Dark: A Horror Anthology

by Steve Wands

  “Of course. Anything.”

  Taking Danielle’s hand, Terry stepped slowly down the hall. “It’s going to be beautiful, you know. It’s going to be like nothing anyone’s ever heard before.”

  *

  Hallowell stepped across the back patio toward the studio’s open door. Terry appeared in the doorway, a disc hanging limply in his bloody hand. Hallowell paused, but made no outward expression of fear or disgust or anything other than professional curiosity.

  “Is that it?” He inquired. Terry nodded. His bare chest spattered with a fine mist of blood. “May I have it?”

  Terry handed the disc over and turned back into the studio without a word. Hallowell followed, wiping blood from the disc and tucking it carefully into one of the over-sized cargo pockets on his pants. Looking up from his task, Hallowell froze in his tracks.

  A ring of various microphones surrounded what was left of Danielle’s body. A long, skinny SM57 was stuffed halfway down her throat. Hallowell couldn’t help but think the hundred tiny flaps of skin flayed away from muscle and bone made her look like the piñata he had purchased for his daughter’s birthday last summer. The coup de gras was evident from the pool of blood spread out from a deep slit across her throat.

  “She isn’t tied down?”

  Terry looked up from behind the mixing board. “She said she’d do anything for me…she helped me finish.” He managed a weak smile and drummed his fingers on a bloody straight razor. “In love her so much.”

  Hallowell nodded. “She must have loved you very deeply indeed.” He allowed his eyes to linger once again over Danielle’s mangled frame. He patted Terry on the shoulder. “Well I have some music to listen to. I trust you won’t be available later for my notes?”

  Terry laughed. It was a surprisingly hearty laugh, bigger than his frail frame should have been able to support. “I don’t suppose I will.”

  “Then I thank you for your diligence. I’m looking forward to hearing it.” Hallowell smirked again and strode out of the studio. Hopping into his car and firing up the engine, he slid the disc into the CD player and pulled down the twisting driveway, music blasting from the speakers of his convertible S-Class Mercedes.

  *

  The music kept blaring long after Hallowell’s Mercedes plowed through the crowd at the L.A. Farmer’s Market and slammed into the trolley. The impact that sent Hallowell’s body flying sideways out of the wreckage seemed to have no effect at all on the stereo. That’s quality German craftsmanship for you.

  It was difficult to hear at first. The cries of the mauled and those grieving the dead rang for several minutes before the music began to rise above the din. But soon, Terry’s haunting, cacophonous dirge echoed across the scene as angry victims and witnesses alike descended en masse to see what maniac could have done such a thing.

  The shoppers never knew what hit them.

  The madness repeated in waves, starting over again every time the screams subsided enough to hear the music. By noon, the disc had replayed three times and gutters ran red with blood.

  *

  Contacting the Dead

  Words by Dezi Sienty, plot by Dezi Sienty & Cassandra Thomas

  Death. It is something that all us mortals must confront at some point in our lives: death of a friend, death of a family member, the death of ourselves. It is part of our nature to die. It is something that is final—something that should never be tampered with. Before you read the rest of this tale, heed my warning…

  Do not try to contact the dead.

  Our tale starts with the death of a young boy, the son of one Doctor Henry Doyle and his beautiful wife Adelaid. Dr. Doyle was an intellectual; a brilliant surgeon who made a large sum of money. He had a well to do life and provided the best for his wife and his only child. He was not a religious man. No, Dr. Doyle believed in science, in cold fact. With all things he was reasonable. He was madly in love with his wife Adelade and showed his love through the lifestyle he built for her, through intellectual conversation and though the private moments they shared as he lie in bed with her every night and woke up with her every morning, 5:00 am on the dot. When they’re son died of an illness that Dr.Doyle could not treat, everything changed.

  The Journal of Dr, Henry Doyle, PHD

  My heart grows heavy and my mind numb. It has been four months since my son passed away, and my wife is still in bed, motionless. She hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved in. Save for some bread, soup, and water every couple of days she does not to eat. All she does is sleep. She misses our son. I failed him. I have failed her.

