Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror

by Glen Krisch

  In line at the dry cleaners, a stranger had taken up a conversation with his wife. Later on, he learned this stranger was an artist. A poet, a pianist, a man who presumably neither shaved nor showered regularly. Gage wondered why such a man would be in line at a dry cleaner's. His clothes would be wrinkled, disorderly, mismatched, his uniform representative of his suffering for his craft. This weasel of a stranger had taken up a conversation with his wife, a trivial chit-chatty subject no doubt, and just that easily, so simply, the woman he had trusted and loved beyond words followed this angst-ridden would-be artist back to his loft. She had called later on, long after Gage had left worrying behind and was heading straight for full-blown hysteria, tears in her voice, scratchy jazz music thick in the background. Between her tears she told him it was over, she'd found someone else. She'd actually used the words soul mate when describing her new man. Just that quickly, fallen apart, a family ruined.

  He wasn't able to tell Nika right away. The words wouldn't come to him, and if he could find the words, saying them would only make them true. Her mother was never coming home. He wished he could hire someone to explain to his daughter that for a reason as stupid as a chance meeting in line at a dry cleaner's, her mother was no longer a part of the family. The night of Michelle's phone call he eventually gathered his courage and went to Nika's bedroom--her boy band posters with their Colgate smiles leering at him, her stuffed animals appearing defensive of their place within his daughter's heart--and he had told her the news. At first, he thought Nika hadn't heard him, that his grief had possibly weakened his voice. But Nika had heard, and even more importantly, she had listened, distilling the knowledge down to its base elements. By the time he had finished speaking, his beard was wet with tears and a dull pain was shooting across his temples, mocking the beat of his heart. For some reason, Nika's lack of reaction hurt more than if she had broken down completely.

  Michelle's betrayal had sent Gage into a tailspin of depression. Over the ensuing months, he rarely left his room, rarely left his bed, in fact. His pain was so blinding he couldn't see that even after such loss, life went on. She didn't react as he had expected, but Nicole was just as hurt by her mother's abandonment, maybe more so. During those most trying times, when she needed his support, she hadn't been able to count on him.

  While he retreated to his darkened bedroom, his reddish beard getting longer and grayer, Nika took up with new friends. He didn't learn until later, not until after she had fallen into her coma, that she had started experimenting with drugs. Ecstasy and LSD and God knows what else, ingested with impunity. Dancing at rave parties and staying up for days at a time. Hurting herself, using the pain to fill the void where her mother once resided.

  The phone call from the hospital slapped some sense into him. They told him someone had dropped Nika off at the hospital's front steps. She was unconscious and near death. Her temperature had sky rocketed and her pulse had dipped to almost nothing. He didn't remember much about the conversation, but the words brain damage, and perpetual coma state stayed with him. His daughter, having been unable to find reassurance in her father, had overdosed on some rave drug that left her in a near vegetative state.

  His future hopes hinged on those few words that crept through the ether of his depression: near vegetative state. The doctors told him that on the Harvard diagnostic scale, she was on the better side of the spectrum, if there was such a thing as a better side of being comatose. Yes, she was non-responsive to outside stimuli. He could stab a needle into her arm and pray that Nika would scream; he could pluck the fine hairs from her arm one by one, hoping she would flinch, but all to no avail. The outside world was dead to her. But her mind continued to function. She had thoughts, memories, dreams.

  Now, as he sat next to her, wary of blinking in case she so much as twitched a toe, Gage looked at her nearly black hair, a color defying her heredity. Michelle was a golden apple beauty, while he had always shied attention away from his fierce red locks and smudged red freckles. When he first saw her in the bleached out hospital room with the guilt-laden aroma of giftshop flowers, her unconscious roommate's helium balloons swaying over a heating grate like clownish clouds, Nika's hair was streaks of purple and green. Black makeup coated her closed eyelids. Golden flecks of glitter shined along her neck and collarbone, mixing with the remnant bile and blood-tinged vomit the doctors had forcefully removed from her stomach. They'd uncovered a toxic stew of a dozen pills that would need a week to decipher. The doctors didn't think she would live until morning.

