by Graeme Hurry
Randy Hellinger had gotten in deep with the Coreys. According to Linda, the DA was conducting a major investigation into organized crime in the area. And who do you suppose had been entrapped in a drug deal? None other than my onetime best friend who, in exchange for immunity from prosecution, had agreed to turn state’s evidence against the Coreys.
There was just one problem: Randy was nowhere to be found.
Whether he was having second thoughts and had gone into hiding or whether the Coreys had gotten to him, no one knew.
It’s funny how time can mellow your moods. Years ago, I’d come to hate and fear Randy. Now, thinking of the trouble he was in, I couldn’t help remembering the good times. Even before we’d discovered the cave, each of us was the other’s only refuge against waves of scorn and exclusion from our peers. In those days, though I never would have used the word, I loved him. He was the friend whose countless hours of companionship rescued me from what would have been intolerable isolation and loneliness.
Now, I hated myself for having judged him so harshly, for abandoning him as I did. Worse, I wondered if I had remained friends with him, would he have gravitated towards the bad company that led him to his current state?
It came to me in a flash. I knew where Randy Hellinger could be found.
The next day, I drove my car to the side of a road I hadn’t seen since childhood, and started walking towards Morgan’s Bluff. I could no more stop myself from walking towards that place now than I could years ago, even though I’d been so scared. I wasn’t scared now, but I was driven by something stronger than fear. Guilt? Remorse? Nostalgia? I didn’t stop to think about it, I just went.
When I got there, I saw the cave. I guess it was what I expected to see, for I’d brought the flashlight I keep in my glove compartment for emergencies. I crouched down, and walked into the entrance.
It was pretty much as I remembered it. At the very point where you could no longer see the daylight, the passage sloped downward and narrowed. I got down on my belly and called out:
‘Randy? Are you down there?’
There was no answer.
I turned on the flashlight and aimed the beam down the gentle sloping aperture and eased myself down. It seemed less narrow than I remembered, but I also recalled how chunky and out-of-shape I’d been the last time I did this. It was with greater ease that I was able to elbow my way down and push myself with my feet. I used the same hand-holds to keep moving forward. I negotiated the same twists and turns, contorted myself past the same jutting rocks, surprised at how familiar it was after all these years. Soon, the passage would widen and I’d be in the large, domed circle-like chamber.
That’s when I heard the noise.
It was low at first, and I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. I thought it was the sound of my own body, scraping against the cave floor as I moved forward. When I stopped, it continued, and I noted that it had an ominous organic quality to it.
It was a growl, low and menacing, and with it was the sound of something soft, clicking, coming closer. The sound of claws padding on clay. I aimed the flashlight ahead of me, to see what lay beyond, listening to the sound of growls and clicking becoming louder, coming closer. All at once something knocked the light out of my hands and I was in absolute darkness. I felt a warm, foul stench breathed into my face, and saw a pair of hideous reddish eyes, inches from my own!
‘Randy!’ I yelled. ‘It’s me! It’s Denny! Can you hear me?’
For a second or two, the growls continued, and then stopped.
The eyes disappeared.
‘Denny?’
‘Yeah! Randy, is that you? Are you okay?’
For a moment, there was more silence, and I wondered if he heard me. I fumbled around in the dark for the flashlight.
I heard footsteps and let myself be guided by them. I eased myself out of the passage into that final chamber in the dark. It was as if it had only been days, rather than decades, when I’d last done this.
I felt Randy’s cold hand reach for mine. We grasped hands in unison, and then embraced, and I recoiled. Even in the dark, I could tell something was horribly wrong. Randy, who had begun to bulk up when I’d last seen him, was now more skinny and wasted than when we were kids. He was wearing some kind of thick cotton shirt, but even through the thickness, I could feel the bones. It was like hugging a skeleton.
I’d found the flashlight, turned it on, and saw him for the first time in over a decade: sick, wasted, and shambling. Decayed, and desiccated from long years of drug abuse and worse. Chalky shards of skin, broken only by red pock marks, oozing with something gross and puslike.
