Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror

by Glen Krisch

  Greta would speak about White Bane in her quiet, raspy voice, warning about a beast that ate children who went wandering where they shouldn't. As old as the hills, the catfish had long white whiskers and pink, unwavering eyes. White Bane could smell fear, would be brought to frenzy by it, leaping ashore to snatch at children with its jaws, or whipping them with its powerful tail. Either way, the result was the same. You weren't going home.

  George was about to put his foot down by suggesting they wait until it was light out to take on this particular adventure. But crazy Jimmy Fowler had already thrown his tackle inside and was shimmying into the mouth of the hole. His torso disappeared, then his legs. With a grunt, Jimmy kicked off with his heel against a jutting rock, then was gone.

  "Hand me your tackle." Jimmy's filthy hand snaked from the hole, his fingers grasping for George's tackle box.

  "Sure, hold on." George lowered his fishing tackle to Jimmy's waiting hand.

  "How about the gun?"

  "I think I'll hold on to it." They both owned .22 rifles, having hunted small game since they could remember. But the over/under was a special weapon. It could do a heck of a lot more damage than any old .22. If he was going to get a whooping for taking the gun, then he was sure as hell going to carry it the whole time. His dad had been drinking for a week straight and wouldn't even notice he had snuck out, but if he did wake up to see his precious gun missing…

  "Fine." Jimmy's hand disappeared, mild disappointment in his voice. "Coming?"

  "Right behind you." George strained getting inside while carrying the gun and the lantern. Crawling through the opening, he left behind the night's gloaming, entering an entirely different darkness. As his legs entered the hole, the damp, earthen walls felt like they were closing in to crush his body. He hurried forward, hand over hand, struggling with the gun in the narrow tunnel. Losing his balance, he fell over a ledge, tumbling down a short slope. After coming to an abrupt halt, he braced himself to stand, his hand pressing against Jimmy's shoe.

  "That sure was graceful. You oughta be a ballerina."

  "Shut up." George looked back through the tunnel to the nighttime sky. He couldn't see much when he was outside, but inside the cave, he was as near to blind as he'd ever want to be.

  Their voices were different. As was the air. It was impenetrable, consuming quiet sounds, while amplifying anything louder than their hushed voices. Their breathing disappeared; their footsteps sounded like a Roman legion. George, certain he would soon scream draped in the darkness of the cave, turned the lantern's breathe valve until its glow washed over the far-reaching limestone walls. He took it as a good sign that the lantern survived the fall.

  The lamp pushed back the darkness, but didn't reveal the entire cave. He swung the light in a small arc near his knees. Water had dripped away pockets, eating limestone layers one drip at a time. Everything was damp, seeping with wetness, shining with cave slime and mud.

  They were quiet, shuffling their feet, trying to figure out what to do next. There seemed to be a zigzagging trail, just wide enough to walk down, winding away from the opening.

  "We'll be out of fuel in no time with that lamp turned up." While Jimmy sounded angry, his face showed his relief.

  "You want me to turn it down again?"

  "I suppose not. Not since you got it lit and all."

  Jimmy, hesitant for one of the few times George could remember, tentatively headed down the trail. "Smells wet. I bet the lake's not far away." Jimmy made sure George was close by and following.

  Spider webs as broad as bed sheets blocked a niche off to the right. After seeing a spider's measured movements, George swung the lantern in front of him again. A chill swept over him as he hurried next to Jimmy.

  "Looks like the walls are crying." Jimmy trailed a finger along the porous wall. Mineral deposits stained the trickling water a reddish hue. To George, it looked more like blood than tears.

  "Dead end," George said after they had walked for a time. The area seemed to have suffered a cave in. Boulders and rubble sealed the shaft.

  "Can't be." Jimmy, not willing to give up the adventure when it had only begun, hunted the shadows for another way. George stood right where he was without moving, not wanting to touch or see anything unsavory. At this point, he'd be happy enough just to turn around and go home.

  "Hey, swing the light this way," Jimmy said.

  On his knees at the apparent dead end, Jimmy craned his head under a teetering rock. Near the floor, concealed by tumbled-over debris, the cavern picked up again under the rubble, sloping at an even steeper grade into the earth.

