Darkscope

by J. Carson Black

  Chelsea was surprised at the sadness she felt. She had hardly given the place a glance since her arrival, had in fact hated its appearance. But it was her great-grandfather’s house after all—her earliest memory of Bisbee. And it was gone. Forever.

  Within a few minutes, she was on her way to Warren.

  As her car topped the hill on Cole Avenue, she could see the McCord house—or rather a section of the new roof—slightly beyond and below the Douglas house.

  Chelsea stood on the brakes, her heart beating wildly. The connection suddenly occurred to her, the feeling of déjà vu too strong to ignore.

  She saw again the twisted white wire—lightning—against the clear sky, connecting with the roof of her house. Now a scant two months later, lightning had struck.

  Add it to her vision of the blackened remains of Brian Goodman, and what did you have? Maybe Ben was right. Maybe she was psychic.

  But lightning had struck the McCord house, not hers.

  She emerged from the car and stood on the side of the road some distance down from the ruin. The sky remained bright blue, although the sun’s rays were beginning to level out into sunset.

  The house reared up against the painted backdrop of the slag heap, dark and glowering. The windows had imploded; jagged shards of glass bristled like the sharp teeth of a moray eel. Blackness flared out around the windows, showing the path of the flames as they sought oxygen. Strangely, the front door was untouched, the oval window intact. The family had been renovating the house recently—the door and window were new. The millwork—the wedding cake detailing around the windows and portico—had been painted a cheery canary yellow, contrasting with the grim arrow-sharp spikes on the roof. A Victorian monstrosity, made uglier by fire. Behind it the slag heap glowed with sunset colors: rusty red and ochre and purple and gray. A scene from hell.

  A hot wind tugged at Chelsea’s blouse. She was all alone here on the deserted stretch of grass. The wind carried the burnt odor to her.

  Here was the house where Lucas McCord had lived for more than half a century. The house where her grandfather was born. Chelsea thought how gaudy the Victorian structure looked beside the predominantly foursquare houses on the block—especially in its half-finished, half-burned state.

  The turret to the right was intact; the flames had barely touched that side of the house. Scaffolding rose up beside it; the owner had been in the process of replacing a row of scalloped wooden fish scales below the circular roof. On top, a weather vane in the shape of a rearing horse swayed restlessly in the breeze. The sun glinted off the turret window; yellow-painted icing catching the light and bouncing it back.

  Chelsea felt cold inside.

  Something moved behind the window. Dark. Like wings.

  It’s just my imagination. That’s all.

  The evening shadows stretched across the blighted front lawn, reaching out to Chelsea.

  Come in. The whisper seemed to come from the house itself.

  Chelsea felt her body tense, her weight shift from one leg to the other, preparatory to taking a step.

  Welcome.

  No sound. Just the wind. The wind blurred her vision, ripping at her clothing; her hair flagged into the air. The sky darkened. To the west, a large black cloud blotted out the sun.

  You belong here. Welcome.

  The police department had cordoned off the house with yellow tape. It stretched across the porch, fluttering in the wind.

  Chelsea stepped forward, dirt showering against her legs. The doorway seemed to grow bigger. The sun came out again, torching the new oval window. She could see the frosted glass etched in a flower design along its circumference. A facet of light on one of the beveled edges caught the sun. With every step Chelsea took, the sparkling jewel-colors changed—from amethyst to royal blue to emerald to flashing yellow to ruby.

  She was aware of the wind at her back, propelling her forward.

  Come home.

  Suddenly, Chelsea realized that she had crossed the road and was just few feet from the house. How had she gotten there? She couldn’t believe she had come so for in a few steps.

  The wind rose to a wail. The sky had turned a coppery blue-green; the slag heap darkened to blood red—a high, dark shelf, desolate and barren. Chelsea’s heart thumped in her chest. Goosebumps inched up her spine.

