Darkness Ad Infinitum

by Regalado, Becky

  The procedure to close it in the proper fashion was either on pages in the book that were obliterated, or in another book that I do not possess.

  I cannot close this portal now. I must leave it as it is, because if I try and destroy it . . .

  I don’t even want to ponder what would happen.

  I often sit now by the open window. The sounds I hear emanating from within have a soothing quality, and yet I am still afraid to enter. I wonder if the voices are those of sentient beings, or if it is in fact just my imagination. I would swear that I hear my name being called. I must make my journey soon, for only on the other side might I locate the way to close that which I have opened.

  “Wow,” Jim said, looking up.

  Kelly said nothing as she looked towards the hole in the wall.

  Jim stood up, closing the journal and setting it on top of the toolbox. He grabbed a crowbar from the pile of tools and headed towards the wall.

  “What are you going to do?” Kelly asked.

  “I’m going to take it apart and look inside.”

  “Weren’t you paying attention to what you read? According to the book, that’s the one thing that mustn’t be done. He said quite specifically that destroying the window in any manner would be incredibly dangerous, Jim.”

  “Kel, come on. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a stupid book left behind by someone who was obviously not all there.” He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger.

  “Jim don’t, leave it be. The thing gives me a weird feeling. I’m serious.” She crossed her arms across her chest.

  Jim stopped and looked at his wife, finally noticing how upset she was.

  “Look,” he said. “I think this whole thing is bullshit. But if it isn’t, I want to take a look at it before the contractors come back on Monday. Like I said, there might be money hidden in there.”

  He reached his hand out towards her face and caressed her cheek. “Look . . . it’ll be alright. I won’t damage it—I’ll just try to open it and see if there’s anything inside, okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “Both Brannigan and his wife wound up missing. Hell, we both read about it in the paper long before we knew about this house. Remember? And while I’m not sure that they stepped off into . . .” her voice trailed off not knowing what to call it, finally waving her hand towards the hole in the wall. “They may not have stepped off into that thing in there, but hoax or not, I don’t want to tempt fate.”

  “It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

  He walked across the room, stooping to enter the hole. Doubt written on her face, Kelly hesitated a moment before she, too, crossed the room to join him.

  When she entered the confined space she saw that Jim had placed the crowbar on the floor and was busy trying to find a way to open the window. He examined the frame that housed the glass and located a silver knob and accompanying latch to the left of it. He turned the latch and heard a click as the window popped open slightly. He grabbed the small knob, pulling the window open wide.

  It was as if a pressure door had been opened. The air rushed forward and both Jim and Kelly’s ears popped. The glass was thrown back forcibly and the open space where the window had been shimmered as if a fine silk veil hung from the frame. The ambient light now filled the space they shared, bathing both of them in a cool cerulean glow. Kelly stepped back from the window, placing her hands over her ears; but Jim leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever might be below.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered as he placed his hands on either side of the frame and peered inside. The mist swirled and danced before the opening, caressing his thoughts and inviting him to enter. The feeling that came from the window was as familiar and alluring as a former lover. He smiled and looked back at Kelly. “This is no hoax,” he said.

  Kelly didn’t hear him. Her own experience was completely different from her husband’s. As soon as the portal had been opened she was assaulted by what sounded like thousands of voices calling out in anger and despair. They seemed faint, as if heard from a great distance; but to Kelly’s ears, it sounded like a multitude beyond reckoning. She stepped back towards the wall, the sound filling her with fear and a sense of loss. They invaded her mind, overshadowing her thoughts as surely as nightfall eventually blankets the day. Her eyes rolled in her head and she blinked rapidly, feeling disoriented. She felt a pressure on her chest; an invisible and undeniable presence seemed to come from the opening, rush into the small dark room, and wrap its cold grip upon her mind and body. It was full of malevolence and desire, and on some primordial level, she was certain it meant them harm.

  Jim noticed none of this as he continued to gaze in wonder out the window, trying to perceive what lay beyond the haze. He was trying to figure out what called to him. The light that spilled through the small opening they’d scratched in the paint earlier now bathed him in its soft eldritch glow.

  Kelly found herself repulsed by the light, seeing it as cold and evil. She felt that what it touched, it soiled with its malignancy. She felt much the same about the voices and yet, deep in her mind, she was intrigued by the sound of them, for they were like nothing she’d ever heard. She lowered her hands from her ears and cocked her head to one side trying to concentrate on them. Though they were disturbing, she thought she could almost make out distinct words. The pressure on her chest lifted as the sound decreased in volume. She detected an urgency in the voices, a need. She squinted her eyes as if it might somehow grant her understanding, yet she couldn’t make out anything distinct. Each of the voices overlapped the other. She was certain that these disembodied voices were aware that the portal had been opened and were looking for it.

  Looking for them.

  Now that she’d actually put her feelings into words, she knew she was right. Whatever beings she heard, she knew that they were aware of her and Jim and were searching for them. Searching for a way out. They’d alerted what was on the other side to their presence.