  Though the grief I experience is great, I keep it locked tight inside. I must retain my decorum for the public, for my patients, though my heart bleeds every day. I have suffered a great loss, and wish I could believe that my son is in paradise. I wish I could, but at heart I believe what I can see, hear, touch and prove. I am weighed down with guilt. I see no reason to otherwise assume that when we are not meant for this world anymore that we are simply dead, asleep forever. Adelaid though, she feels differently. I have never seen someone so in tune with her emotions, or with her beliefs. It is the reason I fell in love with her and have continued to love her. It was a horrible trial to lose my son, I can not handle losing my wife too. I fear this. She stays in bed all day and night, hoping for some sort of sign that our boy is ok, that there was a reason for his early demise. I will do anything to save her. If there is a way to prove that there is an afterlife, that my boy is ok, I will find it. I begin my search tomorrow. Recorded this day-the 29th of September, 1929

  Many days and weeks passed. Dr Doyle would work feverishly after hours talking to different people of different religions, finding rare books on the subject at strange occult shops. He consumed book after book on life after death. Some of the authors were from the far east, others claimed to be modern day prophets or shamans. They all said something different. Still the good doctor continued his quest, soaking in information.

  One day, Dr. Doyle ran across a former patient named Robert. Robert, a former engineer, was once a strapping, brilliant man with broad shoulders and dark hair. Now he was a withered away raisin. He hissed when he talked, was always very tired, and retained a simple posture of an arched back huddled over a wooden cane. These two men of reason started talking. Henry Doyle was telling Robert the events of his wife and son and of his quest.

  Robert became very excited as he listened to Dr. Doyle. He told Dr. Doyle that he has had a new way of looking at death, that he has found proof.

  “My day is coming soon, and when that day comes no one wants to be a skeptic. There is a man, a psychic who many of my friends claim can talk to the dead. I have seen his work though he claims he is just an illusionist, I have seen him work miracles. He will cost you, but even if he can not contact the dead, maybe he can at least convince your wife that has, her some peace of mind.”

  Dr. Doyle listened earnestly. Though skeptic, Dr. Doyle sought out this psychic. After doing a little more research, he found that the person he was looking for was called “The Amazing Arthur”.

  From the Journals of Dr. Doyle-December 1929

  I have not been attending to Adelaid of late as much, but I do it for her benefit. Upon recomendation I have been following a fellow who many believe can contact the dead. He claims he is a simple illusionist, that this is for entertainment and has no real powers. The Amazing Arthur. I assure you it is a fabulous show that I have seen many times. While I do not know what I feel given my research, the one thing I do know is that if anyone can convince my wife that our son is alive, it is Arthur. If there is a god, may he forgive me for testing the fates, but I miss my wife and can not bare this. Against my better logic I am finding that out of my desperation lies sliver of hope that this might work. Forgive me my son, but you are dead, I am not. Forgive me.

  Around the time of the Holidays, Dr. Doyle had arranged for a private meeting with the Illusionist. The Amazing Arthur was a tall, pale, skinny man with a pot belly. He had deep, pi
ercing black eyes and was soft spoken. Dr. Doyle told Arthur his problem, of his wife and his son, and propositioned Arthur to hold a séance using one of the Doctor’s rare books on the occult.

  “Please sir, I will pay you handsomely!” pleaded Doyle.

  “Realize Doctor, that I am an illusionist, not a priest. I have used my psychic abilities before for very small feats, I have never held a séance nor do I make any cIaim that I even have the ability to talk to the dead. I want to make this perfectly clear before we continue.”

  “Yes sir, I understand,” said Dr. Henry Doyle.

  Suddenly the Doctor thought about his son, about the idea of contacting him. He knew it was a long shot, but maybe between Arthur’s abilities and his collection of books, maybe there was a slight chance of contact. Even if not, he know Arhur would be convincing. All at once the good doctor broke down, skin red and crying. Tears started pouring from the plump doctor’s cheeks uncontrollably. His knees became weak as his legs gave out from under him. He knelt down, sobbing, clutching Arthur’s jacket. The proud doctor reduced to an innocent, upset child.

