Midnight Diner 3

by Edoardo Albert

  "I’m no Abraham. I was not asked to make this sacrifice. I’ve had enough." James moved to leave, but before he could, Ricky stood up and snapped the chain holding him to the floor. He grabbed James by the shirt and pulled him close, holding him in a gentle vice.

  "God follows through with all of us," he said softly. "We need to be crushed to feel forgiven."

  Before James could say anything, the door burst open and the guards spilled into the room, their batons repeatedly crashing into Ricky’s arms and back. He held on, never breaking eye contact, not even flinching at blows that sounded like baseball bats against a sack of flour.

  James’s body started to shudder. He nodded, eyes still focused on Ricky.

  "I will," James said. It was all he could get out, all he could promise. But it was true, even if he didn’t know how that kind of truth was possible. Ricky relaxed his grip and they slumped to the floor, limp as rags.

  "I loved her," he said, and closed his eyes. Crawling to his knees, James wiped tears from his cheeks and watched Vasquez check Ricky’s pulse. Beyond them, the other guards panted and tried to tuck away their batons with shaky hands. After a moment, Vasquez looked up.

  "He’s dead," he said.

  "I’m not so sure," James said, standing and walking out of the room. Vasquez watched him go, thinking he looked like the oldest man he’d ever seen.

  Lonely Places

  Kevin Lucia

  Now

  Incense-heavy air swirled around the small hunting cabin. From across a wooden table, green eyes burned. Derek Barton didn’t want to be here, but he’d nowhere else to go.

  "What’s happening to me?"

  A leathery voice creaked. "Somethin’ powerful, boy. Old Magic powerful."

  Fear slithered in his guts. Rumors called Clive Hartley many things — brujo, shaman, even zombie — but he’d never believed them. Now, however? "People say you know about this kinda shit. Ya gotta help me."

  Hartley leaned into hissing lantern light. "Somethin’s growin’ inside ya. It’s in yer eyes." "Please."

  A pause. " Tell me."

  He shuddered as pieces of himself fell away inside.

  Last Night

  "Quiet! We’re gonna get busted!"

  Derek Barton grunted. He worked the crowbar in the door-frame of Handy’s Pawn & Thrift, which sat on a cracked gray strip with nothing but the pawn shop, Salvation Army, empty lots and a Great American Grocery. No one came here after eight, not even police. They patrolled Main Street and the bars on the other side of town.

  He jiggled the crowbar. Wood groaned.

  "Shit!"

  "Shut the hell up!" Despite the cool night, beads of sweat dotted his brow. Liquor now sloshed in his belly, made him dizzy. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

  Eddie Bannister said, "Fuck, man. Let’s ditch."

  He opened his eyes and scowled over his shoulder at Eddie. "Don’t be a pussy. This’ll only take a minute."

  Eddie’s thin face pinched. "What if there’s an alarm?"

  He pushed the crowbar. The door bowed. "Dumbass. An alarm? For this shit hole? If there was, it woulda gone off by now." He was making that up, but it sounded good enough.

  "C’mon, Derek. We get caught, I’ll lose my job for sure."

  "So? You work at the fuckin’ Tastee-Freeze." He levered the crowbar once more, hard. Another sharp whine, then something cracked. Metal tinkled to the ground. The door swung open and banged against the siding.

  "Shit! Let’s go, before..."

  He whirled. "No. Fuckin’. Way. You said you were up for this. In or out, dickhead? Time’s a’wastin’."

  Silence fell. Eddie swallowed. "We split it, right? Down the middle?" "Absolutely."

  Wide-eyed, Eddie nodded. "O-okay."

  He grabbed Eddie’s arm and pulled him towards the doorway. "Let’s go."

  ~

  After twenty minutes, they stood nearly empty-handed. The old register had been easy, but only offered up a hundred dollars. Not enough. Nothing valuable here, either. Mostly junk.

  With each shelf ransacked, bile thickened in Derek’s stomach. Unexpected guilt, too. Old Man Handy treated everyone square, minded his business. When Derek’s father had made him quit hockey and he hawked his gear here, Handy hadn’t said a thing, just paid up.

  He swallowed and thought about how Pa used to come home drunk, sit on his chest while he cowered in bed, stick an old .38 under his chin and click the trigger, saying, "Yer nothin’." Click. "Nothin’, hear me?"