  Why should she be so frightened of a house? After all, it was her great-grandfather’s house, so in a sense it was hers. The house was part of her, a part of her history, a part of her blood. And the new owners had tried to dress it up with those ridiculous colors when really it looked better just stark and dour and dark and black at heart, the way it was meant to be, her home (what’s happening to me?) and she could live here forever, roaming the decayed and ruined rooms, a testimony to Lucas’s love for his children and his home, a living (dying) breathing (dead) testimony to love . . .

  What am I thinking?

  To live forever in the boards and plaster of the house, to make the ultimate sacrifice for love—

  My brain it’s in my brain again!

  The door swung open slowly with a creak.

  Inside, the warm glow of gaslights threw shadows of dancing couples on the floor.

  Chelsea walked forward, gazing at the elegant sweep of the staircase, the gleaming wooden floor, the rich, dark, velvet curtains . . . the beauty of it! She felt the yellow tape strain against her chest, then it broke apart like a gossamer thread and she was on the porch. How could a stupid tape keep her out?

  Inside, voices and strains of music, the buttery light shimmering on the step. Chelsea glimpsed a man in black tails, laughing as he chased a fox terrier down the staircase . . . a woman in a sequined gown held a feathered mask on a stick . . . a waiter handed her a glass of champagne.

  Come in.

  Laughter, sparkling wit, chamber music.

  Come in and dance.

  Almost across the front step, and then she would dance and dance and dance forever—

  A shudder passed through the floor, like the scream of a terrified animal, and a timber crashed into the entry way.

  The champagne glass shattered in her hand. The dancers vanished. Chelsea leaped back, but not before she saw the ceiling begin to crumple and the boards bend. Plaster and dust showered down, and with a trembling, groaning heave, everything seemed to close in. Like the jaws of a trap, the door slammed shut behind her. Chelsea watched with horror as the ceiling buckled, the cracks running out from the center and the whole thing beginning to—

  Get out!

  She grabbed the glass doorknob and tried to turn it.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  With a bellowing roar the staircase folded in on itself. Chelsea could barely see for the dust.

  Her hand froze on the knob.

  Get out get out now!

  She turned the knob the other way. For one terrible moment, it refused to move; then, incredibly, it gave.

  The cracks above became fissures, then ravines, heavy chunks of plaster and brick hurling down just as she opened the door and fell out on the porch—

  A huge beam crashed into the space where she’d been standing.

  Chelsea lay on the porch, the air knocked out of her.

  The front door yawed and swayed. Chelsea rose to her feet, feeling the trembling underneath her. She didn’t know how she made it down the steps and into the yard.

  The window exploded, shards of rainbows flying.

  A scream of tortured wood filled the air.

  Then the destruction ended as quickly as it began. Everything stopped at once. There was one last puff of dust as the house settled.

  Chelsea stood up.

  The house had seduced her. It had tried to pull her into itself. It had wanted her for its own.

  Shaking, she backed away down the walk.

  Come back.

  No! She shut her mind to the clamoring voice within.

  When she reached the walk Chelsea turned to look at the house. The porch was a ruin, a to
othless hag’s mouth. It was a miracle that she had escaped in time. The wind that knitted into her shirt was hot, but her skin felt moist and cold. She could barely stand.

  The party had seemed so real. What if she had stayed?

  The words echoed in her mind: a testimony to love . . . to roam the rooms forever . . . trapped.

  Trapped forever in that horrible house. Trapped in death.

  Heart still thumping in her chest, Chelsea headed for the car.

  Then she heard it. A faint cry came from beyond the edifice, almost inaudible. The sound was human, young. A child’s voice.

  Could a child have been trapped in that horrible place? Could it have been playing and been drawn into the house as well, but caught, like a luckless insect in a web?

  The sound came from in back. Maybe the child was trapped inside.

  Or maybe it’s a trick.

  “Help me!” The desperation in the voice galvanized her. The voice contained real terror, real pain.

  Chelsea started around the back of the house. I won’t go in. But if there is a child trapped in there, I can find out where he is and then go for help.

  She followed the side of the house, straining her ears to listen. The cries were muffled, but louder,

  A trick?