  "That doesn't look right." Doesn't look one bit safe, he thought.

  "The shaft gets bigger." His earlier reluctance was gone. He once again bustled with excitement. "Listen… that water is louder. Sounds like a falls to me."

  Jimmy had a point. It might not be a waterfall, but it sounded like a heavier flow than the trickle they'd seen so far. "All right. You first."

  George crouched low, holding the lantern inside the opening, lighting the way as Jimmy crawled ahead. "Kinda slick. The floor's covered in moss. And it stinks like cowshit." Jimmy didn't seem fazed at all.

  "Great. Can't wait." George followed his friend, followed him when he had a feeling he shouldn't. It was the story of their friendship.

  The damp moss soaked their clothes. With the steepness of the shaft, it was a minor miracle they reached a plateau without slipping the whole way down. Once again on level ground, the limestone ceiling was high enough to stand without hunching. The shaft opened into an extensive alcove. The twisting path led them to a body of water with a surface so smooth and dark it could've been a pane of cobalt glass.

  "Shit," George whispered, his breath stolen by the sight.

  Water fell from high up near the ceiling--so high the lantern only hinted at the source--to a limestone spillway. The slab, as big as a church altar, dispersed the falling water. When it dribbled into the lake, it barely dimpled the surface.

  "This has got to be it. Shit is right. Let's drop our lines." Jimmy approached the water and set down his tackle. He yanked the barbed hook from the pole's cork handle, and with the line already carrying a tied-off bobber, flipped his wrist and the bobber went flying.

  "You haven't baited your hook." George approached the water with caution. While he didn't truly believe Greta's stories, it was better to be safe than sorry.

  "I know. Just want to see how deep it is. You can tell by the sound when it hits the water." The hook and bobber had made a thick, thoomping splash. The water was deep. Cranking the reel to pull in the line, the metal gears sounded incredibly loud. "Get me some bread. I guess that'll have to do. Wish we'd had time to dig night crawlers."

  George took the hunk of bread from his tackle box and broke off two pieces. They baited their hooks and cast their lines in opposite directions, not wanting to tangle in the near-dark.

  They sat side by side, the lantern lit and warm between them. They had no luck for quite a while, and the more time went by without any sign of White Bane, the more George felt at ease. It was a foolish story, anyway. A catfish lunging from the water in order to prey on kids? Just an old story to make sure kids didn't explore the abandoned coalmines marring the Illinois prairie. He imagined every coal town had a similar tale.

  "Don't matter if we catch him, I'm going to ask out Betty Harris regardless." George didn't take his eyes from his line. He dipped the pole, dancing the bobber on the cold black surface. His voice softened, becoming sheepish, "Then I'm going to marry her. Well, some day."

  "Good for you. She's a nice girl. Tit's are a little big, more like a cow's than a girl's, but hey, whatever you like you like, right?"

  "Jackass."

  "I'm just kidding. I'm happy for you. Just think about what you're doing before you do it," Jimmy said. The humor had left his voice. "That's all I gotta say."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Means I'm thinking about enlisting in the Army.
My mom might have to sign something, but I'm strong for my size. They should take me, even though I ain't eighteen."

  "What the hell're you getting at?" George was shocked, unable to figure why someone would enlist. Especially someone whose dad had died not long after coming home from the European trenches, his lungs just about liquefied from mustard gas.

  "I gotta be a man. Make a living for myself."

  "That's not what we planned." Their plans went back many years. George would take over the farm from his dad and buy the vacant land next to their fallow plot. Jimmy would work his acreage with his brother Jacob; together, with their mom, they'd make a go of it.

  "Yeah. Things change." Jimmy stared at his fishing line. George hadn't bothered casting again after pulling in his line. This was serious news. What about picnics with their future wives and future kids? Sitting on the porch as old men, sipping hard cider and swapping familiar stories?

  "What about Louise?"

  Jimmy opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then clamped it shut.

  "Jimmy?"

  "That's the problem. I think I might be a father soon."

  "Christ… really?"

