Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “It's okay,” the vet says, although she too sounds a little troubled. “Some cats take time to recover from surgical procedures. Take her home in her crate, and I'm sure she'll be fine once she's back in familiar surroundings.”

  ***

  “There you go,” I say a short while later, as I open the door to Myrtle's crate on my bedroom floor, “now you can -”

  Before I can finish, she darts out and races under my bed, and then she bolts out into the corridor. I swear, she's never acted like that before. In all the time I've had Myrtle, she's always preferred being in my room. Now, apparently, she'd rather be anywhere else.

  “It'll be fine,” I mutter to myself as I set the crate back into its spot under my desk. “Cats are weird.”

  Taking the money from my pocket, I count out how much I have left now that Myrtle's bill is settled. There's a little over two hundred pounds here, which is better than a smack in the face, and I'm starting to think that I need to establish a fund for getting my own place. Living with Mum is okay, but I'm sure I could afford a bed-sit somewhere on the other side of town. Sure, it wouldn't be the nicest place, but at least it'd be my own, and Myrtle and I could live our lives how we want. Plus, I know Mum would be fine, and I'd still come to visit her loads. It's not as if I'd be abandoning her.

  Suddenly I hear a sound over my shoulder, and I turn to see that Mum has come into the room.

  I quickly stuff the money back into my pocket, but I can tell that I'm too late.

  “What's that?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It's just -”

  “Let me see,” she says, reaching out and trying to stick her hand into my pocket.

  I pull away.

  “If you've got some extra money,” she continues, “that's my business. I should charge you extra rent just for having that bloody cat here. What's up with the daft thing, anyway? It's making all these weird noises in the living room.”

  “I need to go out,” I tell her. “I've got to find a new job.”

  “Got sacked, did you?” she says with a grin.

  “My last job came to a natural end,” I reply, resisting the urge to say anything rude. “I'm going to take my C.V. to a few places. I'm sure there are some jobs going in local shops and pubs.”

  “Sounds great,” she replies, before reaching for my pocket again. “In the meantime, how about you pay your next month's rent early for once? It always stresses me out, waiting to see whether you'll have what you owe me.”

  I slip away again, and now I'm back into the corner of my room. At that moment, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket, but I figure it can't be anything important.

  “I don't owe you until the start of next month,” I point out, “and I promise I'll have it. When have I ever been late?”

  “It's the stress,” she replies, stepping toward me and reaching yet again for my pocket. “You don't know what it's like for me, Mia. I'm not -”

  “Stop!” I shout, pulling away yet again. “Leave me alone!”

  Mum opens her mouth to reply, but then she freezes and simply stares at me, and finally she takes a step back. All the color has gone from her face, and she looks for all the world as if she's just seen something truly horrifying.

  “Please,” I stammer, starting to feel a little dizzy and hot in the face. “I just need to be alone for a few minutes.”

  I wait, but she doesn't say anything. In fact, for the first time in her life she seems lost for words, and as I stare at her I can't shake the feeling that she seems upset.

  “Mum?” I say after a moment, as I start to feel my heart pounding in my chest. I think I'm breaking out into a cold sweat, too. “What's wrong? Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “No, I...”

  Her voice trails off, and then she mumbles something and turns away. I watch as she hurries out of the room, and she's going so fast now that she almost trips on a loose piece of carpet. She quickly vanishes from sight, and a moment later I hear her bedroom door slamming shut. I have to admit, that's the first time in my life that I've ever seen my mother step away from a disagreement.

  Still feeling really out of sorts, I turn to go over to my bed, but in an instant I'm struck by another wave of dizziness. I stumble toward my desk and reach out, barely managing to stay upright, and then I wait for a moment as the whole room seems to spin around me. At the same time, my phone's buzzing again, but I really don't have time right now to answer some spam-caller who wants me to take a survey.

