The Darkening

by Paul Antony Jones

  But it was her daughter's eyes that caused Genie's heart to stop dead in her chest. Her child's eyes were glowing in the beam of her flashlight, shining a deep yellow, like the cat's-eye lane markers on a freeway.

  "Oh, my Lord," Genie whispered. She grabbed for the crucifix that hung at her throat. Genie's voice found some of its normal strength, bolstered by the surge of anger and grief she felt swelling within her. "Oh, my baby girl. My beautiful baby girl. What have they done to you?" Genie had no idea who 'they' might be, but she knew that something terrible had been inflicted on her child. Her daughter would never have willingly allowed this to happen to her.

  Ophelia spoke. "Motherrrr."

  The word was drawn out until it sounded like a purr, or maybe a growl, Genie thought. Her daughter's voice had lost its soft edge, replaced with a sharpness that reminded Genie of the rasping of a saw against wood, as though her daughter's throat was choked or blocked.

  "Have you missed me, Mother?" Again, the final consonant was drawn out to a sibilant growl.

  Genie stood transfixed in the hallway, silent, her tongue frozen, unable to reply as fear gripped her.

  Ophelia swayed gently back and forth, rocked by a breeze only she could feel. Then she spoke again, "So good to see you, and home just in time for dinner." Ophelia giggled as though she had just shared a funny joke with her terrified mother. As she laughed, something thick and black oozed from between her lips, splashing onto her dirty sneakers. "I've missed you, Mother," Ophelia said, matter-of-factly, then suddenly strode straight toward Genie, her head swaying from side to side like a cobra.

  Genie gasped and took a step backward, her flashlight illuminating her child's pallid face and glowing eyes as the girl moved purposefully toward her mother. Something was wrong with her daughter's mouth, it was weirdly unhinged, opening wider than any human mouth should be able to, and revealing—

  "Oh dear God, no. No. NO!" The last word was yelled, as though the mere utterance might prove strong enough to negate what she was seeing: Teeth. Rows of black teeth, punctuated by upper and lower sets of fangs that curved up and down from Ophelia's jaws.

  Genie staggered back out into the corridor. Her child did not seem in a rush as she continued onward, but her movements were insect-like, her limbs snapping from one step to the next rather than flowing. It gave her a menacing, purposeful gait. Completely alien.

  The heel of Genie's right sneaker clipped the raised wooden threshold of the doorway. Genie fell backward, her hands windmilling... and found the door frame. She grabbed on hard and steadied herself. A powerful anger had begun to rise in her breast; decades of oppression and humiliation, year upon year of trying to keep her head above water just to survive, to provide for her child, to make sure Ophelia had something better than her life had been. And now all of that hard work, that suffering, and sacrifice had been reduced to... what? Nothing.

  "Lost," Genie said, tears beginning to flood down her cheeks. "It's all lost." She staggered out into the exterior passageway, the cold wind and biting rain instantly hammering her but she felt neither. All she felt now was a cold, growing hatred deep within her core, the bastard child of her despair.

  Genie looked up and down the corridor, there was no one else around. She thought about knocking on one of the doors, calling for help, but that had never been her thing. She had always handled everything herself, her own way. "Only way to be sure anything ever gets done," she said aloud as she spotted the box fixed to the wall about twenty feet away.

  Ophelia stalked toward Genie, her lower jaw dropped almost to the swell of her young breast.

  Her child was a beast. A demon. A monster. Genie staggered toward the box, praying it would not be empty.

  "Mother, where are you going?" Ophelia demanded.

  She ignored Ophelia's mocking question, concentrating instead on flipping the two clasps that kept the glass front panel of the box locked. Her fingers fumbled them open, she and reached inside, grabbing what she found there with both hands.

  She swung around and found herself face-to-face with her child. It was only now, so close to each other, that Genie realized Ophelia was not breathing, that her eyes had not blinked once since she had first illuminated them with her flashlight.

  A black tongue slipped from between Ophelia's bloodless lips and slithered through the air separating mother from daughter, the tip of it brushed against Genie's right cheek.