  “Please, I don’t know if it’s going to work. I am not a man of faith, but I just want my wife back. There is nothing else I can do. Please!”

  Shocked, Arthur helped the quivering man him to his feet.

  “I’ll do it. Let us meet soon, and we will discuss details.”

  “Thank you. We will figure it out together. Let us meet after the holiday and I will pay you then.”

  From the journal of Dr. Doyle

  December 29th-1929

  The time is upon us. Tomorrow the Amazing Arthur comes to my home and performs the séance. I have told my wife, and for the first time in a very long time she smiled. There is a faint glimmer of hope. She wants to hear from our son so badly. I am praying for a miracle. I have scoured every library, every shop of the occult, and read through many books on the procedure. Upon my research I found a particularly old and rare book on the subject, and have selected that to be the book we will use to perform the procedure. I am anxious but excited. Something in my heart tells me that this will work. I will have my wife back to me, and perhaps maybe even proof that my son is ok.

  The Amazing Arthur showed up right on time.

  “Here’s the book,” said Dr. Doyle as he handed it to Arthur. It was a very old, dusty book with strange, almost other worldly markings.

  “I found this at an old bookshop and paid handsomely for it. I figured out of all of my books and readings, this seemed to be the most unique,” said Dr. Doyle.

  “I couldn’t agree more. It really is fascinating,” replied Arthur. “Let us get on with this.”

  The two men quietly tiptoed up the long spiral staircase that was in Dr. Doyle’s home. Dr. Doyle quietly knocked on the door.

  “Sweetheart? It is time.”

  The two men entered the room. Adelaid looked weak and frail, as if she was one step away from being a corpse herself. With a flicker of light in her eyes she smiled. She was going to talk to her son. He was going to be ok.

  Arthur and Dr. Doyle sat on the bed. The good doctor helped his weak wife sit up. The three of them held hands as the Amazing Arthur start flipping and quoting pages from his book of the occult.

  “Keep your heads bowed and your eyes close.” repeated Arthur over and over again.

  “Spirits, can you hear us? Those above, those below? We beseech you, show us that you are here!”

  Arthur’s speech was long and drawn out with conviction, like that of a preacher. His demeanor was calm even though every muscle in his arms and face twitched violently. Every now and then Arthur would look down at the book and read the next page. Hours went by. Page after page Arthur read to his captive audience.

  At first, nothing happened. Arthur repeated the text. Still nothing. Upon the third reading of the text, Arthur started shaking violently and speaking in tongues. His voice dropped and crackled like a burning log over fire. There was a great gust of wind that seemed to just appear from nowhere. The air was hot. It burned. The covers came flying off of Adelaid as her lips gaped in fear. Dr. Doyle’s eyes got very wide. He was not expecting this.

  Arthur’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he began coughing up blood. The blood was so thick it was almost black as the tributaries ran down his chin, staining the bed sheets.

  It was chaos. Books were being thrown left and right due to the hard winds. Outside there was a symphony of dark, black clouds, heavy rain, lightning and thunder. Furniture slid across the floor as every fly and insect made it’s way into the Doyle’s bedroom, infesting the place. Arthur’s speech was gone, replaced only by manic laughter as he was silhouetted perfectly against the violent window behind him.

  Adelaid cried and screamed as loud as she could. In a fit of desperation she clutched on to Arthur’s bloody shirt and pleaded:

  “Please, I just want to talk to my son, please.”

  Arthur was no longer in control of his body. His skin was a pale gray, his eyes were white, his teeth were pink from his bleeding gums. He walked amidst the great gusts of wind in the room towards Adelaid, as if he was a marionette and someone unseen was pulling the strings.

  “This has gone on too far! Stop this! GET AWAY FROM MY WIFE!” shouted Dr.Doyle.

  Arthur’s cold, boney fingers savagely grabbed Dr. Doyle around the neck. With one hand he lifted him up. Arthur pulled Dr. Doyle close to him so that they were face to face.

