The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

by Taylor Grand

  Blake had demanded proof, of course, so Rusty had produced a comic book that explained that the angrier the Hulk got, the stronger he got; which in theory, meant that there was no limit to the Hulk’s strength. Therefore, if the Hulk got angry enough he was stronger than anyone—even the big blue Boy Scout.

  The stakes on those bets had been relatively low. Tonight’s wager was a different matter entirely.

  According to Rusty and Seth (who both tended to stretch, bend, and occasionally break the truth in half), there was a drop dead gorgeous girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, who lived in a broken down house deep in the woods. As they told it, each time they went to visit the house, she would give them a full striptease through her window. Oh, and to top it off, she made every Playmate of the Month look like rotted dog meat.

  Blake told them that they were full of crap, so of course they had bet him that he was wrong. So wrong, in fact, they were willing to bet each of their video game consoles. Blake knew he’d lose their respect if he backed down at that point, so he’d foolishly bet the only thing he had of real worth: his comic book collection.

  He had never evaluated the fiscal worth of his collection, but he knew its personal value; it was priceless. Comics were a lot more than funny books to him; they were his private travel guide through a multidimensional universe of possibilities; a place where a fourteen-year-old boy didn’t have to think about diabetes and obesity, or watch helplessly as his mother is eaten away by cancer. In the dark days after his mother’s death, the colorful heroes and villains were the only things he could still believe in, because no matter how bad things got, the good guys always won in the end. Oh yes, his comic collection meant everything to him, and now thanks to his big fat mouth, he’d risked it all.

  God help him, but he’d come too far to back out now.

  One by one, each of the boys entered what looked like a shallow cave made entirely of branches and leaves. When they stepped through to the other side, it was as though they had been transported into a primeval landscape of twisted, ugly trees; dark sentries that seemed to lean forward as the three walked past, curious as to whom would dare trespass on their strange and dangerous territory.

  “How much farther is this imaginary house?” Blake said, trying to keep the quiver from his voice.

  Rusty turned to face him, his mouth gaping in a kind of threatening rictus. “Wussy…wussy…wuuusssy….”

  Seth laughed like a hyena.

  Blake felt his face flush. Wussy: the dreaded five-letter word. Rusty was adept at picking at Blake’s most sensitive scabs.

  Blake hugged himself. He knew his membership status was teetering on a precipice. To be branded with the “W” word meant losing all the ground he’d gained in the past few weeks.

  He glanced nervously at the labyrinthine forest.

  The looming trees seemed to stare back.

  More than ever he wanted to extricate himself from the situation, but he didn’t see any way out.

  Rusty rolled his eyes dismissively and resumed hobbling along the path. “C’mon ya big fat lard ass, it’s not much farther.”

  Seth bobbed his head in agreement and shambled after Rusty.

  Blake watched as a towering patch of wild grass seemed to devour the two boys.

  If he tried to head back home now, he’d not only lose the bet by default, he might have to face that…thing out in the forest again.

  Alone.

  A moment later, he was racing like hell to catch up with the gimp and the oaf.

  Blake didn’t take his eyes off Rusty and Seth as he pursued them. Self-loathing pecked at him as he watched them twist and wind their way through the dense foliage just ahead. It was astonishing how desperate he’d become for friends.

  Blake pushed and shoved his way through a particularly dense thicket. He wondered if their wild claim held any truth. It was too far-fetched: a beautiful blonde girl living in the middle of the forest, who stripped naked for schoolboys? Neither Rusty nor Seth could provide a plausible explanation: Lonely? Horny? Psychotic? It didn’t matter to them as long as she was willing.

  According to their story, they’d discovered her house late one night after venturing onto a secluded strip of private property. She had been standing half-naked in the second story window, brushing her golden locks. When she eventually spotted them she didn’t bother to cover herself up. To their surprise and delight, she gave them a titillating striptease—including a steamy finale that included a peek at her holiest of holies.

