting; softly, so as not t
o soak it completely and ruin its texture. Little by little the darkness lifted, freeing the old color underneath. It was an arduous process, but he stubbornly got on with it because each tiny uncovered speck egged him on all the more. More, more. You can do more.

  His hands were getting tired. With a swift move, he unhinged the canvas and began lifting it from the wall. He barely noticed the permanent shadow it cast on the wall as he carefully laid it on the floor. He worked and worked at cleaning the grime from the face of the painting; and finally, he saw what was hidden underneath for the first time. It didn’t make any sense, though. The pile in the middle was an irregular totem of eyes looking back at him. Eyes. Realistic eyes of different shapes and colors; all of them fixed on the same spot somewhere outside their rectangular confines. Who would have thought the absurdist movement had predated Dali for so long? He was more confident than ever that the painting didn’t fit with the rest of the house—but maybe there was some value to the piece anyway. Needing to share his excitement, John began calling for his family.

  “Kids! Helen! Come check this out!”

  “Kids are out. What’s up?”

  “Look! We got us some art.”

  Horrified, Helen stared down at him on the floor with the painting in his hands.

  “You took it down.”

  “Only for a moment. We’re all alone, don’t worry.”

  “Just put it back up, will you? Losing this house after all the effort we’ve put in to it . . . I don’t even wanna think about it.”

  “Fine.” He placed it back on the wall and turned to look at her again. “Isn’t it bizarre?”

  Freed from the anxiety of breaking the rules, she looked calmly at the painting as it sat in its proper place. Helen took her time checking it out, and answered him slowly.