  He just wanted to get out, so he could be something, anything than what he was...Loser. Thief. His Pa’s son.

  He panned the store with his flashlight until something caught his gaze in its beam. There. In back. A trunk. "Eddie!"

  Footsteps trotted over. "What?"

  In minutes, they broke the trunk’s rusty latches with the crowbar, but they opened it to nothing but mounds of musty clothes and dirty rags.

  He sighed. "Fuck me sideways." "Man, we should split."

  He hated it, but Eddie was right. "Fuck this." He pushed off the trunk’s clutter. Something like a static shock passed through the fabric and jolted his hand. "Damn!"

  "What’s wrong?"

  He examined his palm, expecting to find it cut. It wasn’t, but it glowed an angry red and tingled, however, as if he’d touched something hot. "Dunno. Something under here." He grabbed a bundle and unwrapped the rags under his flashlight.

  Roughly the size of his palm, it was an ugly wooden head, strung on a rawhide necklace. Its lips grinned blood red, pointed teeth painted in jagged black lines. Ghostly, pale yellow eyes bugged, lizard-like, on opposite sides of the head, staring from under painted eyebrows. Worst of all was its full head of hair, because that’s exactly what it felt like: dry, rustling old human hair.

  It felt warm, seemed to get warmer as he held it. He shivered. For some reason he wanted to wear it, feel its warmth against his chest, and there...he heard something beating softly, far away.

  Drums. Voices. A song? Someone singing with drums beating, over and over. Something hissing and buzzing, too, in time and rhythm like maracas....

  Eddie reached for it.

  He jerked back. "Get the fuck off !" "The hell’s wrong with you?"

  "Hands off, dumbass. This was my idea, remember?"

  "I just wanna look at it." Eddie’s voice grated harsher than normal. Something bright flashed in his eyes. "What’s that on its forehead?"

  He brushed back the fake hair with his thumb. Sure enough, something was etched into the wood, two dots under a gently curved line. He rubbed it. A pulsating heat gripped him.

  Drums. Buzzing and hissing. Singing, or maybe voices screaming together...Ia! Ia! Ia..!

  "Hey. Derek." "What?"

  "I’ll let you keep all the cash for that thing."

  His fingers closed over the charm, not caring about anything, now, except this warmth spreading through him. He met Eddie’s hungry, burning gaze. "No deal. Keep the cash. This is mine."

  Eddie’s eyes flashed again. "Give it."

  He tensed, ground his teeth, bit off clipped words. "Fuck. Off. Bannister." Silence. Hot, throbbing silence.

  Eddie reached again but he dodged, grabbed the crowbar with his free hand and slammed it against Eddie’s temple. Eddie screamed, the air misted red as he swung again ...

  And again.

  Now

  "That’s not all, aye? There’s more."

  Derek bit his tongue. He wanted to scream. Giggle. Puke. He wanted to push away from the table and this crazy redneck witch doctor and run into the woods, screaming.

  He didn’t. He sat there, trembling, frozen...though he sensed drowning would be far better. "Lookit me, boy."

  He swallowed and gazed into those green eyes. He was surprised to find something like sympathy there.

  "I can’t help ya if you don’ tell me everythin’."

  Morning

  His stomach clenched. A hot knife carved a path along his intestines. Ga
sping awake, he scrambled off the couch in his apartment above Chin’s Pizza on Main Street, stumbled to the bathroom, fell before the toilet and vomited.

  With a lurch he spewed clumps into the bowl. Next came bile, then dry heaves. His eyes swelled shut and his head pounded. Tears washed his cheeks. Finally, nothing remained but gossamer strands of glistening drool, hanging from his lips.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and flushed the toilet. He didn’t look at the swirling mess. He closed the lid, stumbled back to the couch, collapsed and closed his eyes.

  He couldn’t remember last night. Strange, hazy thoughts swirled. What happened? I don’t remember anythin’ after drinkin’ and bitchin’ with Eddie, makin’ crazy plans to ...

  ... do what, exactly?

  He rubbed his unshaven face, glanced at the wall clock. It was almost two in the afternoon. He’d slept most the day.

  He thought hard. He needed cash, bad, because he’d gotten fired again last month. Used up most of his savings paying rent. He’d been drinking his last dollars away with Eddie last night, jawing about the places on Asher Street they could break into. They’d debated over Great American Grocery or Old Man Handy’s place ...