  Genie let out a faint whimper and stepped away until she felt the cold of the wall at her back.

  Ophelia stepped closer, her mouth opening wider, wider, as her head tilted to the side, her eyes fixed on her mother's throat, black liquid drooling from her lips.

  "I'm sorry, baby," Genie cried out and swung the fire-ax with all her might.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was almost dawn by the time Detective Phillip Collins pulled up in front of the Gas 'N Go.

  Dawn? Not so you'd have noticed, he thought, the clouds were so thick there wasn't even a hint of daylight on the eastern horizon. The exterior of the gas station was teeming with cops. The discovery of the abandoned police cruiser at the station meant every officer within a six-mile radius was either here already or on the way. Collins put his car in park, pulled the collar of his rain coat up around his neck and stepped out into the rain.

  Overhead, a police helicopter moved back and forth, its searchlight playing across the ground and nearby buildings, its engines roaring.

  "Hey, Garcia. What are we looking at?" Collins asked. He ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and walked over to where Sergeant Rafael Garcia waited beneath the cover of the gas station's front awning, inhaling the remains of a cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

  "See for yourself," Garcia said grimly. He tossed the butt into the rain and nodded toward the gas station's entrance.

  Collins looked silently at the glass front of the gas station as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He stepped up to the door, pushed it open and was instantly hit by the unmistakable coppery smell of spilled blood. Lots of spilled blood judging by how overwhelming the smell was in his nostrils. He slowly scanned the interior of the store, taking in everything before he moved any farther.

  There were two distinct pools of blood along the aisle closest to the exit, one at either end. Bloody footprints (actual footprints, he noted, like someone hadn't been wearing any shoes) led through the pools of blood toward the security booth at the opposite end of the store. They stopped halfway across, before, disturbingly, starting again about ten feet from the booth, as though whomever the prints belonged to had vaulted the twenty feet or so of clean floor.

  A display of plastic oil containers lay scattered across the tiles. Just in front of the security booth was another large pool of congealed blood. The glass of the security booth had been shattered, large pieces of it lay on the counter and scattered over the floor. A patrol officer's cap lay flat-side down near a rack of magazines a few feet away.

  Collins had been working homicide for going on fifteen years now. He had seen some things in that time, but this, this was a first.

  "It's like a goddamn slaughterhouse," Garcia whispered at Collins shoulder.

  Collins took another step inside, sniffed the air like a dog. The place was rank with the stench of spilled blood, but that was about it. There was no residual scent of gunfire, there were no blast marks that he could see, either, so he could probably rule out a shotgun having been used. Which meant to spill this amount of blood, the weapon had to have been a blade of some sort. He walked toward the security booth, carefully avoiding treading in any of the blood splatter, his eyes scanning the other aisles as he passed them.

  "Who the hell gave permission for the M.E. to remove the bodies?" Collins said angrily when he reached the opposite side of the store and found not a single victim.

  Garcia laughed. "There weren't any bodies, Phil," he said. "No sign of them at all. It's like they just up and walked off." He clenched his right hand into a fist and exploded
the fingers outward. "Poof! Gone."

  "Security camera?" asked Collins, almost absentmindedly.

  "We checked. Nothing. Doesn't look like it's worked in a long time."

  Collins leaned his head through the shattered security glass, careful not to touch anything. The booth was empty. There were smears of blood on the inside counter, what looked like a bloody palm print on what was left of the front pane, but beyond that, no sign of a struggle. He noticed a woman's purse on a cupboard below the rack of cigarettes. It was open and lay on its side, a tube of lipstick and some tissues had spilled out. The cigarette display cabinet on the back wall was still filled with packs of cigarettes, though some had spilled onto the countertop. The register's money tray was closed. He'd have to check later to be certain it hadn't been gone through, but right now it didn't look like the motivation was robbery.

  He thought for a few moments as he slowly scanned the area.