  Blake considered their story with a thin smirk. The more likely version was that they had snuck onto the property, peeked into the poor girl’s bedroom window, caught her in her undies—and embellished the rest.

  A strip show? He couldn’t help but chuckle. For those two morons?

  “No way,” he consoled himself in the darkness, keeping the hope alive that he’d win the bet.

  As they topped the last of a series of rolling hills, the house appeared like a specter through a light veil of rippling fog. From the Victorian era, the two-storied structure was a study in contrasts: while its design was large and opulent, obvious neglect had given it a ramshackle appearance.

  It boasted a large dome on the west side and a tall conical turret on the east, which gave it a fairytale-like aspect. Wild grass and clusters of weeds taller than the boys overran a sizable garden in the front. The dilapidated front porch was a large façade entangled with creeping vines. But the most eye-catching feature of the house was the eclectic mix of window shapes, the two largest fitted with red-stained glass. They stared out from the darkness like monstrous, bloodshot eyes.

  The boys stood in the dead garden, gazing up at the turret’s tall central window. Blake found it hard to believe that anyone, much less the beautiful girl Rusty and Seth had described, would live in such decay. “Looks like no one’s home,” he said, cringing at the desperation in his voice.

  Rusty gave a Cheshire Cat grin. “Relax. She’s always here. I don’t think she ever leaves.”

  Seth, as usual, nodded in agreement.

  Rusty picked up a small stone and heaved it at the turret, careful to avoid the window. Blake winced at the dull thunk.

  Though he was eager to win the bet, a deeper part of him secretly wished that the gimp and the oaf were telling the truth. After all, seeing a real naked woman was the next evolutionary step toward manhood. Sure, he’d seen boobies and private parts before, in magazines and on the Web, but he’d never seen a live nude girl before.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him what such a woman, if she actually existed, could do for his standing with the other boys at school. His mind began to churn with possibilities. If by some miracle she actually stripped on demand, could he not use that to his advantage? The gimp and the oaf didn’t have any special claim over her. And once word got around that Blake Hennessy could provide access to a free peep show, he’d have friends lining up outside his door.

  Then he could cut loose the two morons standing next to him.

  As if on cue, Seth glanced over with an idiotic grin. Blake grinned back—though for reasons entirely his own.

  In the window, a silhouette appeared. It was so sudden that Blake leapt back a step, his heart fighting to catch up.

  “Is…that her?”

  The two boys nodded in unison, never taking their eyes off the dark figure.

  The turret window was easily six feet tall, more than enough to get a full view of the figure standing there. But the darkness and red-flecked glass made it difficult to make out any detail.

  Blake turned to Rusty, his eyes scrunched with frustration. “I can’t see anything.”

  Rusty winked and gestured for him to follow. “C’mon, you want a front row seat for this.”

  Seth followed Rusty and Blake followed Seth as they moved closer to the dilapidated house. They came to a halt just feet from the turret wall, gazing straight up.

  Blake’s desire to win the bet was suddenly overshadowed by his desire to se
e the woman in the window. He didn’t understand why or how, but something told him that tonight would forever change his life.

  A silvery light came on from somewhere inside the room; it illuminated both the stained glass and the devastating beauty behind it. Blake felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach—she was breathtaking.

  Gracefully, she moved closer to the window. She wore nothing but a skimpy, silken slip. Blake could feel his Adam’s apple drying in his throat. She was everything the boys had described and more: an impossibly perfect face; full, sultry lips; exotic eyes that glistened in the light; and all of it framed by golden, ankle-length hair that seemed to move with a life of its own. The abstract touches of red color in the stained glass accented her magical allure.

  Suddenly, Blake had feelings that he hadn’t known existed: sexual yes, but not of the usual raging hormonal kind; these were filtered through a prism of indefinable emotional longing.

  And they were relentless.