  Maybe it is a trick, but I have to make sure. I won’t go in, there’s no way I’ll go in, but I have to check, don’t I? I can’t just turn my back on a child in trouble.

  Behind the house, the slag heap glowed with color. Rocks trickled down with a dry, clicking sound. The cries seemed to be coming from that direction,

  Chelsea looked at the slag heap,

  A small hole had been gouged in the chain-link fence bordering the slag heap. Just big enough for a child or a slender adult.

  She heard a high whimper.

  She crossed the flattened yellow grass.

  A choked sob. A plaintive voice cried, “Help me!” The voice was coming from the slag heap!

  The sound came from halfway up the slope. Chelsea crawled through the hole in the fence. She stepped up onto the loose rocks and dirt, feeling it shift like a loose mosaic beneath her feet.

  The sky darkened,

  “I can’t breathe!” the child gasped. “Help!”

  Chelsea crawled up the slag heap, her hands scrabbling for purchase, her feet sinking into the loose dirt. A scratching sound came from just above. Up there. Not far. Not far at all. The voice had ceased calling.

  How could a child survive under all these rocks? Had the slide just happened? Had the activity of the house caused the slope to shift, pinning the child underneath?

  There was movement just above her. More rocks rattled down the slope, their shadows dark purple. Chelsea dug in.

  The whining air became sharper. Above the location of the sound, Chelsea could see the wind eddying, deepening a slight hollow in the dirt, blowing fine red dust. Chelsea reached the hollow. Imagine, a child trapped in the slag heap!

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

  Her hand plunged in beneath the loose dry rock and inched through the dirt.

  A hand curled around hers. She’d found him! “Don’t worry, it’s okay now,” she said, “I can—”

  The hand clamped on her wrist, almost cutting off her circulation. What kind of child had strength like that?

  She jerked back. The hand came with her. She almost fell backward, but the arm poking from the ground yanked her back. The grip on her wrist was like iron. Chelsea looked down.

  The hand was big, a man’s hand, dirt-lined wrinkles meshing finely over a tattoo of liver spots. Earth—the black earth of the deep underground—clung to the fingers.

  Chelsea screamed.

  Nails dug into her wrist. She pulled back, trying to loosen the viselike grip. With a ripping sound, the arm came up, followed by the shoulder and the head—like a root being pulled from the earth. It came easily—a hairy, earthy root in human form.

  The thing let go.

  Chelsea fell backward and rolled down the hill. She rose to her feet, every nerve tingling with fear.

  What was it?

  In slow motion, the thing pushed the rest of its way out of the slag heap. A shower of dirt fell from its head and shoulders.

  Transfixed, Chelsea stood stock-still.

  It was a man, an old man. Dirt hung on it in clumps, webs and bugs nestled in its hair. The head was cauled by a misty, white web—Chelsea could see the hollows of the eyes and the rotting beak of its nose. With horror she recognized the features. Lucas McCord. Only it was the corpse of Lucas McCord.

  The thing scrabbled toward her. “Thank you, Chelsea,” it whispered, the voice-pipe sounding bent and clogged with earth. The web stretched tight across the nose and broke open, the hole spreading across the cheekbones, the caul finally flopping at the apparition’s chin like a diaphanous beard. Green, jellied mold rode the slopes under the staring eyes. Skin hung in rotten tatters from its face. The teeth, like nubs of corn, formed a crooked rictus, hinged by gleaming bone. The jawbone creaked as it spoke. ‘‘And now perhaps I can return the favor. You can see my house. Your house, Chelsea. We are all part of the same thing.”

  The Lucas-thing staggered toward her, slipping a little on the rocks. The funeral suit covered it like black bandages. With revulsion, Chelsea saw that the carnation—green and withered and black at the edges—still poked out of the lapel. The corpse lurched forward, a cold emanating from its fish-white skin.

  The world stood still. It was almost upon her, almost on top of her with its terrible, putrefying breath. The horror of its closeness broke the spell. Heart pounding, Chelsea spun around and hurtled down the hill.