  "Yeah," Jimmy said, staring at the water. Eyes widening, he pointed to something cutting through the water. "Shit, what's that?"

  George jumped to his feet and reached for his tackle box, ready to tear tail out of there. Then the fish changed directions and he realized just how small it was. It might've been a bluegill, a crappie at most. Nothing dangerous. Neither fantastic nor mythical. "That's a pan fish, dingy."

  "I knew that. Really I did." Jimmy sighed with relief. Both seemed to want the adventure of searching for White Bane, but nothing of the actual confrontation. "I thought you were going to push me in front of you, let that big, scary pan fish get me instead of you."

  "I would have, too. Don't you doubt it for a second." They laughed.

  George swung his tackle box around as he reached to pick-up his pole again. In the process, he knocked the lantern over, sending it cracked and broken into the underground lake.

  Instantly, they stood in utter darkness. Their breath hitched in their throats, otherwise, all they took in from their senses was the cold air.

  "Damn, George, now what are we supposed to do? We're damn near a mile underground."

  "It ain't near that far."

  "Might as well be. We're blind."

  Not knowing what else to say, but needing to hear his own voice, George said, "Maybe our eyes'll adjust."

  "You got your matches, right?"

  "Yeah, I think I've got a couple left. Let me check." He patted his pockets, found the smashed box. He slid it open, felt inside.

  "Okay, don't panic," Jimmy said.

  "I'm not. I still got three matches."

  "I wasn't talking to you, just thinking out loud."

  "Hell, just find something to burn. We can make a torch."

  They hunted around on the floor, their hands encountering mud and flaked rock. Anything flammable would've quickly rotted and disintegrated in the damp atmosphere.

  "How about in your tackle box?" Jimmy asked, his voice sounding far away.

  "Didn't think of that. Let me check. How about you? Don't you have a comic with you when you fish?"

  "Let me see… If I can find my box… Here we go. Tarzan might have to burn to get us out of here." Jimmy tore open his tackle box. Spoons and hooks rattled as he removed the top tray. Turning toward Jimmy's racket, George saw something, a glimmer, a phantom movement, something, in the distance hovering by the lake.

  "Jimmy," George whispered.

  "Damn. Nothing. I bet Jacob snatched my last Tarzan. I'm gonna whip his ass when I get home."

  "Jimmy!"

  "What the hell are you yapping about?"

  "I see something. At least, I think I do." George did see movement. A flickering light, maybe a reflection off the water, on the far side of the lake.

  "Where?"

  "Just the other side of the water."

  "Can't see nothing… Wait… I think I know what you mean. A wavery light. It's dim."

  They both edged to the shore, standing shoulder to shoulder, trying to pick up the slightest detail. It was so quiet, the blood throbbed in George's ears as he strained to hear.

  They nearly leapt from their skins as heavy chains rattled from somewhere near the phantom light.

  Chains? George thought. "Shit. Let's get out of here."

  "Wait, that could be someone. Give me a second." He stepped into the water. "Damn cold."

  "What are you doing? You crazy?"

  "Yeah, I think I just might be." Jimmy waded deeper. "There it is, found the drop off. It's maybe eight, ten feet in. Then it's deep as hell." His splashing increased as he dog paddled away from shore. "It is a light, George. There's an overhang. Might be a tunnel or something. The light's down the other side."

  "Come on now, Jimmy. We should find our way back the way we came."

  "What fun is that? Someone must've lit that fire, so there must be someone to help us get the hell out'a here."

  "Shit, Jimmy," George said, mostly to himself. Even trapped in darkness and without a light to guide their way, George couldn't stop thinking: Jimmy Fowler's gonna be a dad. Who would've thought? His friend risked everything swimming in water as cold as a witch's tit, and with White Bane possibly nipping just under his feet. "Jimmy?"

  "Huh?"

  "You all right?" Feeling abandoned, George wanted to leave Jimmy and find his way back out. But he couldn't leave his friend behind. And White Bane? Nothing but an old lady's story that no one believed in the first place. Or so he hoped.

  "Sure. Little cold's all."