  She looked at Jim as if seeing him for the first time and became aware of his fascination with the opening. She tried to find her voice to tell him to shut the window, to shut it now before it was too late—but she could do little more than move her lips. The presence she felt held her.

  Jim, oblivious of his wife’s predicament, gazed through the opening, the mist was calling to him. He too heard the voices, but to his ears they sung an invitation.

  An invitation to descend and join with them.

  He was bewildered and fascinated. The mist seemed to know his name. It spoke to him directly, whispering, sighing and captivating.

  It called to him and he answered.

  He turned and smiled at Kelly, who still stood in the same place, unable to move or speak. Kelly looked at her husband, but in his eyes she saw he was transfixed, as if in a trance. He moved slowly, exiting the hole to grab a ladder from the other room. He re-entered the hole and, lifting the ladder, he maneuvered it towards the window until he had it through the opening, lowering it to whatever was below.

  Kelly wanted to warn him, to tell him to close the window while there was still time. There issued from the opening a great dread, but she could only gaze mutely as he grabbed hold of a rafter overhead, lifted his legs through the opening and disappeared through the window. The voices within the opening changed in pitch and seemed at once to grow closer. The sound now was one of wicked glee . . . it had found what it had been searching for.

  Kelly found her voice the moment Jim disappeared through the opening. She felt that whatever had been holding her immobile wanted no interference with Jim entering the portal. She took a step forward as if to grab her husband . . . even though he was already gone.

  “No!” she screamed as she grabbed the edges of the frame, peering within. The fear she felt at her husband’s strange behavior and his sudden departure through the window left her the moment she looked through the opening. The mist swirled and glided around the edges of the frame and appeared
inviting now that she could see them up close. The evil voices she’d thought she heard were also gone. She wasn’t certain she’d ever heard them at all. The sound that now came from the opening seemed more peaceful, more comfortable and inviting, like a lazy brook on a summer day. No wonder Jim had gone through to the other side.

  “Jim,” she whispered as she gazed at the swirling blue mist. They beckoned and called to her. The mist knew her name and invited her to come and join her husband.

  She hesitated, trying to recall the feeling she had a moment ago. Hadn’t she been scared? She couldn’t recall now. It was like the dull throb of an old wound, still present but barely remembered.

  The mist swayed just beyond the jam, whispering and sighing. It echoed and breathed just beyond the oval in front of her, assuring and serene. She could enter and be with Jim; she could follow him and together they could . . .

  The thought was left unanswered as she followed her husband into the swirling mist.

  Within the confines of the room the light from the window pulsed and glowed. The mist caressed the jam and moved faster, swirling around the edges. The sound of voices—if they were in fact voices—rose in volume as they grew closer. But nothing was left to hear it except for dust and shadow.

  The window began to swing inward, closing slowly until, with a click, the glass once again lay seated within its sturdy frame. The illumination from the work light hanging from the beam above was the only light now as the bluish hue from the scratch in the paint pulsed brightly, then winked out.

  Chris sipped his coffee, warming up from the chill of the early morning rain as he looked at the large hole in the wall. He gazed about, trying to figure out the mess in the room. He shrugged and began to make mental notes of the supplies they would need to pick up later in the week. He listened as the rest of his crew began to arrive below.

  “They home?” Mike called out as he entered the room. He was Chris’s longest employee and one of his best friends.

  “Nah,” Chris said as he sipped his coffee. “They’re gone. I let myself in with the key under the planter out back.”

  “Seen the cars in the driveway and figured they didn’t go out ’cuz of the rain. How long you been here?”

  “About twenty minutes.” He pointed towards the hole in the wall with the hand that held the coffee cup. “Nice, huh?”

  Mike looked at the hole. “They helping out with the remodeling now?”

  “Beats me.”

  “What’s the plan for today?”

  “Well,” Chris said, turning to look at Mike, “have Bob start cleaning up some of this mess while you and Pat take the remainder of this wall down.”

  He set his coffee down as he walked over to the tools and grabbed a large hammer.

  “What’ll you be doing, then?” Mike asked as he walked to the door to call to the others below.

  “I,” Chris answered as he walked back to grab his coffee, “will be inside here tearing down that God-awful window. I want to break early for lunch, so have the rest of the guys get a move on.”

  He stepped through the hole in the wall to begin dismantling the window within.

