GARDENS OF NIGHT

by Greg F. Gifune

  The older man slowly reaches out and takes Marc’s keys from him. “We’re going in the house now, all of us. Understand?”

  Marc looks around frantically. Where the hell are the neighbors? How can this be happening right out in the open without anyone seeing? If he were alone he could simply run for it, but he can’t leave Brooke behind so flight isn’t even an option. His only choices are to comply or fight. If he complies, they might still get out of this alive. If he fights, surely one or both of them could be seriously hurt or even killed. Then again, these men are not new to this sort of thing, he can tell. There is a good chance both have killed people before, and once inside the house he and Brooke will be completely at their mercy.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” he says evenly.

  “Listen real good, boy.” The older man gives a quick side-glance to his partner. “You move your ass and do like I tell you. Less you want your pretty little cunt’s blood all over your nice driveway.”

  Marc’s mind races. How did this all happen so quickly? He can still taste remnants from their meal. Just moments ago they were living a normal life, coming home from dinner. And then, suddenly, evil has found them. He looks over to his wife. With a demented grin the man deliberately presses the gun hard and deep into the side of Brooke’s breast. She closes her eyes but says nothing. Would he really shoot her if he fights back? Marc can’t take the chance.

  He submits with a slow nod. His entire body trembles.

  Together, all four move toward the house.

  They have already begun to die.

  * * * *

  He is alone. He realizes this quickly. There, in the dark.

  Jammed between the floor and the back of the front seats, Marc struggles to free himself. Once in a sitting position, he runs his hands over his face to make sure everything is still intact. A small trickle of dried blood stains the space between his nostrils and upper lip. He licks it, tastes the saltiness of the blood then wipes it away with the back of his hand. Lightheaded and nauseous, he lays back a moment and tries to collect himself. It is then that he hears something more than a relentless rain pounding the roof. An annoying dinging sound pulses all around him. The front doors are open, and the dashboard lights cast everything in an otherworldly glow.

  The car is still running.

  Spaulding and Brooke are gone. Only Brooke’s purse remains, most of the contents spilled across the seat and floor.

  Marc draws a few deep breaths and waits for his head to stop spinning. Once it does the nausea retreats as well, and he pushes himself up and over the seat and yanks the key from the ignition. The car dies, silencing the dinging, and he returns to the backseat, pushes open the back door and tumbles out.

  Breaking his fall with his hands, his palms hit pavement and the pain reminds him of how he’d scraped them earlier. Locking his arms, he drags his legs from the car and falls to his knees on the side of the road. The darkness has grown so deep and the storm so violent that but for the occasional lightning strikes, visibility is only a few feet. He calls out to them but no one answers.

  Move. You have to move. Find them.

  Marc gets to his feet and staggers into the road. If there are any clues as to where Brooke and Spaulding have gone or been taken to, the night and rain conceals them, so he steadies his nerves as best he can and listens. There are living things within these woods that will help him, that can tell him what to do.

  Nothing.

  Memories of the deer return to him. Rainwater splashes and runs over him like blood. He wipes his eyes, tries to remember where the animal was when it crossed the road. Closing on what he suspects is the closest point, Marc crosses into the forest then breaks into a run once he clears the first band of trees. He has no idea where he is but somehow knows he’s heading in the right direction. He can feel it. Though the forest is dense he negotiates it as if he’s been there a dozen times before, avoiding branches and pitfalls with surprising grace he hadn’t realized he even possessed.

  He continues on for what seems an eternity, running through the forest, chest heaving, lungs burning, the world dark and blurry and wet, swaying and spinning as strange cries and murmured whispers emanate from the cradle of night encircling him. Without slowing his stride Marc looks right then left. He is not alone in the dark wood. With each blink of lightning, others emerge from the darkness. Running parallel to his position, their pale faces pierce the night and glow through the downpour. But they are unconcerned with him, each trapped in a prison of his or her own separate Hell. Instead, they growl like a pack of wild animals, possessed souls all, their desperation the ravenous terror of the forsaken. As Marc presses on, snapping twigs and crushing leaves with each step, he does his best to ignore the infestation of massive trees looming overhead, and his mind locks on the singular, instinctual purpose of survival.

  Moments later, winded and finally slowing his pace, he realizes he is again alone in the enormous expanse of forest, a sacrificial lamb left for the gods of wind, rain, thunder, lightning, and death to do with what they will.

  And then, quite suddenly, Marc emerges from the forest and finds himself at the edge of an open field. Drenched, he stumbles to a stop in order to catch his breath. Lightning rips the sky, revealing a considerable hill in the distance, the ghostly silhouette of a large gnarled tree standing atop it. And though he cannot see it, Marc knows an old farmhouse lies beyond that hill.

  His bad dreams have come true. Again.

  He breaks across the field and the rain falls even harder, as if to repel him. Though the terrain is pitted, he runs at full speed, certain his newfound strength, wind and energy is only adrenaline, but will do the job nonetheless. The night tilts and shakes with each heavy step, the rain pounding against his skin with such force it stings on contact. Great spears of lightning continue to crackle across the sky, and though they are frightening and Marc feels terribly vulnerable out in the open, he is grateful. Without the seconds of illumination the lightning provides, he’d surely become lost in the darkness.