  "Hold up, will you? I'm coming with."

  "That's just what I wanted to hear."

  George took the matchbox from his pocket and placed it atop his tackle box. His dad's gun leaned against a boulder nearby. He wanted to take it with him--there was no way he wanted to discover the firelight's source without it--but it would be useless if it got wet. He wasn't as good a swimmer as Jimmy. He'd never be able to swim with the gun held overhead. He left it behind, noting the location as he stepped into the water.

  Jimmy treaded water, waiting. As George swam out to meet him, he noticed he could actually make out his face. The firelight from down the tunnel was brighter, but the ceiling was a mere foot above the water.

  "See what I mean? There has to be people over there. Even if it's just hoboes."

  "If we're going to go, let's go. I can't swim as good as you." George struggled to keep his head above water. His soaked clothes pulled at him as if he had rocks in his pockets. "Just be careful."

  "Careful? I'm always careful." Jimmy's tone was full of glee, happy to continue the adventure. He reached overhead as he entered the tunnel. "Not much room to spare. There's no tide in an underground lake is there?"

  "You're joking, right?"

  "Do I ever joke around? I'm as serious as the Spanish flu." Jimmy laughed, venturing farther. "Hey, once inside you can stand. On tip-toes, I can reach the bottom."

  "Thank God." With the water lapping at George's ears, he was relieved when his toes finally touched the tunnel bottom.

  "Come on, hurry up," Jimmy called out as he pulled away from George, unable to contain his excitement.

  The icy water pressed against George's sternum as he trudged through the tunnel. Jimmy's wet head bobbed some twenty feet ahead. He reached the far end and cut a sharp right, out of sight.

  It was just like Jimmy to leave him behind even though he was struggling. Sometimes he had no consideration at all. "Jimmy, wait up. I'm almost there." Violent shivers racked his body. The ceiling pulled closer to the water, forcing George to weave around low points where rock and water touched.

  Jimmy didn't answer. The light brightened, and George could see torches hanging from the far wall. He was panicking now. He couldn't turn around, but in no way wanted to know what was in that alcove. Why hadn't Jimmy said a word?


  "Jimmy?"

  He's gonna leap out and try to scare me. That jackass. George hoped that was the case. He could forgive Jimmy if his silence was a measly attempt to scare him.

  The tunnel widened. Jimmy stood on the shore twenty feet away. His friend was scaring him, but not in the typical Jimmy Fowler kind of way. A man with long blond hair held a blade to his friend's throat. Others stepped from the shadows, brandishing weapons of their own. Five men, ten. A score. A couple faces seemed familiar. Coal Hollow people. Behind the gathering, a Negro man stood chained to a wall. A whip cracked, followed by an agonized cry that dissipated into weakening echoes.

  "You be quiet, boy," a slurred voice called from the crowd. "Take what's yours."

  The blade at Jimmy's throat gleamed with candlelight. Jimmy's eyes were desperate, wide, more scared than George had ever seen.

  "Run, George, run!" Jimmy screamed. The man silenced him by smashing the butt of his knife against his temple.

  George's heart rollicked. Ever-fading candlelight reflected off the tunnel's cobalt water.

  "Get'em boys. Bring'em back alive. If you can."

  Something splashed nearby, three men taking up his pursuit. Crazed men. Swinging machetes. Their faces rough with beard growth, stained with tobacco juice. They all looked the same. They could have been brothers, triplets, even.

  Still groggy, Jimmy was shoved aside, swallowed by shadows. The whip cracked the air, and again. The chained man no longer screamed; he slumped over, unconscious, the chains tight against his wrists. The firecracker snap cleared George's senses, stripping the numbing coldness from his limbs.

  He made a break for the tunnel.

  He didn't attempt to walk on his tiptoes as he had on the way in. He took up a full swimming motion, his arms and legs awkwardly cutting through the cold water. He naturally swam faster underwater, so he dove, pushing off the tunnel floor with his feet. He kicked hard, madly, too fast to be efficient. His lungs burned seconds after his dive, and his mind flooded with half-formed thoughts:

  Jimmy's dead. They're gonna kill 'em…