  Now, almost a year later, her hair stripped of the purple and green dye, and her skin cleansed by Shirley's gentle hand, Gage still wondered if she would live until morning. That's why Maury Bennett's work was so important.

  That is what started Lucidity. Nika's dreams. The first experiments had been simple. Gage had brought in doctors specializing in neurology and sleep science. They had shown Gage EEG printouts of Nika's sleep cycles--kinetic scratches of horsehair-thin waves on reams of printer paper. Gage first thought the reports looked like Richter printouts after an earthquake. The doctors assured him that the ideas were fairly similar; a Richter printout showed earth plate activity, while the EEG printouts indicated brain activity. Those first printouts led to a series of countless experiments involving countless scientists. A tenuous job security rewarded success and advancement in the project. Gage discarded anyone without the passion he demanded or the will to create something never before pondered.

  In the end, only Maury Bennett remained. His reputation had been shaky at best, but he had a brilliant mind. Even before he was brought on, Gage had heard rumors of his strange abilities. Most respected doctors didn't think much of Maury, but none of that mattered now. Maury could do what no other person could do.

  "You look lovely, Nika. Another birthday comes, but your beauty transcends time," Gage said softly, kissing her eyebrow.

  He checked the readout screens showing her vital signs, and as usual, everything was stable. He wrapped the consoles, monitors and other equipment with padded blue tarps he normally kept stored under Nika's bed. He then pushed aside the deep recliner where he spent most of his time waiting for Nika to wake.

  The floor needed to be clear.

  Gage went to a small panel on the wall. When he flipped the switch, a door slid aside. A horde of animated stuffed animal creatures and frilly-dressed porcelain dolls and miniature horses with miniature girl riders tumbled out of the open space left in the wall.

  Nika's transmuted dreams.

  One stick-thin sock monkey puppet jumped into Gage's arms and wrapped around his neck. It stayed there, as he always did, cooing into his ear.

  "Yes, yes children, hello. I missed all of you." Gage was on his knees, engulfed in stuffed animal fur and the rich voices that Nika had leant her dreams. Gage was laughing along with them and enjoying a companionship that he didn't share with anyone in the waking world.

  "Now, Rupert, don't squeeze so hard, I'm not going anywhere," Gage said to the sock monkey hanging on him.

  The dream squealed and pulled at Gage's face, smacking him a kiss with his sock fabric lips.

  "I love you too, Rupert, but love shouldn't hurt," Gage said.

  The sock monkey clung to Gage's neck, picking imaginary fleas from his skin and straggly beard. The other dreams were friendly and playful with Gage, but Rupert was the dominant dream of the bunch. Because of that, Gage figured that Rupert was the dream that was strongest in Nika's mind, so he was Gage's favorite as well. Most of the other dreams had gone off to play amongst themselves. Gage had a small audience of Rupert and twin elves that wore matching suede jumpsuits. Their voices were so high-pitched and the delivery of their speech so swift, Gage understood at most one word in ten. They were simple fellows, but they demonstrated a keen interest in Nika, so Gage felt a surge of emotion when he saw them.

  Gage checked the monitoring equipment, and nothing had changed. His little family was unusual, sure, but he had developed a level of calm
with Nika and her dream creatures.

  Rupert left the comfort of Gage's neck and mimicked how he had checked the equipment.

  "Why do you always copy me?" Gage asked the monkey.

  In response, Rupert hopped in the air and beat his tiny fists into the bed next to Nika.

  "Don't get an attitude with me, Rupert. I simply asked you a question. I didn't mean any harm by it. You're just like a little kid, always copying me. Just like Nika."

  Rupert took this as an apology and regained his position around Gage's neck. He knotted his sock hands and began to coo submissively.

  He tickled the little monkey until the dream jumped from Gage's arms to the floor. He taunted Gage until he went after him. Soon he was rolling on the floor with slobbering puppies and jittering baby possums, while bright red cardinals chirped and swooped overhead. Gage played with his daughter's dream animals for hours. He only stopped after he had completely worn himself out.