  As he reaches the far end of the field far faster than he thought possible, he scurries up the side of the hill, pitched forward to maintain his balance and pushing off with each long stride. Sisyphus sans boulder, he reaches the summit quickly and finally comes to a stop, wipes the rain from his eyes as best he can and waits for the next lightning strike. In the meantime he turns to the large tree. He’s close enough now to be able to make out much of it through the darkness and elements. Up close the tree is enormous, with a fat trunk and lengthy, contorted branches. Lungs burning with each breath, he moves closer.

  Lightning blinks.

  Something in the tree moves. Something large.

  Marc steps back, evil seeping from the tree like heat from a fire. A snake is coiled around a nearby branch, its body thick and massive, forked tongue flicking about as if it were an independent creature, black eyes invisible in the darkness but for their strange glistening. Had it not moved, slightly tightening around the branch upon Marc’s approach, it would’ve remained undetected.

  He listens, but the snake has nothing to tell him.

  Thunder growls. Marc steps away and notices three old-fashioned wooden wells not far from the tree. Within seconds another bolt of lightning slashes the heavens, and there, in the distance, is the farmhouse and an old barn, exactly as he’d seen them in his nightmares. Sparse candlelight fills two windows in front, but otherwise the house is dark and quiet. To the right of the house is a small stone building situated a hundred or more feet away, off by itself. The squat structure looks like a place where tools and things of that nature might be stored, but could also provide good cover while allowing for a closer look at the farmhouse.

  As the world returns to darkness Marc sprints down the hill, taking an angle slightly out of line with the farmhouse that should put him directly in the path of the stone building. He reaches it quickly, drenched, shivering and for the first time, aware of the chill in the air, the coldness of the
rain. Falling against the back wall, his mouth falls open as he gasps for breath, chest heaving.

  The few windows on the stone building are fitted with rusted bars, and the only door is a flimsy, ill-fitting, partially rotted wooden board, barely secure and precariously rattling with each gust of wind and spray of rain. He tries to open it and with limited effort wrenches it free and slips inside.

  Marc closes the door behind him and sinks down to his knees. The floor is dirt and largely covered with hay. The building is very small, no larger than a standard tool shed, but it’s so dark inside he can’t make out much. Horrid smells of human waste, urine and perspiration fill the air, but as best he can tell, the building appears to be empty. He scrambles over to a lone window on the far wall that faces the farmhouse, stands and grips the cold bars like a prisoner. Squinting through the night, he watches the house a while, and but for the candlelight in the windows, sees no indication of life. Turning his back to the wall, he wipes his face and slowly slides down onto his backside, exhausted and doing his best to think clearly. He has to find a way inside the farmhouse. He has no doubt that Brooke and Spaulding are somewhere within those walls.

  Something stirs in the corner to his right.

  “Ain’t no use hiding,” a raspy male voice tells him from the darkness. “They already know you’re here.”

  Ten

  A match strikes, hisses and flares. Before Marc can figure his next move, the flame is touched to the base of a small lamp and light punches a hole in the darkness. The match dies, and the lamplight, though dim, is sufficient to divulge the source of the voice, an older man with a head of wavy silver hair and a matching unruly beard. His heavily-lined skin is bronze and leathery from hours spent outdoors, and his eyes, a dull blue that had probably once been quite striking, are glazed, bloodshot, and bear the sins and witness of a man who has seen and experienced a great deal, little of it pleasant. Even in sparse light, he appears filthy, as if he hasn’t bathed in weeks, and possesses a smell that confirms it. The man places the lamp next to him, the light revealing a makeshift straw bed against the far wall, a threadbare blanket and a bucket Marc can only assume is used for waste.

  He rises to his feet. The man is short but compact, dressed in grubby clothes. He goes to the crude door and pushes on it, making sure it’s properly closed. “Careful,” he says, “you’ll let the night in.”

  With the barred but open windows Marc fails to see the logic, but lets it go.

  The man scurries back into his corner and sits.

  “Who are you?” Marc asks, still shivering from the cold rain.

  “I’m nobody. Kind of a caretaker for the place, you could say.”

  “You live out here?”

  He chuckles humorlessly, lungs rattling. “Ain’t been alive in a long time.”

  “What is this place?”

  “The beginning. The middle. The end.”

  Marc gets up on his knees. “Two people, a man and a woman, my wife and a friend, they –”

  “Inside.” He motions to the farmhouse with his chin.

  “They’re here? You’re sure?”

  “I helped get them in the house.”

  “Are they hurt?”

  “You need to ask them that. Pretty bad accident, though.”

  “Are they in danger here?”

  “We’re all in danger here.”

  “What about the police or –”

  “Don’t you know where you are?” The man picks something from his beard and looks at Marc the way one considers the simplistic naïveté of a child.

  Lightning blinks. “Who else is in there?”