  The blonde seductress stared straight ahead—out past the dense woods and into the starry night. Did she really not see them or was this all part of the act? Blake had no idea. But as she delicately drew a brush through her cascading locks, he was reminded of Rapunzel trapped in the tower. How wonderful, he thought, to be the prince that would save her.

  Stroke after stroke the three boys watched gape-mouthed as she brushed, her body moving in a gentle dance of artful seduction. Finally, Rusty spoke: “Somebody owes us his comic collection.”

  It took Blake a moment to readjust his thoughts. He’d been so preoccupied with his schoolboy fantasies that he’d forgotten all about the stupid bet. Yet, impressed as he was, he wasn’t ready to part with his most cherished possession. “No way,” he said. “The bet was that she’d strip naked.”

  Rusty was about to retort angrily when—as if in answer—the blonde goddess let the straps fall from her shoulders, revealing herself completely. Rusty’s smile spread across his face like melted wax. The woman’s shape was sublime. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Blake found himself fixated on her eyes. They were irresistible; insatiable.

  She didn’t blink. Neither did he. A sultry smile formed around the edges of her mouth—he felt his lips comply.

  Seth watched the seemingly intimate exchange between Blake and the girl and gasped in awe.

  Rusty turned to Blake with a suspicious look. “What the hell dude, you know this girl or something?”

  Blake shook his head no, although at that moment he felt as if he’d known her all his life. It was as if she’d been plucked from his imagination and transported behind the window: the embodiment of everything he’d ever fantasized about.

  He would have remained content to watch her from amongst the dead tangles of the garden forever.

  But fantasy was abruptly shattered by reality; Blake watched, dumbfounded, as the woman raised her index finger and gave him a come hither gesture—beckoning him inside the house.

  Rusty’s eyes looked as wide as saucers. “Holy—did you see that? The wussy’s got game!”

  Seth’s hyena laughter was unbridled, “Sh-she…wuh-wants…the wuh-wussy!” Rusty joined in, embracing the hilarity of it.

  Blake wasn’t laughing though. The world had suddenly spun off its axis and plunged him into zero gravity. His mind reeled at the implications. He hadn’t so much as kissed a girl, much less…

  Blake found himself choking for air. He heard himself squeak, “I—I can’t….”

  Rusty and Seth did a double take, staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second head.

  Blake didn’t notice. He was still fixated on the blonde goddess, feeling the entire weight of the universe upon him. She was indeed beckoning him—but for what? What would they do up there? What would he possibly say to a woman who could have any man she wanted? He knew he’d just wind up embarrassing himself.

  No, he decided. It was far safer to stand below her window. From here he could watch and fantasize about saving her from the great evils of the world; from jerks like the gimp and the oaf, or worse—like the monstrous snake that lived in the woods.

  At least in fantasies, he thought, the hero never fails.

  The woman seemed to sense his insecurity. She gave him a warm, compassionate smile—then floated away from the window, disappearing into the shadows.

  His heart began to ache.

  Seth grabbed him by the arm. “Guh-go…you guh-gotta go….”

  “But—” Blake shuddered.

  Rusty’s face was pinched with disgust. “But what? You want us to tell everyone what a big faggot you are?”

  Blake shuddered at the thought. Tonight was clearly his final test. He’d already lost his comic collection. Now he risked losing his only friends too. If he backed out now, they’d make him the laughing stock of his entire class. He’d be a pariah again, just like back in grade school. Suddenly his dream of lining up friends for a striptease in the woods had transformed into a nightmare.

  “Wussy, wussy, wuuuuussy,” Rusty chanted with relish.

  Blake’s emotions and logic waged war. He measured the terrifying proposition of entering the house against the horror of being taunted and ostracized by a hundred or so of his peers.

  In the end, there was really no choice at all.

  “I’ll go,” he murmured.

  Seth yelped his approval and slapped Blake on the back, surprising him with an openly affectionate gesture. It gave him the courage to move his thousand pound feet toward the house.

