Fear of the Dark: An Anthology of Dark Fiction

by Maria Grazia Cavicchioli

  “I’ve not been sleeping well,” said Karen. “I’m really sorry about this, it’s just for a few nights. I’ve been down at my mother’s, but I couldn’t stay in the countryside another minute.”

  “Is that all it is, really? Not sleeping?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “Then you have to tell me.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but are you well?”

  “Me? Never better. Why?”

  “Nothing. I was just… making sure nothing could happen.”

  Karen could tell her friend was going to ignore her odd behaviour. Amanda was now late for work, so she left Karen the keys with a promise to return at 7:00 pm. “There’s some salad and lasagna in the fridge,” she said. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

  Karen stopped her on the way out. “What’s the weather forecast?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I can’t go out in the rain.”

  “Hang on.” Amanda took out her mobile and checked an application. “Looks like it’s going to be cold and dry today.”

  “Okay.” Karen seemed to relax a little. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

  Karen waited the whole shift on the couch with the deadbolt in firm place on the front door.

  “It’s okay, you don’t need to do that, this is a pretty safe neighbourhood,” Amanda said as she came in.

  “But the sky went dark and it looked like rain,” Karen replied.

  “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.” Amanda made tea for her friend and settled her in the spare bedroom. They sat on the edge of the bed with their mugs. “I don’t know how to explain,” said Karen, nonplussed.

  “Just start at the beginning,” said Amanda. “I don’t have to be back at work until the late shift.”

  “Okay,” Karen began. “It started just before my father’s funeral.”

  “What started?”

  “We were due at the crematorium and I was waiting for the cars to arrive. Mom had sent me out to the end of the drive in case they missed the turning — it’s hard to see from the road. It had just started to rain — a light drizzle, nothing more. I stood looking down the avenue of trees but there was no sign of the procession. They form arches overhead, the trees do, and it gets quite dark. I was there for about ten minutes by myself, and I slowly became aware that there was someone else standing there, just a little to the right and slightly behind me — you know when your instincts tell you you’re not alone? It was like that.

  “I looked down at the puddle beside my feet, and suddenly the surface broke, as if a boot had stamped down hard in it. The rainwater suddenly felt like an icy hand on my leg, and I jumped back. Nothing had fallen from the trees. It was just as if a big man had stepped in a puddle. Moments later the cars arrived. It was a stupid thing really, so small, and I put it down to my sadness about the funeral. Although Dad had spent nearly two years in hospital beds and at home, it was hard to imagine him not being there anymore.

  “Three days later my uncle Henry died. Heart attack. He was very overweight, and he smoked. I didn’t really know him, but my Mom needed someone to go with her, particularly as she’d just lost Dad, so I went.

  “My mobile buzzed four times during the funeral. I could feel my mother glaring at me across the aisle of the church as I texted replies. I remember thinking, was it really so disrespectful? Hardly any of the congregation were bothering to sing the words of the hymns. I doubted any of them were regular churchgoers, or cared much about the deceased. I was only there because Mom had insisted, but I hadn’t seen my uncle for years. He hadn’t liked people, and certainly wouldn’t have cared if the church had been totally empty for his cremation service.

  “I thought the wake would never end. I hate the countryside and was desperate to leave, but my mother had promised to stay and help clear up afterwards. I watched as these aged relatives I barely recognised crept with cups of tea from the buffet to the sofa, their voices barely above a whisper. My aunt Serena had staggered theatrically back from the funeral and was now cemented into an armchair by the window with a frozen frown on her face. It was obvious she was going to remain there receiving the members of her congregation for the rest of the afternoon. Her husband had died at the age of 82; his youth hadn’t exactly been snatched away. But she was going to make the most of the attention. The only person I could bear was little Hannah, my brother’s kid, the one you met? She was the only person in the room with any life.

  “The loudest sound in the lounge was the ticking grandfather clock. I wanted to put some music on, but the mood of solemnity and regret hung over the house like a curse. It was much worse than at Dad’s wake. My mother was drinking. My cousins were texting. Then quite suddenly with a bang of thunder that rattled the windows, it began to rain. I wanted a smoke, and headed back through the weirdly tidy kitchen to the garden door.

  “The rain was like a grey cloth that had been dropped over the hedges. The air smelled of mildew and leaf-rot. I remember my breath clouded more from the falling temperature than the fumes of my cigarette. I dreaded going back into the house. I’m not a child; I’m nineteen, I’ve already worked out that a man’s death is only mourned when there’s nothing in his life to celebrate. Everyone said that Uncle Henry had been a miserable, unimaginative man. He’d achieved so little and expressed so few opinions that even the minister had struggled to find anything nice to say about him.

  “I watched the falling rain, abstractly thinking about your party the next weekend and what I would wear, when I saw it.

  “Or rather, I didn’t see it.

  “About twenty feet away there was a gap in the downpour, roughly upright, roughly man-shaped, with the water spattering where its shoulders would be.