  Nika's dreams eventually calmed down. Some rested in the folds of Nika's blankets. Others hid under the bed. Still others dozed in Gage's lap as he reclined next to his daughter. His eyelids were getting heavy, and he let them close.

  Freakshow. Gaining consciousness, becoming cognizant of inhaling, aware of the taste of it, this corrupt and putrid air, fouled by the presence of humans. His eyes popped open, liquid fire irises glowing in the midnight backdrop of his eye sockets. For the first time, Freakshow felt discomfort--stiff muscles and aching joints--from remaining chest down in a fetal position. As he breathed the air of his enclosure, he felt his lungs burn, felt the oxygen trickle through the air sacs of his lungs.

  He parsed at the miniscule particles bobbing through his newly corporeal form, and like an archeologist, he discovered tiny nuggets that represented all he could hope for. Particles of Kevin, his dreamer and former captor. The dust of his skin; sloughed-off dead cells. Condensed droplets from his lungs, a wetness floating in his used, respired breath. A wetness that made Freakshow's mouth salivate; a wetness that was nearly as dear to him as the rich blood pulsing though the boy's heart.

  He unfurled, limbs quaking, nerves frayed. The room was dark. His fiery eyes glowed, embers in a dying campfire. He could step three strides in any direction before finding a wall. He coiled his fists and let loose a raging barrage of kicks, punches and scraping claws against the confining walls.

  There was no give to the walls and the surface wasn't the least bit marred by his efforts. He only felt something new to him. Fatigue. Squatting on his haunches, his back against one corner of the room, he began to ponder his escape. He would need to use all of his faculties in order to succeed. The humans had control over their environment and he was a stranger to this new land. But the boy was close. He could feel it aching in the marrow of his bones, aching like some human disease. Kevin was near, and he was asleep.

  Let the boy sleep. He would need to rest in order to fight for his life. And a fight would be a dear thing. A fight would increase the boy's fear, and would build Mr. Freakshow's strength in the process.

  Freakshow took in a gulp of air, and held it shortly before letting loose a shrill scream that seemed to shake the teeth embedded in his jawbone. It wasn't a scream of pain or frustration. Only pure, unfettered anticipation. When his scream was sated and his lungs were empty, his chest still burned with the unfamiliarity of breathing.

  Nika's dreams stirred at the sound of the scream. When Gage opened his eyes, he wondered if it was only a dream. Rupert, his spindly arms shaking as he clung to Gage's arm, whimpered in Gage's lap. Soon enough, the dreams settled again, and Gage let sleep take him away from this place.

  Chapter 10

  It felt like waking from a dream. Kevin certainly remembered Mr. Freakshow and how the nightmare had tormented his sleep since his dad's murder. But now the Freak didn't rule his sleep, twisting Kevin in his ever-tightening grip.

  His nightmare was gone.

  Reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed for the day--the first day since visiting Maury Bennett that he'd woken before noon--Kevin stared out his bedroom window. He listened to the birds singing their morning songs. He couldn't enjoy it, this relaxation, this laziness. It felt like a part of him was missing. With his nightmare gone, his emotions were exposed to all the pain he'd gone through leading up to his father's murder. The tension between his parents. The way he abruptly learned of his parent's separation. The pain of knowing his family had failed. It was all there, twirling about his stomach, magnified now that Mr. Freakshow was gone.

  Kevin didn't remember much about the museum or the ride home from seeing Maury Bennett. When they had reached the sidewalk after leaving the museum, he felt so drained he could barely keep his eyes open. His mom let him rest the whole trip home without asking him any questions about what had happened inside the glassed-in room.

  He didn't know what he would have told her if she had asked. He remembered Maury's hand on the skin of his forehead, and his touch felt white-hot, like the inside of a heated oven. Then the heat disappeared, and with his eyes still closed, he heard a whispered voice, a foul breeze lapping at his ear. The voice became silent, and then he felt a pulling sensation, as if his skeleton was being pulled to the surface of his skin, through his skin, leaving him a tumbled-over pile of skin and blood.