  John Mc Caffrey writes tales of horror, the supernatural, science fiction, and fantasy. He was born in Illinois and grew up on the south side of Chicago. While still in grade school, he developed a passion for reading through the works of Tolkien, Poe, and Lovecraft, as well as being addicted to watching Hammer Film’s at the local Saturday matinee. Today he lives in northern Indiana with his wife and two dogs where he writes in his spare time. His works can be found at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords as well as various anthologies.

  jmccaffrey.com

  facebook.com/pages/John-Mc-Caffrey-Author/503178623071533

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  Requiem Æternam

  In the summer of 1933, Adrian sat on his bed, humming a new melody in his head, trying to piece it together just right before he selected an instrument for its audible awakening into this world. It was a beautiful August day. A warm breeze blew through the curtains of his bedroom, tickling the bangs dangling in front of his eyes and causing him to push them back while trying not to lose focus of the song. The intensity with which he thought was awe inspiring. His eyes were closed but moved rapidly around the room, which caused his eyelids to flick back and forth as he thought. The pollen in the air blew past the curtain and brushed his arms in a soothing way, similar to walking through the fields of wheat surrounding the farm. For an instant, time stood still and he was at the centre of his own universe, completely engulfed by a sense of contentment. He could almost see himself sitting on the bed, pollen frozen all around him as though it had stopped with time, beads of sweat standing still on his brow, eyelids motionless. Suddenly, the notes required for this song fell into place and he opened his eyes. He picked up his viola and began to play.

  It was a love song. One not meant for new lovers but a song for loved ones lost. He slid the horse-hair bow across the strings and released the mournful song into the summer breeze, which carried it past the shore and into the ocean where mythical mermaids cried. Upon hearing this song, their tears raised the tides on the shore. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing. The picturesque blue skies turned grey and the sounds of the ocean turned into nothingness, a void of complete silence.

  As he played on he began to cry. He was so into the song that he was not aware if he was visibly crying or alone in his mind . . . but he was crying nonetheless. They were the tears of a very mournful goodbye. A goodbye he had never wanted to say. It was impossible for words to ever express the feelings behind this goodbye, as words powerful enough did not exist; only the song did. For Adrian, this was the only way he could possibly say goodbye to his mother and the only way she would have wanted it. She was on her way home from the market as Adrian played his song when her car blew a tire and veered into oncoming traffic.

  Lacrimosa

  Ever since Adrian was a young boy, it was quite obvious to those around him that he had a natural talent for music. More importantly, he was passionate about it. Every second of every day Adrian thought of magical melodies dancing around his head, reflecting happiness, sorrow, longing, love, and all the emotions he never knew how to express without the aid of an instrument. When he was happiest, he would play the piano with such exuberance it would make the elderly feel young and vibrant again. If he was sad, he would play the viola with such innocence a sinner would weep upon hearing it. To say he had a gift would be an understatement; he lived for his music and was able to write it in a way that would have made Mozart envious. He was able to bend notes in his mind and translate them onto an instrument with such perfection that it rivaled Giotto’s perfect hand drawn circle for the pope.

  His mother had always been the biggest influence on him and the only person he cared to please. He would play the piano every Sunday and she would dance in the light that shone through the windows and glistened off antique tea cups and gold-rimmed china plates. The smell of the warm ocean came in off the coast of Nova Scotia while the wheat in the fields swayed to each individual note. The music filled the air with purity.

  Adrian’s father James was not as interested in his son’s musical talents. He was a farmer who woke up at sunrise, performed his duties on the farm, ate three meals a day and was asleep by nine o’clock in the evening. He lived a viciously monotonous life with which he was more than content, save one aspect that his wife had seemed to encourage—his son’s love of music. For James, music was a waste of precious time needed for the farm. Crops needed to be harvested, soil needed to be tilled, and animals needed to be fed—all on a never ending daily basis—and God gave him a weak son who cared more about music then earning a living. As a result of this resentment toward his son, the relationship between James and his wife had always been visibly strained.

  Adrian didn’t understand how two people like his parents—two so completely different people—could have ever been
together in the first place, let alone pretend to be happy with one another while both secretly wanting something more. James wanted a son who could handle and take over the family farm, and his wife wanted a husband who was a loving father and could appreciate the talents of his son.

  Dies Irae

  The two years since Adrian’s mother had passed away were filled with sorrow and chaos. His father had been verbally abusive to him on a daily basis and berated him more every day. With his mother gone, his happiness turned to memories long forgotten. He stayed in his room and played his music only for himself, refusing to allow anyone to hear his songs for fear it would remind him of the happiness he could no longer have. His father routinely came up to the bedroom to belittle him for no reason other than personal enjoyment. A few months after his mother’s death, the abusive tongue of his father turned into physical beatings on occasion, but Adrian never gave James the satisfaction of crying. He wasn’t really sure that he could cry any more even if he wanted to. He had become emotionally numb to everything.

  It was getting late and as Adrian sat on the foot of his bed, he was distracted from his musical thoughts by the familiar sound of his father’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Adrian just sat there, staring at his instruments. The door opened and James walked in with his belt already in hand.

  “Come here,” James said with a raspy, drunken voice. “I’ve got something for you.” Adrian didn’t move, so James continued forward and proceeded to whip him repeatedly with his leather belt, causing numerous lashes and cuts up the back of his shoulders and forearms. After a few minutes James turned to walk away, but before pulling the door shut he looked back at his son and said, “You know, it’s your fault she’s dead, playing that sad music. It should have been you!”