The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

by Taylor Grand

  Better not to do anything drastic for a week or two.

  In the meantime, Brennan was forced to create a home for the unidentified fish in the large, center aquarium. A place of honor, were the hopelessly fawning words Guthrie used.

  The description attached to the fish’s shipping crate was infuriatingly cryptic. There were no instructions or identifying information other than the fish was a rare, freshwater species that thrived best alone.

  Brennan wasn’t surprised. It was just like the Mackeys to show off their ability to acquire extremely exotic species, daring all and sundry to identify it. Smug, self-important bastards. They loved to make everyone aware of their access to all things elite.

  Brennan had yet to identify the shimmering black fish a week later. Oddly, none of his usual aquatic resources could find a match. Aesthetically, he found the fish to be rather unremarkable. Its physical characteristics were an amalgamation of any number of exotic species.

  But there was something about its eyes. There was a cognizance he’d never seen in a fish before. Its huge, iridescent eyes seemed to peer into his soul, and disapprove of what it saw.

  Brennan was reminded of the looks his father had given him during some of his more terrifying drunken benders. He felt that same kind of hatred radiating from the fish.

  He’d end those hateful looks by killing it, as he’d killed his father on his thirteenth birthday. Killing, he’d found, was often the simplest solution to a difficult situation. It had always come easily to Brennan. The hardest part was getting away with it.

  His ex-wife had been a real challenge.

  Yes, he’d enjoy getting rid of Little Mackey (the moniker he’d given the hateful fish), but he’d have to be extremely careful. And he obsessed about the best method for the next few days. The easiest answer was to simply add salt to the tank. The problem was that it would take a fair amount to kill the fish and he didn’t want to risk anyone noticing the crusty residue.

  Another option was starvation, but there was no way to keep the morons on the night shift from feeding it; especially that goddamned tree-hugger, Jenkins, who doted over fish nearly as much as Billy Mackey.

  Brennan also considered using the poisoned pellets he’d developed specifically for aquatic life, but he had a feeling the damned fish wouldn’t eat them. And he couldn’t take the chance that the pellets might be discovered at the bottom of the tank. Jenkins, in particular, would happily rat him out.

  If worse came to worst, he knew he could always go with the final option: snatch the little pecker from its tank and watch it suffocate.

  He’d entertained the last idea on several occasions, but the risk of damaging the delicate fish deterred him. Not that anyone would inspect the fish for foul play, but he liked to keep his dirty work clean. He had immense pride in his ability to avoid detection. Besides, after the early joys of brute force, he’d found he wasn’t nearly as satisfied nowadays as when he created more ingenious killing methods. He took this as a sign of maturation.

  In any case, his decision became imperative the day he noticed a power shift happening in the aquatics section. Brennan’s fish subjects stopped responding in the way to which he was accustomed.

  Normally, they were reactive, hanging on his every move. His threatening gestures caused them to cower from his mighty hand and retreat to the bottom of their aquariums. Conversely, if he were playing the role of benevolent God, they would race toward the surface of the water in anticipation of their daily sustenance—thankful for the grace of the Brennan-God.

  Now, they stared at him with accusatory eyes.

  He thought: It’s influencing them somehow…

  The idea was preposterous, he knew. And yet there was no denying the abrupt change in his subjects, the condemnatory looks. Brennan had felt the same way under the chastising gaze of his father; a look that said: you’re a pathetic waste of flesh.

  “Quit staring at me!” Brennan yelled at the thousand eyes.

  This seemed to increase the intensity of their gazes.

  Angrily, he hurled a fish net at the center aquarium, hitting Little Mackey’s tank with a dull, wet clunk. The raven-colored fish didn’t budge. It simply floated dead center in the tank.

  Defiant.

  Eyes burning with hate.

  Brennan looked away. He refused to have a stare down with a goddamn fish.

  He’d kill it and that would be the end of it.

  ****

  The next day, Brennan arrived at the store ready for the final showdown.

  Little Mackey’s bulbous eyes followed him with suspicion as Brennan approached its tank and angrily yanked off the lid.

  “Time to die.”

  He angled a long, plastic spout directly over the fish and poured in a deadly mixture of food-based oil and grease he’d mixed the night before. Little Mackey darted out of the way with blinding speed and narrowly avoided the sludge.

  Brennan grinned. He knew the diminutive fish was merely delaying the inevitable; there was no escape in such a confined space.

  He criss-crossed the oil across the surface of the water and used a net to force it down. He watched the swirling trails of oil with great anticipation. Little Mackey continued to dodge and weave, but eventually the toxic blanket of oil coated it with a viscous sheen.

  Soon the oil would clog the fragile gills of the fish, preventing it from extracting oxygen from the water. Ironically, this made Brennan breathe easier.

  The ebony-colored fish would die of—what looked like—natural causes. If any suspicions arose about the murky water, he’d simply blame it on a bad filter and replace it, giving the tank a good cleaning while he was at it.

  Best of all, it would show Little Mackey’s buddies what happens when they give disapproving looks to their Brennan-God.

  Two hours later, Little Mackey was still glaring at him.