  The phone rang. He groaned and fumbled on the table next to the couch. After several tries, he finally got it. "Eddie, this better not be you bitchin’ about last night, ‘cause I can’t remember what the fuck we ..."

  Soft, feminine sniffing. A sob.

  His irritation dissolved. He sat up, stomach sloshing, but he held it down. "Shelly? What’s wrong?"

  "He knows, Derek...he f-found out. About us." "SHIT! How?"

  The voice on the other end broke. "The necklace you b-bought me. At the f-fair last spring? He found it. I must’ve gotten distracted, left it out somewhere." Her voice crumbled. "He hit me, Derek. In the stomach."

  His heart slugged. "The baby...?"

  "I don’t know. It hurts. Sore, but I don’t think..." "Shelly...does he know it’s me?"

  "No. Don’t think so." "Where’s Cody?"

  "He’s at school." Her voice steadied. "Derek, let’s go. Now. You, me, Cody...today."

  His stomach churned. His car had thrown a rod last month and of course, he had no cash. Shelly’s old Escort wouldn’t make it past the next town. Last night’s wild plan had failed, and ...

  Last night. Fog still swirled there. What happened? Ice tickled his spine. Slowly, he looked down and saw it on the coffee table. The charm.

  Beating drums. Buzzing, hissing. Hooting cries. Ia! Ia..!

  Hunger.

  Eddie. What happened to Eddie? His stomach fluttered. A faint, coppery taste lingered on his tongue, and he thought of puking again.

  No. No, no, no, no.

  Trembling, he looked down at the clothes he’d worn and slept in last night: jeans, Timberland boots, red flannel over a gray T-shirt, all stained dark red. Shriveled bits of something peppered his boots and shirt.

  His mind twitched. Drawn by an irresistible fascination, his gaze slid back to the charm. "Fuck me..."

  "What?" Shelly’s voice pierced his fog. "Derek, listen. He got called into the lumber mill. Probably the only reason he didn’t...but he said he’d be back. To t-teach me a..." She broke down.

  He couldn’t speak. He knew what kind of lessons she meant; lessons the guy she’d met at her strip club three years ago excelled at. She’d been a desperate mother, thought she could tough the lessons out in exchange for the cash waved in her face.

  Until she’d met Derek. Someone who’d grown up with the same lessons. Someone who

  understood what she’d endured better than anyone ever could.

  They’d waited. Planned. Now...it had all fallen apart, because he was a worthless loser who couldn’t hold down a job longer than two months. Because he was nothing.

  Click. "Nothin’."

  Shelly’s voice brought him back."I’m packing the car, getting Cody, then leaving. I c-can’t take this anymore."

  Wild desperation pushed against his dead limbs. "Shelly, we’ll never make it with no cash...I can’t...something’s wrong..."

  "I love you. Hurry." She hung up. The phone slid from his hand and hit the floor with a plastic rattle.

  He stared at the charm. Its yellow eyes swelled and stared at him. He picked it up. Its heat pulsed against his hand. He stood shakily to a knock on his door and a harsh voice.

  "Barton? Derek Barton? Police.

  "Need to talk to you about Eddie Bannister."

  ~

  The carnage painted in the Polaroids spread on his rickety dining room table sickened Derek. He wanted to look away, but the glistening portraits held him hostage. If Deputy Shackleford hadn’t told him this was Eddie, he’d never have guessed.

  He thought of how hard he’d puked this morning.

  Shackleford towered over him, thumbs hooked under his gun belt. He and Derek had gone to school together. His old man had worked with Derek’s for years, went out drinking with him, too. Shackleford had been a football star. He had been nothing, something his Pa reminded him of whenever he could, with his fists or belt, or that cold .38, jammed under his chin, late at night.

  Click. "Nothing."

  Shackleford reached out and tapped a Polaroid. "Folks saw you and Bannister at the Inn last night." Derek looked up. "Said you left together, late. This morning, Old Man Handy opened his store and found...well, quite a mess."

  Shackleford’s smile made his legs watery. "You may’ve been the last person to see Bannister alive. Know anything about this?"

  He swallowed and looked back at the photos. The charm burned in his pocket. He’d only had a few minutes to change clothes. After hastily scrubbing his bloody hands and face while Shackleford knocked, he’d struggled into clean pants and a new shirt, both of which felt snug, like he’d grown several inches overnight. Then he kicked off his boots and jammed the charm into his pocket, though what he wanted most was to feel it against his skin ...