‘I’m glad you came, Denny,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve screwed up really bad. I don’t know how I let things get…’ That’s when he started sobbing.
I found myself sobbing, too. ‘Listen, Randy, I know about the Coreys. Come on back with me. My wife works for the DA. Let us help you. We can…’
‘No, you can’t. Listen, Denny, even if I go with you, I’m dead whether the Coreys get to me or not. You don’t know some of the things I’ve done to screw up my life, and there isn’t time to go into it. You’ve got to go, Denny. And you’ve got to go quick.’
‘Randy, I’m sorry…’
‘No! It’s not your fault. You’ve always been a damn good friend. But you have to go, Denny. You have to go now! Don’t you hear that?’
I listened and I did hear it. A sound, not of growling or of paws padding on soft earth, but a different sound, soft and inexorable. The sound of rock scraping against rock, very, very slowly. I heard it and I knew.
‘Good bye, Denny. Thanks for everything.’
‘Good bye, Randy.’
I scrambled through the narrow passage that would lead me back to daylight, my worst fears being realized. Once again, I was a fat little boy, forcing my way through a passage that was too tight for me and getting tighter by the minute. I struggled - getting out was harder than getting in, only partially because I was going up, not down, working against gravity, not with it. There were no growls this time, but the tunnel seemed alive, holding me, constricting me. Still, I moved forwards, my shirt and jeans ripping against the jagged surface of the rock as it tightened against me. In my mind, I shrieked a desperate prayer as I struggled forward, listening as the now cacophonous scraping of rock against rock assaulted my ears.
Finally, I emerged from the sloping passage and was able to stand. Still, I had to edge my way sideways towards the entrance, as the passage was now too narrow to accommodate me any other way. The cave entrance had once been large enough to allow a tall ten-year-old boy to pass through it; now it wasn’t even big enough for a large dog. I threw myself on the ground and dove through the opening into daylight, and lay there on the hard, dry earth, panting. The back of my shirt hung from me in tatters and my back was ragged and bleeding. I had dropped the flashlight in my final leap towards freedom, and my palms were serrated and covered with muck.
When my breathing returned to normal, I got to my feet and turned around. What I saw was the rock face of Morgan’s Bluff, whole and unbroken.
*
I never told anyone the things that happened in that cave. I wouldn’t be telling them now if not for something I saw the last time I drove by Morgan’s Bluff.
There were bulldozers and earth movers and a sign saying that this was going to be the site of the Morgan’s Crossing Mall. That means they’re also going to be blasting Morgan’s Bluff, and when they do, who knows what they’re going to find?
I don’t. And to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know.
THE DANGER IN BETWEEN
by Ian Welke
The double doors open at Harriet’s on Ocean Avenue, but Charlie doesn’t turn around and look. He keeps his focus on his glass of rye like he’s worried it might escape, and steadying his trembling left hand with the right, drains the glass.
‘Same again, Harry,’ Charlie says to Harriet. He catches a glimpse of the man that’s just
walked in out of the corner of his left eye. The man is wearing a black raincoat that’s dripping onto the rug in front of the pay phone.
‘Did you catch the Rams game yesterday?’ Harry asks.
‘Naw. I pawned my radio.’
She looks concerned.
‘It barely worked anyway.’
The eleven-thirty trolley rolls by seven minutes late, kicking up puddles from the morning rain, and shaking the bar’s double doors.
Harriet pours whiskey into the small glass. ‘Good to get some rain. Clear out the damned smog and dust.’
Charlie grunts. ‘I like the rain. But if I’m honest, I’m sort of fond of the smog.’ He takes a swig of his drink. ‘Mostly I’m glad the rain’s cooled things off. The Santa Anas always put me on edge. The rain’s put an end to that.’
‘The rain or the whiskey?’ she says with a smile. She’s short but strong. Her eyes have a sad glimmer, a mix of kindness, wisdom, and hard living.