  Arthur cocked his head to the side, staring at the paralyzed doctor as a child would look curiously at an insect. Face to face, the last thing the good Doctor saw was the curved, bloody lips of Arthur, smiling as they bore down into the Doctor’s main artery. The Doctor grew white as a sheet as his body went limp, a river of blood flowing out of him collecting pools on the bed. Adelaid’s heart gave out at the site of it. I guess one really couldn’t live without the other.

  Then everything went black. As I looked down, I saw two dead, one savagely mauled, the other relatively clean and graceful. The contrast was almost poetic. Then I saw him. He’s the perfect image of me. My hair, my height, my skin color, my eyes. He was wearing my rust colored clothes, no longer clean and prestine like they were earlier on that day. He got up over from the dead bodies, stares gently stared directly at me and smiled. That’s when I realized I’m not myself anymore. I have no body. I was looking down at him from above. One should not interfere with the dead, even if one isn’t serious. Never contact the dead, you never know what’s on the other side…and if anyone sees the Amazing Arthur…run.

  *

  Copper

  By Blake M. Petit

  Clem never saw the stranger as he approached his fire. He didn’t see his face in the flickering tongues of flame, didn’t see a black silhouette of his body blocking out the stars, didn’t see a glint of moonlight reflecting off the six-shooter dangling from his hip. As he stepped into the circle of orange light, Clem could see that his dirt-colored clothes were flecked with spots of copper that made him wonder if the man had once been a miner. His hair was coal-black, and so were his eyes, and his face hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in a least a week. Of course, Clem’s hadn’t met one in years, so who was he to judge from beard growth?

  “Mind if I join you, old-timer?” the stranger said.

  “Mind if anyone I don’t know sits at my fire,” he said. “Mind if most folks I do know sit here, but that don’t apply to you, does it?”

  “Guess not,” the stranger said. He smiled, baring a set of teeth impossibly white.

  Clem would usually try to run off someone muscling in on his camp, but the iron hanging at the stranger’s side kept him friendlier than he otherwise would have been. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

  “Short and to the point, eh? Just some warmth, maybe some water. Some conversation.”

  “Conversation?” Clem laughed. “What the hell would you want that for?”

  “What can I say? I collect stories. I was hopin’ I could hea
r yours.”

  “Ain’t got much to tell.”

  “Aw now, that ain’t true. Everybody’s got a story in ‘em.” He glided a hand down to the pocket of his dry, dirty jeans, fished around for a moment, and came out with a small, black bead.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just a little somethin’ to exchange for the company.”

  “I got no use for no jewelry.”

  “This ain’t jewelry, friend.” He sat at the fire then, uninvited, and held the bead out in front of him. The light danced through it and refracted through like a brief burst of obsidian lightning.

  “Naw, this ain’t jewelry. You say you ain’t got a story to tell? No hopes, no dreams, nothin’ you want to do before you die? Come on, son, ain’t you ever wondered what you’re really capable of? Well this little sucker here can show you all that.”

  “What are you talkin’ about? Some sort of Indian mumbo-jumbo?”

  “Somethin’ like that. But this mumbo-jumbo really works.”

  Clem scoffed, stroking his beard. He didn’t need no magic bead to know what he could do. He’d been mining for 30 years now. He’d spent all this time doing best he could, diggin’ out nuggets, spending the money on food and feed. Never getting ahead.

  He could have done more.

  “How do I know that works?”

  “If it don’t, what have you got to lose?”

  Clem didn’t say anything, but the stranger correctly found assent in his eyes. He held the bead out over the fire, relaxed his fingers and let it fall. The flames hit the head before it fell on the embers, and a puff of black smoke escaped, drifting over to Clem’s nostrils. The first puff didn’t do anything. Or the second.

  By the third, the world was swimming.

  Clem had expected to see himself pulling pans of gold and setting himself p in a mansion – servants and fine foods and wine floating like water.

  But what he saw was just himself, slagging into town, broke again, another claim picked clean. And he saw himself paying a visit to Mary Parson, the widowed school marm. He saw himself paying a visit to Mary’s daughter, Ellen, not a tick older than eleven years old. He saw himself giving her a special visit.