  “Is that any way for a guest to act?” the Lucas-thing chortled. “Come here, come and see your birthright.”

  It moved slowly, as if it were under water. Chelsea scrambled down the hill, breath coming in ragged gasps. Almost to the bottom. Her foot slipped, she fell to one knee. Don’t look back. Don’t look—

  She put her hand down to support herself. Her hand poked through a foot of dirt.

  Behind, she heard the skittering rocks. The slow, even plop of each heavy step. Don’t look back—

  Chelsea tried to pull her hand from the ground. The earth was like quicksand, pulling at her, solidifying like cement.

  How could that be? The ground should be loose rocks and dirt, not earth.

  She redoubled her efforts, felt the earth give a little. Just don’t look. Don’t look ba—

  A hand curled onto her shoulder. Breath—unspeakably rotten and cold as the grave—caressed her neck. Shocked to the soul, Chelsea looked down at the hand. The nails were long and yellow, twisted—

  Chelsea remembered what she’d been told in anatomy class. The hair and nails grow after death.

  Chelsea jerked her hand from the slide, adrenaline bursting in explosions through her entire body. She ran as if all the dogs of hell were on her heels. She scrambled through the fence, oblivious to the claws of sheared wire raking her back.

  She reached the house, ran past the house. Afraid to turn around, afraid to look—

  “Come back! You got to learn to mind your elders!”

  Breath shredded in her chest, seared her lungs. She tripped, fell. Pain in her ankle.

  She could hear the thing coming. It was snicking down the incline, inexorably closer.

  She stood, tested the ankle. Excruciating pain lanced up her foot. Have to run. Have to. She started running. Impossibly, she started running. Her neck craned around, against her will, she looked back despite her resolve not to—

  It was losing ground. A rag man, shambling across the grass.

  Chelsea gained the front yard.

  “Come back!”

  She reached the road.

  “Chelsea!”

  She crossed the road. It was almost dark now. She turned back and saw the thing standing in front of the ruined house.

  “Come back,” it wailed. The weather vane spun crazily on
the pointed roof.

  She reached the car. Lucas’s corpse didn’t follow. She got in and started the engine, pulled out onto the road. In the rearview mirror, she saw the house, the Lucas-thing standing before it, and the last light of sunset painting the slag heap with blood.

  Twenty-nine

  In Bisbee that night, Chelsea dreamed of Kathy, her beautiful face twisted in anguish, her high, bell-like voice imploring Chelsea to help her help her help her;

  Frank Carrera woke twice to barking dogs and the sound of horses neighing in terror. He went out to investigate, finding nothing unusual except a coldness at the base of his spine;

  Gary Phillips dreamed of a beautiful woman with cold, pallid lips and eyes like wells of darkness;

  A man named Jerry Tuckoe, on his way home to Sierra Vista after a drunken night at St. Elmo’s Bar, stopped to relieve himself at the bridge over die San Pedro River. He felt a cold draft, as if someone had opened a door to a blizzard right behind him. He spun around. Jerry could swear that someone—or something—passed right next to him. A silent wind rippled down the line of cottonwood trees to the north, and the land dreamed in unearthly quiet;

  And from Bisbee to Tucson, animals went to ground and cowered in their burrows, and horses ran as far as the open range would take them.

  Thirty

  Kathleen Barrie stood on the hardwood floor of Lucas McCord’s study, her shoulders slightly hunched, as if in that way she might conceal her pregnancy. She gave the impression of fragility, but for the hard sparkle in her eyes.

  Anger rose in Lucas’s throat. The situation was insufferable. No sooner had Mary gone back East, no sooner had he quelled the rumors on that front, something else happened. Like a leaky boat, Lucas’s carefully planned world had him running from bow to stern. As soon as one leak was plugged, another started.

  The girl standing before him now might prove to be the worst of his problems. Her situation affected Johnny’s future. I’ll come right to the point,” Lucas said. “It has come to my attention that you are going to have a child.”