  “The sisters,” he says, looking away. “And the sisters.”

  “No more riddles, old man.” Marc moves closer, ignoring a sudden wave of lightheadedness. “Please, I need your help.”

  Shadows play across the man’s weathered face as he watches the rain through the window. “Nothing’s forever. Even the sisters got an end.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Don’t know.” Wind whips through the open windows, rattles the door. “Time’s not the same here. It’s never the same, not when we’re like this.”

  “Like what?”

  The old man gives a brown-toothed smile but offers no answer.

  “I’m not asking again,” Marc says. “What is this place?”

  Sensing aggression, the man’s smile slowly fades. “Wasn’t always a farmhouse,” he explains. “The land, the air, all of it had to be desecrated first.”

  “Why desecrated?”

  “Only way the three sisters could settle here. They used to be someplace else, lots of places all over the world. For centuries, understand? And if it don’t end here, they’ll wind up somewhere else, pulling their strings.” He motions to the farmhouse. “That was built on top of an old convent. Way back in the early 1800s, this was a place of God, or so they say. A cloistered order lived out here more or less alone for years. But then the area started to get more populated, and the questions started. The sisters claimed to be a holy order but nobody knew where they came from, who they were or what they were doing out here. Way the story goes the church didn’t recognize them, labeled them heretics. In them days that’s all the locals needed. They burned the place to the ground and butchered every last one of them nuns… or whatever they were. Fools had no idea what they were ushering in.”

  Marc’s visions of nuns being burned at the stake and nailed to crosses by men in dated clothing, floods his memory. “I dreamed this,” he mutters.

  “Now the other sisters – the three – live here.”

  “Who are they?”

  “You already know. You dreamed of them too.”

  A chill dances along the back of Marc’s neck. Thunder rolls.

  The man leans back, further into shadow. “The only things left from the convent are the catacombs. They still use them, underground passages that run all through here. That’s where you got to go, the catacombs.”

  “Is it just the three of them in there?” Marc asks.

  “Nah, they live there with the other sisters.”

  “The nuns?”

  “They ain’t regular nuns.” He grins. “Wear their crosses upside down.”

  They weren’t like any nuns I’ve seen before.

  “But you said they were put to death, destroyed hundreds of years ago.”

  The old man nods.

  Marc crawls over to the window, stands and looks out through the storm. The rain is still coming down in buckets, thunder still rumbles overhead and the wind has grown stronger, but the lightning strikes are fewer and farther between. The candlelight filling the farmhouse windows is barely visible. “How do I get in?”

  “Knock on the door,” the man says. “They’ll answer. Devil always does.”

  With a questioning look, he glances back at the old man.

  “Told you, they already know you’re here. Fate always knows.”

  “They’re waiting for me, is that it?”

  “You heard their call.” Hidden in shadow, only the man’s bloodshot eyes breach the darkness. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “But what do they want with me? Why me?”

  “It’s your destiny… and theirs.” As the man settles deeper into the corner he vanishes from sight. The darkness has swallowed him whole. “Later, you’ll set me free. You got to… got to set me free. Promise you’ll set me free.”

  Marc barely hears him, and without answering, stands and pulls open the door. The night rushes in as a cold and violent rain sprays his face. The murmur of hidden things slink through the night, but this time he’s almost certain it’s just the old man whispering to him from the darkness.

  “Bring the hell, boy. Bring the hell.”

  * * * *

  Through the rain, a man. A dream, a Victim Soul emerging from darkness. Moving purposefully, he emerges from night and strides through the muddy open area between stone building and farmhouse, oblivious to the
storm raging around him. As if a child of this turmoil, he closes on the house with the gait of a predator tracking prey and follows the narrow stone path to the front door.

  Something moves past one of the windows, briefly interrupting the yellow glow of candlelight. As the rain pours down, night coils around him like the living thing it is, invades his senses, the world dark, alive, wet, dripping, moving.

  Knock on the door.

  He hits the sturdy but scarred wooden door with his fist three times, each knock harder than the last.

  They’ll answer.

  A rattling sound cuts the night, most likely locks disengaging.

  Devil always does.

  The door opens. Slowly. From within, candlelight seeps out into the night, blurred by a relentless rain. And in the slim opening, a pale face. A young round female face with flawless skin framed in heavy black linen. Beautiful green eyes blink at him innocently as her lips part into a bright smile.

  Hardly the demon he’d expected.

  The forests in fairytales, enchanting as they may be, are always dark.

  “Who are you?” Marc asks.

  “Sarah,” she answers in a singsong voice. She appears to be barely out of her teens. “They told me you’d come. Another lost soul in the storm.”

  Marc nods, the rain running off him in torrents.

  “Come in out of the rain,” she says, stepping away from the door to reveal her nun’s habit. The cross she wears is large, made of wood and hangs down to the middle of her petite torso. It is not inverted as the old man suggested. “It’s all right,” she assures him. “Come.”

  He hesitates, tries to see deeper into the house behind her. “My wife…”

  “She’s here, asleep of course.”

  As the young nun opens the door wider still, Marc steps through.