Charlie smiles up at her from his barstool. Harriet is as much of a friend as he has these days, and well worth respecting. He has seen people learn the hard way to respect the baseball bat she keeps behind the bar. Harry has cleared the bar of ghouls, sorcerous souses, and creatures of the night that would cause men twice her size to wet their trousers.
The sounds of the street traffic come in again as the doors open, and something about this one turns Charlie’s head even before he’s seen her. Maybe it’s the look of worry in Harry’s eyes. Charlie looks to see what’s generated that concern. The woman wears a stunning red dress that matches her short cropped red hair. If it weren’t for the fancy dress, she’d be a ringer for Elizabeth, Charlie’s ex. He drains his glass fast enough his hand doesn’t have a chance to shake.
Harriet refills his glass before he asks.
The woman sits down two stools to his right. She opens her purse and fishes out a silver cigarette case with an occult symbol, concentric circles and two triangles within a blazing sun are etched into the metal. Charlie guesses it’s a protection symbol or possibly something for obfuscation from location spells. The case must be expensive. The price of silver has gone up and up given its mystic efficacy in counter spells.
Harriet lights the woman’s cigarette. ‘What can I get you?’
The woman looks over her shoulder back at the door. ‘A Gin Sour, please.’ She takes a quick drag on her smoke.
Charlie stares into the center of his drink, trying not to look over at the woman.
The door opens and shuts again. The woman downs her drink, and fumbles with the cigarette case, trying to jam it back in her purse. Footsteps, wet squeaky leather, head straight toward her.
She’s halfway up off the stool, when the man says, ‘Stay, Kitty. Where’re you going so fast? You just got here. Have another drink. Savor it. You can go back when you’ve finished it. There’s no rush.’
‘Neal…’
‘Don’t sound so worried, Kitty. Sure he’s not happy you left. But you come back now, I think I can sell the angle that you just stepped out for a drink. The best lies have some truth to them. He might not even glamour me for the full truth.’
‘I can’t, Neal. I just can’t.’
He grips her elbow. ‘Of course you can.’
Charlie’s been doing his damnedest to keep his eyes front on his own business in the glass, but now he looks over the two, then at the door. Another man in a suit stands next to the door. He must have come in with Neal. The bulky man just stands there, staring blankly ahead, but with a slow smoldering fire behind his eyes. Charlie picks him as a construct, under someone else’s control. The ward under the rug should stop him from coming in further. A mage put that ward up to pay his tab. It’s meant to stop magical beasts under the control of another, servitors, non drinkers, from coming in and causing trouble.
‘Mister, do you want a drink?’ Harriet says. ‘We don’t want trouble here. But if you’re not here to drink, I’d suggest you leave the lady alone and get the hell out.’
‘Is that right, lady? I’d suggest if you don’t want trouble, you stay out of this. You really don’t want this trouble.’
Charlie sighs. ‘Alright. She don’t want trouble, but maybe I do.’ He stands up. He’s a foot taller than Neal, but the quiet one next to the door looks big.
A spark flickers in the small man’s eye. ‘Don’t try and bite off more than you can chew, mister.’
‘Plenty of room on my plate.’
The little man throws a punch with his right, but it’s telegraphed. Charlie blocks with his left and lands his right hard and sharp between Neal’s stomach and groin. Neal folds over. Before Charlie can bring his left hand down on Neal’s jaw, the other man is on him.
So much for the ward.
The other man moves in swift shadows, black smoke trails are left behind every quick motion. His hand grabs Charlie’s neck above the ball of his tie, and flings him up and over the bar, crashing into the shelves and to the floor.
‘Stop right there!’ Harriet says. She’s got a wand aimed at the big man. Charlie struggles to see it clearly. It looks like a cadaver’s forearm and hand with its index finger pointing forward. ‘You know what this is? You two, out. Or I’ll end the pair of you.’
There’s a sinister hissing laugh. The big goon and Neal disappear in a flash of reeking smoke.