  Brennan was close to panic. Every moment he spent with the fish meant more of his control was slipping away.

  When the longest shift he could remember finally ended, he raced all the way home, spurred to desperate energy by the memory of the other reptiles, birds, and small animals that populated the pet store.

  All of them had stared at him accusingly too.

  ****

  Brennan spent some quality time with his good buddy Jack Daniels that night. He was determined to wash away all thoughts of the pet store jury. Between gulps, he cursed Billy Mackey’s name and his Godforsaken fish.

  Around midnight, during a rather intense rant, Brennan slurred his words and pronounced Mackey as “Mackerel.” The irony dropped him to the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter.

  But as his alcohol-induced gaiety slowly faded away, despair crept back in like an ocean fog, obscuring everything with its cold invasiveness. A distorted face peered through the mist, floating through Brennan’s drunken haze.

  The eyes were unmistakable.

  Get out of my head!

  But the mental specter of Billy Mackey sitting in that darkened basement, with those accusing eyes, remained.

  Brennan heaved an old wicker chair at the wall out of frustration, losing his balance and collapsing onto the floor.

  Why can’t I put Mackey behind me? What it about that kid?

  Distorted images of the boy were projected onto the screen of Brennan’s mind: a slideshow of bloodied knuckles, pants wetting, and cries of terror in the darkness.

  Brennan’s thoughts transported him back in time, to his harrowing experiences as a child in the basement of his house. To the terror of those countless, merciless beatings he’d received from his father in the yawning darkness. The gut wrenching feeling of betrayal—it all came crashing back.

  He’d seen that look of betrayal on Mackey’s face that day.

  At that moment, for the first time since as far back as he could remember, Brennan felt tears welling up.

  He threw back another swig of liquid forgetfulness and noticed a familiar black fish—wriggling inside his bottle of Jack
Daniels. It dove straight down toward his throat.

  He flung the bottle away in horror. It shattered against the far wall, spraying the room with alcohol and shards of glass. He spun around in a frenzy and looked for any signs of the little terror. He wanted to see it flopping on the carpet, gasping its final breath. But after a futile search, he finally collapsed onto the floor, woozy from the exertion.

  It was a drunken hallucination, he thought. Or worse: a conscience that he didn’t want.

  On that final disturbing thought—he passed out cold.

  ****

  Brennan was grateful for his brain-splitting hangover the next morning; it helped distract him from the fear of facing the pet store again. He gave the performance of a lifetime, acting as if nothing had changed when he strolled through the front door, maintaining the pretense that the animals remained his royal subjects.

  As he moved through the narrow aisles of the store, he felt the eyes of the entire pet populace upon him. It unnerved him, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he focused on the day’s steady stream of customers and did his best to avoid eye contact with the animals.

  The reckoning was coming, of course. But he wanted it on his terms; and he knew that he would have the greatest advantage after store hours. Today was Sunday and the only day of the week the store closed early. He wouldn’t have to deal with the usual idiots working the night shift.

  Perfect.

  When evening arrived, there was the usual feeding and cleaning to be done, as well as a dead pull that he’d already postponed from the day before. By the time he locked up the store, he’d finally mustered up the courage to face his bestial tribunal.

  Time seemed to suspend as Brennan mopped the tile floor in the aquatics area, preparing for the face-off. He gradually—methodically—worked his way toward Little Mackey’s tank. Now, more than ever, he felt its pervasive malice, like a pall of darkness over the room.

  Brennan drew closer and closer with each wet swish of his mop, until he was finally standing next to the tank. He bent down to look at the hideous little thing; his face mere inches from the glass. The fish struck at him like an enraged snake, smacking against the glass with a resounding thunk. Brennan stumbled back, knocking over his bucket of dirty mop water.

  The entire store rose up in a macabre cacophony: birds cawed, cats shrieked, puppies howled, and lizards hissed.

  Brennan’s mind began to scream too. Were they laughing at him? What the hell was happening here?

  As he took in the nightmarish spectacle, he realized that he’d crossed the point of no return. If he didn’t make a stand now, he would no longer be seen as their king—but as the royal fool. He forced himself to meet the stare of the little black fish, and fury buzzed in his ears like a swarm of enraged bees. His breath was forced and ragged as he rose to his feet.

  The fish glared back.

  Mocking him!

  A mental dam inside Brennan’s mind broke.

  He smashed through the store like a river of rage, ignoring the screeches, barks and squawks that taunted him at every turn. He was searching for anything to kill the fish with, all pretense at finesse evaporated. It didn’t matter what it was, as long it could tear, rend, smash—

  Kill!

  He yanked open cupboards and drawers, his thickset body tensed with rage, face twisted and feral. He came across a serrated knife he’d used only the day before to chop up vegetables for the reptiles.

  Now he’d use it to chop up Little Mackey.

  Just like sushi, a crazed voice said in his mind.

  The pet store had become sheer pandemonium; every animal seemed to shriek for blood from behind their cages. Barking, squawking, hissing, shrieking—Brennan’s ears rang and his aching head whirled.

  He raced toward the aquatics area. In his mind’s eye, he could see the little black monstrosity impaled on his knife, wriggling in agonized death throes. He charged toward Little Mackey’s tank.

