The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

by Taylor Grand

  A few more faltering steps and the weathered-looking door opened silently before him, as if attended by some ghostly concierge.

  “Hello….” he whispered into the black hole of a room.

  The only answer was the low, creeping wind moaning from outside.

  Tentatively, he stepped inside. Crouched against the far wall as if ready to strike, was a large beast of a bed.

  Next to it, standing motionless, silent and half hidden in shadow, was the woman he’d seen in the window. Her back was turned toward him, so that all he could see was the waterfall of blonde hair that flowed over her shoulders to the backs of her bare feet. She was staring at herself in a full-length mirror that adorned the face of an ornately carved wardrobe.

  Who’s the fairest of them all? A crazed voice said in Blake’s mind.

  He aimed his flashlight at the mirror and what he saw reflected there made his eyes widen in horror.

  Her skin was incongruous: creamy and beautiful in some areas, horribly mottled and scaled in others—as if she were half human and half snake. Her long hair hung like a curtain, obscuring her features…except for her unblinking, lidless eyes. They looked like two eggshells in the darkness, pupilless and white.

  Her breathing came out like a hiss.

  As Blake gazed upon her nightmarish reflection, a knife of icy terror impaled his heart, a whimper of fear escaped his throat.

  Her head snapped toward him violently, hair flying with wild fury. A hideous forked tongue erupted from between her lips and tasted the air.

  Blake stumbled back and felt urine spill from him in a steady stream.

  She moved closer, but he was already running. He managed to hook his fingers around the doorknob and slam the door behind him. He was about to make a dash for the stairs, but somehow, inconceivably…they had moved. They were easily twenty yards further away and seemed to stretch as he moved toward them, as if viewed through a funhouse mirror at a carnival. An optical illusion, or…?

  The door behind him flung open with such force it was torn from its hinges. Blake didn’t have time to think…only act. He’d never make the stairs, so he sprinted the other way, to the door at the other end of the hall, which appeared much closer.

  Please be unlocked, Oh GOD…please be unlocked!

  He reached the door in seconds, shoved it open with this shoulder, slammed it shut behind him, and threw all of his weight against it. The knob had an old brass turn lock and he fumbled with it…screamed at it…then managed to lock it, losing his grip on his flashlight in the process.

  It clattered on the hardwood floor and faded. Frantically, he scooped it back up, smacking it against his hand. But it had gone as dead as the eyes of the thing beyond the door. There was a dim source of illumination in the room and he turned to look, grateful for the shafts of moonlight that filtered through a tall window.

  Flies buzzed in every direction. A dark cloud of them swarmed him and he had to keep his lips shut to keep them from infesting his mouth. His eyes darted around the enormous room in the hopes of an escape route. But there were no doors, except the one through which he’d entered. The only other way out was through the six-foot-tall, stained-glass window directly across from him. He thought of Rusty and Seth and prayed that they were in the same spot. Perhaps he could signal for help. Either way, he decided right then and there that he’d leap through the glass if it came down to it; anything would be better than facing that thing again.

  He swatted at the relentless assault of flies and ran toward the window. His eyes caught something lurking just ahead. It was bulky and expelled wet, gurgling noises. The whole room was permeated with its putrid, spicy scent.

  Blake’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness and the unmoving thing took shape: it was a huge iron vat, perhaps six feet around. There was no discernible fire, yet the contents seethed and hissed.

  His legs trembled so badly he could hardly control them. He knew if the thing in the hallway wanted in, it could reduce the door to splinters. For the briefest of moments he wondered if it had left the house, perhaps finding Rusty and Seth easier targets.

  But then from behind the door, he heard the scratching of fingers, and the floorboards complained as a great weight moved across them.

  Then, there was silence.

  Blake braced himself.

  A moan rose from somewhere inside the room.

  Blake spun to face the darkest corner.

  Straining his eyes, he could just make out the outline of a tall figure sitting in a chair facing him, unmoving.

  “Blake…” A familiar voice rasped.

  He recognized it immediately.

  “Dad?”

  He moved closer and saw that his father was naked, sitting in a heavy looking high-backed chair. His wrists and ankles were bound with thick rope; thin rivulets of blood seeped from beneath. He was pale and anemic, as if every ounce of life had been drained from his body.

  “It’ll be okay…” he murmured, his eyes glazed and distant. His chin dropped to his chest, as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it up.

  Blake rushed to him and tugged at the ropes. They hardly budged. It would take time to untie them—time they didn’t have.

  “What are you doing here?” Blake demanded. “What is that…thing out there?”

  “She…” his father coughed horribly. “She makes the pain go away…”

  And then he was gone.

  Blake grabbed his father by the shoulders and shook him, pleading. “Dad! No! I need you…please!”

  But his father’s head just lolled to one side, life drained away.

  Tears spilled from Blake’s eyes. There was nothing he could do for his father. His only option now was to try and escape. He stood up and prepared to jump through the window. He’d probably die from the fall, but at least it would be quick.