  By the time he’d reached the front door, his heart was pounding so hard he could scarcely hear the boys’ hoots and hollers from behind. When he’d found the nerve to open it and peek inside, the blood rushed so loudly through his ears that he couldn’t hear himself think.

  Inside, the house was pitch black.

  Nervously, he glanced back over his shoulder: Rusty and Seth watched from the edge of the dead garden, cheering him on with lewd sexual gestures.

  He’d make them pay for putting him through this. He didn’t know how yet—but he’d find a way. The resolution was cold comfort as he stepped into the silent house—swallowed by the pall of darkness.

  He stood in the foyer for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. He swung his flashlight around, swirls of dust wafting across the single beam of light.

  The only other illumination emanated from outside, where ghosts of moonlight drifted in through a window in the drawing room. Blake grimaced, unsettled by the fact that there were no lights on. He felt as vulnerable as he was back in the woods alone—perhaps even more so.

  He pulled down his red hood and croaked, “Hello? It’s me, Blake…from outside.”

  Idiot. As if she didn’t know.

  The house ate his shallow voice; the feebleness of it made him cringe. He wondered if the woman in the window would find it as distasteful. Hesitantly, he took a few steps into the musty space—past a looming Grandfather clock with a shattered face, its gears frozen in time.

  He stepped down into the drawing room, where he could make out an ornate table, its marble top layered with what looked like decades of dust. Around it was a smattering of expensive looking furniture, a floor lamp with a missing shade, and a small parlor set covered in webs from spiders that had abandoned them an eternity ago.

  He recoiled at the snarling head of a large, gray wolf—a hunting trophy—protruding from the wall above a fireplace. It seemed to stare right through him with soulless, unblinking eyes. You’re in the wrong place, little boy, the wolf seemed to say. This house is for dead things.

  Blake gulped audibly, averting his eyes. Something didn’t connect here. What kind of person would live in such a ghastly state? It was as if the house was decomposing before his eyes.

  Was the woman upstairs imprisoned here? And if so—by whom? His thoughts flashed again to the thing living in the woods. He recalled a great dragon-like monster from a book that had captured his imagination as a small boy. The beast watched over a beautiful princess held captive i
n an ancient castle and devoured any interlopers that dared to enter its forest dominion.

  Unsettled by the thought, Blake played his flashlight over the walls, thankful for its meager luminance. Suddenly, there was a slam from upstairs and Blake jumped. A door seized by the wind, or perhaps a heavy piece of furniture thrown against a wall?

  A wooden floorboard above him creaked as if in pain.

  Blake seized up, paralyzed with fear. When the second creak came, he nearly ran for the front door.

  And then her voice called out; a chill lanced through him and, yet, its timbre also warmed his heart. It was soft; impossibly sultry, and it emanated from a shadowy landing to his right. A silvery light leaked faintly onto the second floor; perhaps the same light that had surrounded the ethereal woman at the window?

  The incorporeal voice called out again: a mystical aria that carried him through the shadows and up past the landing. He glanced toward the top of the stairs and caught a glimpse of golden hair before it disappeared into the shadows.

  Sweat had collected under his arms, though the house was as cold as a meat locker. His mind raced as he stood at the invisible line between safety and the unknown. The top of the stairs represented a threshold: perhaps to danger, but more likely—and more importantly—to a different status amongst his peers.

  It was that intense desire that drove him up one step…then another: each footfall creaking louder than the last.

  The corridor was empty, save for the reflection of a thickset, pale-faced boy in the hall mirror at the top of the stairs. A small, iron wall sconce provided the cold silvery light he had spied from below. There were three doors ahead: one to his left, one to his right, and another facing him at the end of the hallway.

  The door to his left was slightly ajar.

  Waiting.

  Blake’s nostrils flared. A heavy scent—spices perhaps—invaded his lungs as he crept toward the door. His long shadow stretched—then melded into the darkness that lay ahead.