  The black fish glanced down at the wet, slippery floor with a knowing look.

  Brennan saw it coming then, but he didn’t have time to stop. He felt a moment of lost equilibrium and then he was lighter than air. His momentum carried him all the way across the room.

  Upon impact, his face smashed straight through one of the aquariums. A thick shard of glass impaled his throat, turning the contents of the fish tank into a crimson waterfall.

  Brennan hung there, flopping back and forth. Not unlike a fish out of water, gasping for air.

  He’d missed Little Mackey’s aquarium by half an arm’s length.

  The shimmering fish swam over from the neighboring tank to watch Brennan become the store’s latest dead pull.

  Brennan forced his gaze toward the hateful fish with his dying breath. What he saw there made him want to scream—though he physically could not.

  Staring back at him was a grotesque little fish with Billy Mackey’s eyes—filled with cold satisfaction.

  SHOW AND TELL

  “I’ve been keeping something from you,” Jacob said, staring at the floor. “And I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

  McDaniels adjusted the wire rim glasses at the far end of his nose. “It’s an admirable thing to admit that.”

  For the first time since he’d entered the room, Jacob met McDaniels’s eyes. “You know those pictures I drew? The ones that caused all the problems?”

  McDaniels offered a comforting smile. “It’s not that you caused any ‘problems,’ Jacob. Mrs. Finelli was simply concerned that you might have some feelings that you hadn’t been able to express.”

  “I guess she was right,” Jacob said, his eyes once more cast downward.

  “You can tell me whatever’s on your mind. I’d like to help.”

  Jacob’s eyes searched the tidy office. “Do you still have the pictures?”

  “I do. Would you like to see them again?”

  “No. I’d like you to see them again.”

  “Very well,” McDaniels said. He stood up from behind his immaculate desk and reached for the student files in the metal cabinet directly behind him. He flipped through the sixth grade folders until he came upon one with the label: Campbell, Jacob.

  Folder in hand, McDaniels sat back down in his swivel chair, which answered with a high-pitched squeak. He pulled out the series of colored pencil drawings that Mrs. Finelli had brought to his attention; Jacob had been secretly drawing them in class for several months.

  McDaniels had seen a lot of disturbing drawings in his fifteen years as a school counselor, but these were particularly troubling. They were meticulously drawn and horribly realistic.

  And the specificity of the illustrations raised unsettling questions: the dark basement, hospital bed, feeding pump, oxygen tanks, suction machines, and a whole array of medical equipment that the boy had drawn in explicit detail.

  The subject of the twenty or so drawings, however, was what had prompted Mrs. Finelli to contact McDaniels in the first place. It was a ghastly, child-like thing that appeared to be bedridden and perpetually propped up at a forty-five degree angle by some kind of medical apparatus.

  Its head was at least three times normal size, with bulging, green-colored veins covering the scalp, which seemed destined to explode from some urgent and terrible internal pressure. Its appendages were short, gnarled and incomplete.

  Worst, by far, were the eyes. They looked like two translucent water balloons filled to bursting with blood, popping out beyond the normal boundaries of human eye sockets.

  As McDaniels gazed upon the nightmarish drawings, it seemed as if the thing’s crimson eyes were staring right through him. He found himself wanting to look away. While Jacob clearly had artistic talent, McDaniels hoped for the boy’s sake that he would find different subject matter to explore in the future.

  “Are you still having the nightmares?”

  “Yes,” Jacob stated, matter-of-factly. “Everything I’ve said about the nightmares is true. The part I lied
about is that they are just nightmares.” The boy’s slender fingers fidgeted nervously with each other for long seconds before he spoke.

  Then, in a quiet voice, “That thing in the drawings is…real.”

  McDaniels raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s…my brother.”

  McDaniels replied with what he felt was the appropriate level of gravity, “Really.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t believe me if I were you. I mean…he looks like some kind of monster a kid would make up, right?” McDaniels offered his best noncommittal look, something he’d refined to perfection over the years.

  Jacob continued, “His name’s Quinn. He’s a few years older than me, but I’m not sure by how much. I’m not supposed to ask questions about him.”

  McDaniels jotted something down in his notebook. “I see. Why do you think that is?”

  “It wouldn’t look good.”

  “How so?

  Jacob gave a humorless snort. “C’mon, Mr. McDaniels. You know my dad’s position. He can’t let the world know he hides a freak son in his basement.”

  McDaniels continued writing. “Can you explain what you mean by ‘hides’?”

  Jacob held himself as if he were sitting at a bus stop in the dead of winter. “We have this…basement. It’s in the east wing of the house. I didn’t know it was there until recently, ’cause I’ve never been allowed to go into the east wing. My parents have always kept it blocked off, except when we’ve had guests. And even then, we’ve never gone to that side of the house.

  “I’ve grown up with a bunch of different gardeners, pool cleaners, housekeepers, and helpers around. It has always been off limits to them too. But one day last November I was playing hide and go seek with a friend of mine out in the back, and I noticed one of the helpers—Lucinda—go through a back door in the east wing, a door that no one was supposed to use.