  “I looked harder. It was definitely there, near the centre of the lawn, in front of the hydrangea bushes, the shape of a man cut from the rain. It stood still while I watched, then began walking slowly toward me, a moving tunnel through the downpour, heading toward the house.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe the evidence of my eyes. I backed away to let it pass and thought, ‘What if it’s Death? What if this thing has come to take away my uncle’s soul?’” She looked up at Amanda with haunted eyes. “Do you see what this means? It’s proof of an afterlife.”

  “I think you’re tired and stressed and imagining things,” said Amanda. “I work in a hospital, Karen. We’re surrounded by death all the time and I’ve never seen someone coming to claim a life. But I see a lot of upset relatives who magnify little details. Some of them shout at the nurses in a way they’d never do normally.”

  “You don’t see him because you’re indoors. It was the rain that showed him up. I would never have seen him otherwise.”

  “Fine, let’s say for the sake of argument that you really did see this — being — what do you have to be afraid of? Death is a natural progression from life. It’s not to be feared. You could even draw some comfort from the idea that there’s something more. I’m sure many of my patients would.”

  “That’s not the end of it,” warned Karen. “On Monday I was heading for work and saw him again. But this time was the worst. I was coming out of the subway station and realised it was pouring, and I had no umbrella, so I waited for the heavy downpour to pass. I was standing in the shadows at the top of the subway stairs, listening to the thunder roll overhead, trying to stay dry. I could barely see across the road to the bank and the other subway exit.

  “Just then I saw a ripple in the rain, in front of the coffee shop next door. It parted like a curtain and I saw his shape quite clearly, no more than six feet from me, the raindrops bouncing where his head would be, dripping from a slowly raised arm, and I saw his breath emerge in little clouds, just as if someone was standing there — except there was no man, only a hole in the storm. There was a terrible smell, like rotting mushrooms, or the wet trash-filled corners you get in the u
nderpass. His fingers reached out and water dripped onto my bare neck. I threw out my hand to try and grab at him, and the rain closed over my hand. For a second it felt as if he’d caught my hand with his freezing fingers and held it tight there. Then he was gone. There was a screech of tires and a thump, and I looked up to find a young woman lying in the road, right ahead. She’d been hit by a taxi. The driver said she’d run out in front of him, trying to beat the lights, and although he’d slammed on the brakes the rain had prevented him from pulling up in time. I knew at once that she was dead. Blood from a wound in her chest was diluting in the rain puddles. She had long hair, spread out over the tarmac in a fan.

  “Don’t you see, he’d arrived ahead of time. He knew it was about to happen. Something has changed in me — maybe it has to do with my father’s death — that’s allowing me to see when Death comes.”

  “Look, I believe that you believe this,” said Amanda. “You’re clearly upset. But nobody knows when death is going to strike. You’ve just had a bad run of luck, that’s all. You can’t stay out of the rain on the offchance that you’ll see this — thing — again. You live in England — it’s always raining.”

  Karen stayed for three more days, then reluctantly returned to look after her mother. Despite Amanda’s kind talks, she was unable to shake the terrible sense of melancholy that had settled over her. She knew now that she was only the thinnest distance away from the presence of death, that it stood behind a curtain of raindrops, watching the living. Everlasting darkness had invaded her life and was waiting at its edges — but for what?

  The sense grew stronger in her almost by the day. She found it hard to concentrate at work, and wondered about seeing someone, a therapist, but she knew she would first have to be referred by a doctor, and that would take time — time she did not have.

  The one person in her family who always made her feel good was Hannah, so she called her brother and suggested taking the ten-year-old to the Natural History Museum, where there was a new exhibition of dinosaurs. Her brother agreed and arranged to drop Hannah off on Saturday morning.

  The day dawned clear and bright, although it was cold. Hannah was excited to see her aunt, and chattered all the way to the exhibition. The pair spent hours studying the dinosaur bones and watching as the animatronic creatures twitched their tails and roared. Afterwards, they ate in the cafeteria and visited the rest of the items on display. The girl’s energy was exhausting, but a welcome antidote to the increasing despair of the last three weeks. When Karen next looked at her watch, she realised that it was 4:30 pm. “I’d better get you back,” she told the little girl, “or your Dad will be wondering where you are.”

  They reached the exit to find a crowd of people clustered there in a dense group. Outside, the February night had fallen and a tremendous storm had broken. Rain was pounding in waves across the road, slicing across the pavements and burbling over the overwhelmed drains.

  “We can’t go out in this,” she said, “you’ll catch your—” the word died on her lips. She looked out into the dim torrent, suddenly unsure of herself. The rain had a kind of foggy, smothering heaviness, and she knew there would be no let-up for ages. It was ridiculous to become trapped like this. She would simply have to face her fear.

  “The subway isn’t far from here,” Hannah told her. “If we run we won’t get wet.”

  “Your coat isn’t waterproof,” Karen admonished. “You’ll get soaked through.”

  “I’ll be fine. I can run really fast.”

  Some people behind bashed into them. The crowd at the exit got tighter and more unbearable. “Well, we can’t stay here,” said Karen finally. “Come on.” Gripping the girl’s hand tightly, she pulled her free of the crush and they stepped out into the rain. Hannah laughed as they ran through the increasingly empty street. London could seem quieter than the country at weekends because of the contrast with its weekdays.