  "So? How’d Bannister get chewed to hell in the middle of Handy’s pawnshop?

  "What?"

  Shackleford’s smile grew. "That’s the preliminary from Doc Newcomb at Utica Memorial. Bannister’s gut trauma is consistent with an animal feeding, according to the good doctor."

  He swallowed. His throat tightened and his stomach spasmed. Shackleford’s tangy, sweaty scent filled the room. He felt in his pocket and clutched the charm as the deputy leaned closer. "You know what I think? I think you and Bannister got drunk last night, went to rob the place but ended up fighting over the cash. You jumped him, crushed his skull, cut him up with a knife or something."

  His nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply of Shackleford’s smell.

  " Took your time answering the door. Maybe you were changin’ bloody clothes. Should I

  check your laundry?"

  He gripped the charm tighter."You need a...a w-warrant." His throat burned, his jaw ached. "Maybe you tried to run, gave me probable cause." The smile faded, eyes flinty. "Maybe you jumped me and I had to beat you down. In fact...maybe I should restrain you now, just in case." Desperate fear, spiced with anger, gripped him. The deputy removed handcuffs from his belt

  and leaned over to grab his wrist. Hunger swelled inside. The charm burned in his pocket, and he heard ...

  Ia! Ia! Ia!

  Everything seemed to stop...even Shackleford...as he rasped, "No."

  He lunged upwards, jaws snapping, and latched onto Shackleford’s exposed neck. Teeth sawed through flesh. Shackleford’s screams gurgled into wheezing rasps. His teeth ripped muscle into bloody strips, and still the drums beat and the voices cried.

  His face swelled. Enormous pressure stretched his cheekbones. Blood spurted from Shackleford’s neck, covered his face, streamed down his throat. He tore out a chunk of Shackleford’s neck, chewed once, then swallowed. The deputy’s twitching corpse flopped to the floor.

  Muddied thoughts swirled in his head. He needed to run. Think. Plan. Find help. Get to...Shelly...before he killed h
er. First, the body. Shackleford, the...meat. He needed to...needed to ...

  He fell upon Shackleford. The scent of blood and meat incensed him. Pressure throbbed behind his blood-painted face. His stomach surged briefly, then ached with hunger pains he’d never known.

  Time passed. Slowly, he stopped, fought to clear his mind. He took one last bite, swallowed it with a snap. He sat back on his haunches, breathed deep and looked into the hallway mirror.

  He screamed. The voices screamed with him. Ia! Ia...Ithaqua!

  Now

  "Lemme see it."

  Derek fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the charm. It still pulsed warmly. He hated relinquishing it. Even as Hartley took it, jealousy twisted his heart. He can’t have it! It’s mine! Ia, Ithaqua! It’s mine!

  He rubbed his face. It no longer felt stretched, but when he moved his jaw, it still clicked, like he’d grown extra hinges. Mostly, he looked normal again, but that didn’t matter. He remembered well what he’d seen in his apartment’s mirror.

  Something tall, with spidery-limbs that had stretched and ripped his clothes. Gray, rubbery skin. Long, flat face. A gaping jaw that hung impossibly low, ringed by jagged teeth dripping with blood and tissue...and wide-set, yellow eyes.

  Something lean and hungry. Something evil.

  "Not evil." Hartley caressed the symbol on the charm with a withered thumb. "Old, aye. Not evil."

  He swallowed. His throat still hurt. "What is it, then?"

  A ghost smile flickered. "A bit of the Old World. There’s lot’s of ‘em, scattered all over." "But what the hell is it doing to me?"

  Hartley held up the charm. "This here charm’s filled with an Old One. Algonquin pr’ bly, by its sign. Maybe Mississauga. It’s workin’ its will on ya."

  He massaged his jaw. It still hurt from how it had stretched when he’d attacked Shackleford. "How the hell did something like that end up here?"

  "Algonquians mostly squatted up North in Canada, Mississauga ‘round Poughkeepsie. Close

  ‘nuff to here. Maybe got traded, pawned off after bein’ handed down a few hundred years. Who knows? Yer not the first to run into an Old One."

  "So what happens now? What the fuck is happening to me?"