  The door creaked and Blake glanced nervously at it; a pool of blackness was seeping into the room from underneath. The shadows in the room came alive. They slinked along the walls and crawled across the floor—surrounding him like a black carpet of spiders. The sight of it immobilized him with fear; he watched as the oozing darkness began to take shape…a familiar shape.

  Before him stood the naked, voluptuous form of Myra.

  At first he blinked in disbelief, but then the cogs of his mind began to turn, faster…and faster still, questions and answers beginning to connect, like some mad jigsaw puzzle. Like how his father—a balding and pudgy traveling salesman—could have landed such a beauty as Myra: the kind of woman who could have anyone she wanted.

  Sure he had lavished her with gifts and attention, but it had never seemed right—the love never real. It was clear now that she had never intended to marry his father; the only thing Myra had wanted was to suck the life right out of him.

  The woman grinned at Blake as if it had been carved into her face with a straight razor. The lower half of her body began to twist and coil impossibly, like some kind of monstrous snake, and Blake realized that she was the same creature that had brushed against him in the forest.

  He tried to scream, but the sound couldn’t escape. He staggered back as she slithered toward him. There was relentless hunger in her eyes. Watching her, he could see that her beauty was an illusion: she was old, perhaps as old as time itself.

  They locked eyes. Predator and prey: each moving in a circle around the dusky room. Blake barely avoided the gurgling pot, but didn’t notice the pile of human bones next to it. He tripped over the maggot-infested remains of a child’s skull and fell face down onto a cold mound of flesh, bones and human refuse.

  His body convulsed with a dry retch as his mind flashed to something he’d overheard one morning on his dad’s battered, old radio: a random broadcast about a handful of missing children in the area.

  He scrambled to his feet, chest heaving. But as he faced the woman again, the ravenousness seemed to drain from her. She was changing again. Her eyes began to soften with what looked like genuine compassion. Her
hair swirled around her as if alive and transmuted from auburn to a familiar brunette.

  His mother stood before him.

  Her bare arms reached out invitingly; her delicate hands outstretched. It was impossible. A cruel illusion. And yet Blake felt his fear melt away as if by magic. His mother smiled at him warmly.

  He found himself moving closer to her, as if by a force not his own.

  He wasn’t scared anymore. Everything had become crystal clear: this woman understood him. Loved him. And she would take his pain away.

  He would never have to be lonely. He would never have to worry about being an outcast. He would never again feel that terrible emptiness that could never be filled.

  She would remove all of it forever.

  A voice whispered inside his head. This was always about you—not your father. You’re the special one. You’re the one who has what I need.

  Blake raised his arms to embrace her.

  She held him tightly against her bosom and her fingers pressed into the thick meat of his back. It was an odd sensation, as if her fingers were sharp and claw-like.

  But he didn’t mind. For that exquisite, timeless moment, Blake Hennessy knew peace.

  ****

  Rusty and Seth had stared at the turret window for what seemed like hours, grateful when the sounds of terror and mayhem finally stopped. To them, the screaming was always the worst part.

  A penetrating gust of wind arose, as a silent figure stepped from the darkness; neither boy noticed until it was looming right over them.

  They spun to face it, faces blanched by the light of the watchful moon.

  Rusty somehow drew the courage to speak. “We…did good? Lots of meat on that kid.”

  A hint of a smile curved the silent figure’s lips.

  “Please…” Rusty fought back tears. “Will you lift your curse now? My leg…it’s almost eaten away.”

  “Yuh…yeah…” Seth dared to add. “And…I cuh-can’t..buh-barely…talk no…muh-more.”

  The figure placed firm hands on each of the terrified boys’ shoulders. With a voice as cold as a grave in winter, she rasped, “My beauty…requires renewal.”

  “But…how many more?” Rusty pleaded as the tears finally came.

  The succubus-witch-thing only cackled, caressing the youthful suppleness of her face and relishing the patchwork of newly acquired flesh.

  INTRUDERS

  Mason’s hands still trembled, though not as badly as when he’d arrived a half-hour earlier.

  Sara hadn’t experienced this side of him during the two years they had been lovers. Though it unnerved her, she did her best not to show it.

  “Are you okay to talk now?” she said.

  “I think so,” he said, his voice still shaky. “Can I get a refill?”

  “Of course.” Sara took the empty ceramic cup from him. It was his third coffee so far, mixed with a touch of Amaretto to take off the edge.

  Sara moved about her well-organized kitchen, her mind racing with questions. Why in the world would Mason show up five years after falling off the face of the earth? And of all the places in the world to hide out, why pick her apartment? Most importantly, who was chasing him? And what did he expect her to do about it?

  She reentered the living room balancing an overfull cup, and noticed Mason lying back on the couch. He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair and she remembered how he always did that after a great lovemaking session; she felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought.

  Mason always had that effect on her. And despite the fact that he was narcissistic, noncommittal, and could have won an award for world’s worst boyfriend, he was the best sex partner she’d ever had.

  “Thank you,” he said. She could tell he meant it. There was a refreshing vulnerability in his eyes that made him more attractive—if that was humanly possible.