  “You're okay,” I whisper to myself, as I feel a strange, snaking pain starting to creep up my right arm and toward my shoulder. “You've just been under a lot of pressure, that's all. It'll pass.”

  Ice-cold pinpricks are breaking out across my face, and I feel really clammy. I grip the side of my desk hard and look straight ahead, and I'm shocked when I spot my face reflected in the mirror on my bookshelves. I look very pale and sweaty, and there are shadows under my eyes, and my lips are very dark red. And then, as I stare, I see that the whites of my eyes seem to be slowly filling with thin, veiny black lines.

  “Mum?” I call out, and I'm shocked to hear how weak I sound. “Mum, can you come back? I think I might need to go to the hospital.”

  I wait, but there's no response. She must still be in her room, and I can barely raise my voice above a whisper.

  Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I'm about to start searching online for my symptoms when I see that someone's trying to call again. I don't want to speak to anyone right now, but at the last moment I see that the number belongs to Mr. Shawyer. I hesitate, and then slowly I swipe to accept the call.

  “Ms. Culper, is that you?” he hisses on the other end of the line, sounding agitated. “What did you do? Which of the rules did you break?”

  “I...”

  Feeling very nauseous now, I swallow hard, and now there's a whole lot of saliva in my mouth.

  “What did you do?” he shouts, and I can hear several loud banging sounds. “Ms. Culper, where are you? I have to see you at once, we have to do something! Are you at home?”

  I try to answer, but I can barely move my lips. My mind feels like sludge, as if my thoughts are congealing and getting harder and harder to hear. I blink, and then I try to look back at the mirror, but it takes a moment for me to summon the strength to even do that.

  “I thought you'd done everything properly!” Mr. Shawyer says, sounding as if he's panicking now. “Ms. Shawyer, you have no idea what you've unleashed. But there's still time. So long as she's not in control, we still have a chance to lock her away again. I'm going to come to your home, Ms. Culper. I'll be there soon. Try to stay calm. There's still a chance, just so long as she hasn't woken in her new form yet.”

  He says something else, but I can barely pay attention to his voice. And then, finally, I manage to look into the mirror again. The first thing I see is my own pale, ill face. A moment later, as I start to whimper, I see another face starting to emerge from mine. It's the face of the dead woman from the house, and she's laughing, and she keeps laughing even as I start to scream.

  The Long Dream of Colin Abernathy

  One

  “My life is over,” Colin muttered as he shuffled across the plaza, somehow managing to put one foot in front of the other even though his body was trembling. “I screwed up. I really, really screwed up this time. Someone help me, why do I always screw -”

  “Watch it, buddy!”

  A passing man slammed into Colin's shoulder, startling him and momentarily bringing him back to the world. Colin turned and saw the man's scowling face looking back at him. For a moment it seemed as if there might be a confrontation, as if the man might double-back and make a point of giving Colin a shove, but fortunately he vanished into the crowd instead, leaving Colin standing alone.

  “I'm totally screwed,” Colin said finally, turning and looking around at the crowd of people criss-crossing the plaza in the morning sunshine. T
hey all looked so happy, so full of purpose, as if they knew exactly where they were supposed to be going and what they were supposed to do when they got there. As if none of them had just made a colossal, life-ruining mistake. Colin, meanwhile, had no idea about his next move, and he barely even noticed himself wandering over to a nearby bench and taking a seat.

  “I don't have time for this!” he remembered Monica hissing a few minutes earlier, as he'd man-handled her into the stationary closet next to the office. “Colin, leave me alone!”

  “Just give me a moment to explain!” he'd told her. “Please, don't you think you owe me that much?”

  “I don't owe you anything!” she'd hissed. “Maybe I should call your wife, though, and let her know exactly what her husband gets up to when he's got a spare moment at work!”

  “No! You can't!”

  “Does she know that you're a cheating asshole?” Monica had asked, full of self-importance. “Does she know you're a worthless sack of garbage? Maybe she should find out!”