  Karen realised with a jolt that in her anxiety to get out of the crowd they had run the wrong way, and were heading toward the darkness of the park. The road ahead was bare and rainswept, and a terrible sense of foreboding swept over her. Pins prickled the top of her spine, and there was a strange deadening of all sound around them except the falling rain. Slowly she turned and peered toward the park, looking into the grey-green gloom of the deluge.

  The soul taker was here again. She glanced down at Hannah, who was looking in the same direction, but the little girl clearly could not see anything unusual. Karen’s skin bristled as she raised her eyes once more.

  The man, or rather the negative shape of him, stepped through the glittering needles, brushing sprays of droplets aside, and was moving swiftly toward her. She smelled the familiar odour of dank, wet rot.

  “Come on, we have to run!” she shouted to Hannah, determined not to let the man in the rain touch them with his icy fingers. Hannah squealed with delight and virtually pulled Karen’s arm off, running ahead, leading the way, thinking it all a game. Karen glanced back and saw that the taker was gaining. The empty dry patch was sweeping toward her.

  They flew along the wet pavement with the thing in pursuit. The street was entirely deserted now except for the occasional car or van. Karen knew that the rainstorm was helping him and hindering her. It soaked her hair and shoulders and jeans so that running was more difficult. It was becoming harder and harder to see clearly ahead.

  “Which way?” called Hannah. They had reached a wide crossroads and were forced to stop at the curb. Karen had the crawling sensation that the taker was close behind them now.

  “Right, I think — yes.” But there was an articulated truck coming, and she knew they would be stuck here on the pavement until it had passed. Seizing the girl bodily, she swept her up and made a dash for it, carrying her across the road against the lights. They were lucky, and reached the other side without mishap — but when Karen glanced back she saw the empty rain-shape coming up directly behind her, its spattering arm reaching out and down. She knew in that split second that it had come for Hannah, that the little girl would catch cold from the rain and it would turn to pneumonia and she would die. It had come to take her.

  Karen shoved the shocked child back into the warm dry safety of the subway entrance and turned around to face the creature, catching it by surprise, stepping directly into its empty shell, so that she fully inhabited its form.

  There was a biting winter inside that cut into her bones and stung her eyes. Warmth was generated by life, and the absence within was so total and terrible that she could have been in the outer reaches of space. The being’s black despair was all-encompassing. It was driven to absorb all light, joy and humanity, to swamp any opposite force, to take away the essence of purpose from civilisation. Nothing could stop it.

  Karen was imprisoned in the cage of rain. She could not move without it, nor could the taker of life move without her, so perfectly did she fill its shape. They were locked together.

  She allowed it to walk her out into the traffic. The lights had changed. The truck bore down. A horn sounded. Tires shrieked. She felt nothing as she was crushed beneath its great wheels, nothing but victory and happiness.

  Hannah watched and screamed from the subway station entrance, until a kindly policeman reached down and helped her.

  When she finally got home, she told her parents what she had seen, just as she had told the policeman and the lady from the ambulance. She thought it best not to mention the man in the rain, the strange empty shape that had appeared just after her aunt had been hit by the truck. It had walked away into the downpour without a backward glance.

  But she knew somehow that she would see it again.

  Christopher Fowler was born in Greenwich, London. He is the award-winning author of thirty novels and ten short story collections, and author of the popular Bryant & May mysteries. He has fulfilled several schoolboy fantasies, releasing a terrible Christmas pop single, becoming a male model, posing as the villain in a Batman graphic novel, r
unning a night club, appearing in the Pan Books of Horror, and standing in for James Bond. His work divides into black comedy, horror, mystery and tales unclassifiable enough to have publishers tearing their hair out. After living in France and the USA he is now married and lives in King’s Cross, London.

  Keeping the Dead

  by Aaron Polson

  Sometimes, when Gant dreams, he imagines a wall with a gate wrought of iron, heavy and black with hints of rust where the bars cross. On either side of his dream gate, square blocks of limestone form pillars seven feet high — only a foot taller than the spine-topped stone wall. In the dream, Gant doesn’t know if the wall-builders intended to keep him in or the monsters out. He floats above the scene, watching as the wall curves in upon itself, spiraling toward an ever-receding center.

  Upon waking, he thinks of the setting sun and dark shapes which form and dissolve in the shadowed hills around the house. He rises to collect his buckets and fill them with oil. He needs the oil for the lanterns, and the lanterns to keep the monsters at bay. If he allows the Eaters of the Dead to enter the house, legend tells they will devour the dead villagers’ souls. He must be on guard.

  ○

  For his duties, the villagers feed him.

  At dusk, a boy shifts his weight from one foot to the other on Gant’s porch. He is new, and his eyes flit between the path to the village and the trees behind the house, never daring to look up at the towers, the windows, or even the door, once he raps lightly.

  “Come in,” Gant says. The door sags on its hinges and whines as Gant pushes it shut behind the boy. The boy takes a few, tiny steps inside, and freezes against the polished floor of the foyer. He is young — seven or eight as told by his impish features. His thin arms cradle the rug-wrapped pot against his chest. “Thank you,” Gant mumbles, taking the heavy dish from the child.