  “All right,” Sara said with a deep exhalation. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Mason sat up and took the coffee. “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Says the guy at my door at three in the morning screaming for his life.” She was trying to lighten the situation, but it wasn’t working.

  She sat down close to him on the leather couch and put her hand on top of his. It was warm, and his skin was still as soft as she remembered. “Sorry. You know I make bad jokes when I’m scared.”

  “You should be scared.”

  “Of what?

  “Of…things.”

  Sara scowled, not sure where this could possibly be going.

  “The kind of things that can drive a person mad.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

  “Of course you don’t. You have no context.” He took a measured sip of coffee and continued, “I don’t have all the answers. But I can tell you what I know. I owe you that much.”

  Sara took a deep breath, wondering what he could really owe her after all this time. “Should I make myself a drink?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Sara made a beeline for the bar on the other side of the living room. She definitely needed a drink.

  Mason cleared his throat and said, “I started researching a new book about a year and a half ago, called The Madness Within.”

  Mason’s writing career had taken off like a rocket not long after he broke up with her. More salt in the wound.

  “I was commissioned to write a true crime book, and I interviewed several serial killers in prison.”

  Sarah mixed a healthy dose of rum into a glass of Coke. “Serial killers? Jesus. Like who?”

  “Remember Ned Hawson, the Headhunter?”

  Sara sat down in the loveseat facing Mason, her interest piqued. “Sure. You actually went into the same room with a guy who collected heads?”

  “He was behind prison glass—I was perfectly safe.”

  Sara shivered at the thought. “You couldn’t get me in the same building with that freak, much less the same room. Who else?”

  “Richard Nakamura. He was the guy in Toledo who ate the tongues of his victims. There were several more after that who weren’t as famous, but they were just as interesting. Anyway, it wasn’t long before I started to notice a strange pattern during these interviews. It took my book in an unexpected direction.”

  “A pattern?”

  “They all heard voices. Y’know, like David Berkowitz?”

  She didn’t recognize the name.

  “Son of Sam? Never mind—before your time.” Mason sat forward, his eyes narrowed. “Anyway, all of them claimed that…‘voices’ were responsible for their actions. Some said it was God, others said it was the devil. Some believed it was the voices of their victims, and one of them was convinced they came from another dimension. All of them were diagnosed schizophrenic.

  “Of the group, Nakamura was the most lucid and intelligent. I was the only person he’d ever agreed to meet with. And that was only because I’d written him a letter telling him that I believed the voices were real.

  “We met on several occasions. Fascinating guy; he was a former psychiatrist who spent much of his career working with schizophrenic criminals himself. Ultimately, he felt that his condition was the result of long-term exposure to his own patients.”

  Sara said, “You mean…as in he thought the disorder was contagious?”

  “In a way yes, sort of like a virus. A mind virus. Nakamura told me that the victim must be susceptible to be affected. Which I thought was strange, since he was a doctor who specialized in mental disorders. But he explained that his natural skepticism—that is, his immunity—had been weakened after so many years.”

  “But a disorder is not a disease…immunity to what?”

  “The truth. You see, not long after my initial interviews, I started to hear the voices too.”

  Sara nearly dropped her drink. She caught herself staring at Mason in horror, immediately adjusted to neutral, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. When he’d first arrived, she’d been terrified of who might be
chasing him. But suddenly she was keenly aware of her vulnerability. If Mason had indeed lost his mind, she could be in serious trouble.

  Her eyes drifted over to the rack on the kitchen counter that held her cutlery, and a meat mallet. She took note of the biggest and sharpest of the knives.

  Mason’s eyes seemed to look right through her. “I know you don’t believe me. You’ve always been a natural skeptic. I remember struggling to bring you from atheism to agnosticism—and failing miserably.”

  “If you’re hearing voices, then there must be a perfectly logical explanation, Mason—some kind of chemical imbalance. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy. And I know some people that can help.”

  “Doctors can’t help, Sara…because the voices are real. And they don’t want me to finish my book and expose them to the public—they’re not prepared for that kind of scrutiny yet. They’re out there right now—looking for me. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if I don’t publish the book—they’ll kill me simply because I know too much.”

  He downed the rest of his drink like a shot and buried his face in his hands.

  Sara grimaced. Why was it always the most damaged men that attracted her? Her mother told her it was a compulsion to feel needed. And while she hated her for saying it, it was probably true.

  Mason needed her help, and that was something she hadn’t felt for a long time. Not since Bradley had dumped her two years ago, after she’d helped him through an ugly divorce and let him live with her, rent free, for six months. Once he’d gotten back on his feet, he repaid her by shacking up with a dirty whore half Sara’s age.

  And now Mason shows up on her doorstep, five years after kicking her to the curb. She loathed herself for the hint of satisfaction she felt knowing he’d chosen her apartment as a safe haven. Was it that far a stretch to believe that he had finally realized her worth after all?

  Against her better judgment, she heard herself say, “Look, I’m sure there’s an answer to all this—a logical explanation for whatever you’re going through. Let me help you. I know a great doctor. He’s easy to talk to and really helped me with my depression after the…well, he’s really good.”