  “No,” he said out loud now, as he sat on the bench, “you can't, you -”

  Stopping suddenly, he realized he was talking to himself in public. He glanced around, but fortunately no-one else seemed to have noticed. The crowd was moving too fast and the only person who might have heard was the street vendor a few meters away, who seemed far more focused on serving his customers.

  Checking his watch, Colin saw that it was 8.43am.

  Maybe no-one had found her yet.

  Maybe there was still time...

  “Colin, let go of me!” Monica had sneered earlier, trying to shove her way past him and out of the stationary closet. “Colin, you're being a creep!”

  “I just want to make sure we're on the same page!” he'd replied, grabbing her arm and holding her back.

  “Let go of me or I'll scream!”

  He flinched now as he remembered pulling her closer. What had he been thinking? He had absolutely no idea, and now he felt as if he'd momentarily lost his mind. Still, that explanation would never fly with a jury, he knew that. All they'd see would be photos of Monica's injuries. Besides, he knew he wasn't exactly a very sympathetic individual. Sweaty, nervous-looking and a little overweight, he'd once been described by a friend (!) as “having the beady eyes of a chronic weirdo” and he couldn't argue with that. He knew he was a freak, and he knew no-one would believe his side of the story.

  “Just hear me out!” he'd hissed earlier, clamping a hand over Monica's mouth.

  That had been another mistake. A truly dreadful, fateful mistake.

  She'd struggled, and he'd begun to panic. In fact, panic didn't even describe it. He'd felt sheer, blind terror crackling through his body, and he'd been filled with the need to keep her in the closet while he explained himself.

  “Just listen to me!” he'd told her, leaning close to her ear as she'd struggled. “Monica, just -”

  “Damn it,” he said now, leaning forward on the bench and putting his head in his hands.

  After a moment, he glanced at his watch and saw that it was now 8.44am. That meant Monica's body had been left unattended in the closet for almost eighteen minutes now. Sure, he'd managed to lock the door, but he knew others had the key. How long before one of his co-workers from the office wandered in to grab some paper, and found Monica's bloodied corpse in the corner? He imagined the screams, and the panic, and the calls to the police. For all he knew, the discovery had already been made, but he figured there was still a chance he could get back in time to...

  In time to what?

  To get rid of the body?

  He tried to imagine how he could sneak a woman's corpse from an office high up on one of the building's top floors. In his mind's eye, he saw himself covering Monica with a sheet and dragging her toward the elevator. Even if he managed to get her down to the ground floor, however, he knew there was nowhere to take her after that. He was in the heart of Manhattan, with millions of people all around. There was simply no way to surreptitiously dispose of a dead woman in broad daylight in the middle of the city.

  “My life is over,” he stammered, rocking back and forward for a moment before checking his watch again.

  8.45am.

  In the distance, he could hear a faint droning sound. Something roaring, and rushing closer.

  “I have to confess,” he said finally, leaning back and looking up at the building. It took a moment, but he was finally able to spot the windows of his office, way up near the top of the World Trade Center's north tower. “I have to tell them everything and just accept that I'm going to rot in jail.”

  “Listen to me!” he remembered telling Monica as she'd struggled.

  She'd tried elbowing him in the ribs, and in response he'd twisted her around and then shoved her against the wall.

  And that was when she'd hit her head.

  He remembered the sudden cracking sound, and the way her body had suddenly fallen limp in his arms.

  He remembered her slumping down to the floor.

  He remembered seeing the blood on the corner of the shelf. So much blood. Even now, it was hard to believe that such a brief hit could have left so much blood on the white metal. Really, it was as much her fault as his. Fifty-fifty, maybe even sixty-forty to his benefit. If she hadn't struggled, she'd still be alive.

  Behind him, the droning sound was getting louder, and he could hear people shouting.