Charlie picks himself off the broken glass on the floor and stands. He’s not sure if it’s the after effects of their departure spell or the collision with the shelves, but the room tilts twice. ‘I know a thing or two about relocation magic, and what they did there’s some powerful stuff. Most of us need a focus. I know some that will draw a door and use it to go where they need, and I have my mirrors, but I’ve never seen someone just vanish into smoke.’
Harriet’s talking to the woman. ‘You alright, miss? I can call you a cab or the police if you want.’
The woman shakes her head.
Charlie says, ‘Ma’am, if you don’t want the cops, at least let me make sure you get home alright.’
The woman wipes a tear with her handkerchief and nods.
*
Charlie turns the key to his rat-hole apartment.
He got part of the story on the way over, by way of four more bars. Amelia, not Kitty, it turns out the woman’s name is, suggested another drink to steady her nerve. One turned to four and then seven by way of the alcoholic mathematical process. Charlie’s the first to admit he’s a good listener, with a drink in front of him. Turns out she’s trying to get out of a bad marriage. She has a sister, back east somewhere, but her bus doesn’t leave until tomorrow.
‘I don’t think your friend likes me,’ she says.
‘Harry? Naw, she’s just territorial. She’s afraid something happens to me, she’ll lose a lot of business. I’m afraid the place is a bit of a mess.’ He shows her into the apartment. ‘I always figure, spending money on a home is too solitary… better to save that money and drink with friends at a bar.’
There’s more clutter than filth. Mail unopened fights a losing battle for space on the coffee table with empty beer bottles.
‘The bedroom’s through there. You’re welcome to take the bed. I’m happy on the couch. I sleep here most nights anyway.’
He produces a bottle of bourbon and a couple glasses. Before he knows it, he’s told her his story. Even all about Elizabeth and how much she reminds him of her. To his surprise she doesn’t bolt. But instead tells him the story of how she’s become trapped here, with Oliver.
‘I don’t care about any of the other stuff I left behind,’ she says through sniffles. ‘But the bastard has my mother’s ring. She left it to me when she passed. I’m afraid what he might do with it.’ She blows her nose into a handkerchief.
‘You think he might raise her, just to spite you?’
She dries her eyes. ‘He’s a vengeful man, Charlie.’
‘I don’t like to say this, but I could get that back for you.’
‘Charlie, he’s a dan
gerous man. Those two in the bar were just a couple of the men he owns.’
‘I’m not planning to go in the front door. I have abilities of my own.’
Her eyes light up, then concern washes over her face and extinguishes the sparkle. ‘I can’t let you do this. If something happened to you because of me, I’d feel terrible.’
‘But your mom…’
‘I know, but I don’t see what there is to be done.’
Charlie takes a swig of his drink and sets the glass down between two beer bottles on the coffee table. ‘You don’t have to decide now, sleep on it. Maybe you’ll feel different in the morning. If you change your mind, I can still get you the ring before putting you on the bus.’
Charlie waits. Waits for her to go to bed. Checks again to make sure she’s asleep. Then it’s into the bathroom. Holding Oliver’s address, he steps through his wall mirror and out a mirror in a large master bathroom.
Pain shoots through Charlie’s temples. His calves cramp up, and he catches himself from falling on a cabinet sink. It’s been some time since he mirror traveled, and he’s out of shape. Would’ve gone easier if I’d wiped my mirror clean. He winces, feeling like he’s left bits of himself in the in between places.
At least Oliver’s not on the can.
The bathroom’s larger than Charlie’s apartment. Two people could lie side by side comfortably in the bathtub. The vanity his hands are bracing himself on is made of gold.
He straightens up, and resists the urge to run water to splash on his face. Putting his ear to the door, no sounds come from the next room. He turns the handle and opens the door. Lights are on, and someone’s already been here. Drawers are emptied. The bed’s in pieces, someone has flipped the mattress and cut it open. Chairs are overturned. Papers and debris clutter the floor.
Following the path of destruction down the hall he finds a man lying on the floor in the middle of a living room. No sign of men or guards. This body lies in a pool of blood.