  He shook his head as if trying to throw off the image.

  In the void he now felt, he found pain. Pain like a physical wound. The answer became as obvious as the sun rising. His loss, the focal point for all his pain.

  Dad.

  If Kevin could have waited to use the bus station restroom, even for just the two minutes it would have taken until he was safely on the bus with his mom, his dad would have stayed back in Warren Cove. He would still be alive.

  He pushed away from the bed, feeling sluggish and on edge. Betrayed. A paste of spit caked his lips. He walked to the bathroom in a not-so-straight line, relieved his bladder, washed his face. The clock on the wall outside the bathroom showed it was shortly after nine a.m.

  He went down the hall to the living room, plopped down on the couch next to his mom, the pain in his stomach boiling over to anger. The T.V. blared, unwatched, as she unenthusiastically worked a needlepoint, absently pulling the threaded needle through the round canvas, shaping the likeness of a kitten one needle prick at a time.

  She noted his appearance with a glance and nod before going back to the slowly emerging kitten.

  "When were you going to tell me?" Kevin asked.

  "Tell you what?"

  "About Dad."

  His mom kept her eyes on the needlepoint, as if gathering her words carefully. "What about your Dad?" She stuck the needle through the canvas and placed it on the end table.

  "He wasn't coming with."

  For a split second, he saw the grief in her eyes, a brittle fatigue that reminded him of the day of the funeral.

  An image popped into his head. A rare detail from one of his countless visits from Mr. Freakshow. Amber Winstrom. "And you let that woman come to the funeral." He rolled the words to her, a ball in her court.

  "I… how…?" his mom stammered.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I don't need to justify anything to you Kevin. We were leaving. That's all there is to say."

  Kevin thought tears would come to his eyes, but they didn't. He didn't cower; he felt strong, willing to fight.

  His mom looked like she was about to say something, but was interrupted by the doorbell.

  "I'll get that," she said, rising from the couch.

  Kevin muted the game show on the T.V. and perked his ears.

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Dvorak?"

  "Yes? Can I help you?"

  "I was hoping you could answer some questions."

  "What is this about?"

  "Mrs. Dvorak, it is my understanding that your husband was the last victim of the so called Steak Knife Killer, Jeremiah--"

  "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about this." She leaned outside an
d closed the door against her body to block out the conversation.

  "If this is a bad time…"

  "Yes, it is. Any time would be a bad time for you to come knocking on my door."

  "But Mrs. Dvorak, I'm writing a book about--"

  His mom struck like a prodded snake, "I won't have you bothering my family about this. You goddamn vulture… swarming around like you belong here, like in some sick way you're necessary. Go, just get out of here. Get out of here!" She stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

  Kevin jumped up from the couch and pulled aside the front drapes and watched his mom chase after the reporter, chase him all the way to his rusted-out Chevy parked on the street.

  Her voice carried, even as she trailed after the defeated reporter down the sidewalk. "I don't want to tell my story. Nobody needs to hear my story. Telling it won't bring back my husband. All you want to do is glorify some dead psycho…"

  The squealing of tires broke through his mom's tirade. The reporter's car spat a plume of black smoke and seemed to disappear into it, like some magic trick.

  His mom slowly walked back to the house. He could see her chest heave as she took in deep breaths of air, trying to compose herself. When her hand turned the doorknob, he quickly un-muted the T.V. Someone on The Price is Right just won a dining room set. Kevin acted like he was entirely consumed by the game show and didn't acknowledge her return.

  She took her seat on the couch and picked up her needlepoint, but it remained untouched in her lap.

  "Damn reporters. They're almost as bad as lawyers," she said.

  Only a few days went by once they moved to his grandma's house before the reporters found them. They tried phone calls and letters by mail, and occasionally, someone would be aggressive enough to knock on the front door and try to get his mom to spill her guts. They obviously didn't know his mom.