  “Monica?” he'd stammered, crouching in the closet and seeing her dead eyes staring back at him. He remembered the panic, and then the certainty that she couldn't be dead, that she was just faking. He remembered touching her arm, trying to wake her, and he remembered checking for a pulse. “Monica?” he'd continued, starting to sob. “No, you can't be dead. Monica, it was an accident! I didn't mean it! Monica, please...”

  “Damn it,” he said now, still staring up at the building. “I have to do this. There's no other way. I have to confess.”

  He checked his watch, just as it ticked over from 8.45am to 8.46am.

  “I have to tell them everything,” he continued, as the droning sound became louder and louder. Someone nearby screamed, but he paid no attention. People screamed all the time in New York. Sometimes he thought the place should be renamed the City of Screams.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” he said out loud, no longer worrying whether anyone overheard him. “I'm going to do this.”

  He tried to stand up, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

  And then, suddenly, an idea popped into his head. An idea for how to get Monica's dead body out of the closet, out of the office, down the elevator, out the back of the building and away, despite the huge Tuesday morning New York crowd.

  “I can still do this,” he stammered, getting to his feet. “I can -”

  Before he could finish, a vast shadow rushed across the plaza. Looking up, he saw the underside of a passenger airliner as it roared over the city, heading straight for the World Trade Center.

  Two

  “In here, buddy! Quick!”

  Barely able to breathe, Colin stumbled through the doorway. A man reached out and helped him as he dropped to his knees, coughing violently. He heard the door slamming shut behind him, but he still couldn't open his eyes. There was dust everywhere: in his eyes, in his nose, in his mouth, in his lungs. Desperately trying to get his breath back, he rolled onto his side and coughed some more, feeling a sharp slicing sensation in the back of his throat, as if he was bringing up little shards of glass and metal.

  “Breathe,” a woman's voice said, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. “You're okay, just breathe.”

  He tried to take a breath, but he immediately felt a scratching sensation in his throat. Still coughing, he began to taste blood, and finally he spat out a clump of saliva-soaked dust.

  “There was another one,” a man's voice said nearby. “Did you see that? There were two!”

  Opening his eyes despite the grit and dust caked all over his face, Colin looked ac
ross the tiled floor and saw that there was more dust everywhere. He could see a poster on the far wall, something to do with haircuts, and he realized he was in a barbershop. Maybe. It was hard to tell for sure. There were nervous, panicked voices all around, and everything seemed slightly orange and hazy. Before he could move, however, he suddenly began retching, bringing up more dust and other particles from the back of his mouth. For a moment, he felt as if his throat was about to get shredded from the back to the front.

  A moment later, he felt someone patting him on the back, trying to help him.

  “It's okay, buddy,” a voice said. “We're safe here. We can wait here for help.”

  Lifting his head, Colin looked across the room and saw a small TV on top of a filing cabinet. The image was grainy and flickering, but he could just about make out what looked like the New York skyline with something burning. He blinked, but his eyelids dragged more grains of dust across his eyes and he squeezed them tight shut.

  “Here,” another voice said.

  Colin felt his head being pulled back, and then two fingers forced his right eye open. Cool water was poured over his face as he struggled to breathe, and a moment later someone dabbed at his eye with a soft tissue.

  “And the other one,” the voice continued, as he felt his left eye being opened. More water ran down his face, and finally he was able to blink away the rest of the dust.

  “What do we do?” a man was sobbing nearby. “What if there's more? What if there's hundreds of them? What if it's the end of the world?”

  Sitting up, Colin looked around and saw that, yes, he was in a barbershop. A couple of dozen other people were in there too, most of them staring at the window. Turning, he saw vast swirling clouds of orange and brown dust outside, and after a moment he realized there were occasional shapes moving past, as if people were stumbling through the clouds. It was only then, finally, that he remembered he too had been out there just a moment ago, unable to see anything at all as he'd fumbled his way along the street. There had been cries and screams all around, and the dust had been hot against his face. Reaching up, he touched his left cheek and felt several scratches and grazes.