  Maybe it was a robbery that had just gone bad. Maybe whoever had done this had been surprised by the two beat cops walking in just as he was kicking off. But how the hell would someone manage to take down two armed officers? That was unlikely for a lone perp. Especially if all the attacker had was a knife or machete. It didn't make any sense. And no bodies. Why in God's name would someone remove the bodies? It just did not make sense at all.

  "There was no assistance call from the two officers?" Collins asked.

  "Nada. Not a peep," said Garcia, standing in a growing puddle of rainwater dripping from his slicker. "They went code-seven and that was the last we heard from them. It was only when dispatch got the call from the service station attendant and the mobile unit showed up on scene that we even knew any of our people were involved."

  Collins nodded. "When the forensics guys get here, tell them I want the inside of that security booth swept like it was their own mother they were looking for, got it? And have someone run a background on the attendant too. Make sure she's not in the system already." The idea that the service station attendant—what was her name again, Finch? — could be behind this seemed implausible, but this was LA. The impossible and the improbable happened on an almost daily basis here, and he was long past being surprised at what new bullshit the city's residents could cook up to screw up his day.

  Collins pulled his head out of the security booth, then changed his mind and leaned in again as his eyes caught something he'd missed. "Well that makes even less sense," he said, not meaning for anyone else to hear.

  "What?" asked Garcia, straining to look over the detective's shoulder.

  "The door to the booth. It's bolted."

  "So?"

  "From the inside. It's bolted from the inside.”

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Birdy had never needed an alarm to wake her. So even though Monday's school had been cancelled because of the rain, the natural rhythm of her body's internal clock roused her just before six a.m., as it did on almost every other normal school day. That internal alarm had rarely failed her, which was why she felt a momentary confusion as, bleary eyed, she glanced around her room and saw that it was still dark. A meager light flowed sluggishly through her bedroom window, bleeding a wan glow throughout her room. Turning to her bedside cabinet, Birdy touched the screen of her cell phone. It was 6:04 am.

  She swept her legs out of bed and shuffled to the window, wiping sleep out of her eyes. Outside, gray clouds the same color as the skin of some of the ancient women who lived in the apartments around her, had stolen the sky. The vast bank of cloud blocked all but the tiniest amount of light from the invisible sun, hidden deep within the clouds' suffocating folds. A steady wall of rain still fell, adding to the growing lakes of water that had collected overnight on the sidewalks and small patches of grass dotting the street. The gutters and storm drains gushed. Trees dripped. The smell of wetness, dank and cold, hung heavily in the air.

  This would not be a day to be outside, Birdy decided quickly.

  There was no sign of anyone on the street. Usually, even at this early hour, Birdy was used to seeing a steady flow of people walking to their cars or to the bus stop. Today nothing moved. She pushed her feet into a pair of slippers and shuffled out of her room, yawning. Her mom's bedroom door was closed, which wasn't unusual after she had worked a night shift at the gas station. Birdy stretched. She must have slept extra deeply last night because she hadn't heard her mom come home.

  In the kitchen she pulled the last four slices of bread from their bag and slotted them into the toaster—two for her, two for mom. She filled the coffee maker with water and coffee and turned it on, then leaned back against the counter while she waited for both machines to do their jobs.

  When the toast popped, she buttered each slice and spread a thin layer of raspberry preserves on her mom's, strawberry on her own, took down two mugs, filled them with coffee and a smidgen of milk, loaded everything on a tray, and headed down the hall to her mom's bedroom. The mugs rattled against the plates of toast as she walked.

  "Knock, knock," she said outside the bedroom door, her hands too occupied with holding the tray to perform the actual action.

  There was no response.

  "Mom. Wakey, wakey. I'm coming in so you'd better be decent." Birdy used her knee to push down on the door handle, bumped the door open with her butt and eased in backward, her focus on keeping the tray from spilling its contents. "It's six-fifteen," she said, turning around. "You're going to be late if—"

  Mom's bed was empty, the sheets still tucked hotel-tight, the way she made it every day before leaving for work.

  "Mom?" Birdy set the rattling tray down on the highboy. "Mom?" Still nothing other than the sound of the rain beating against the side of the apartment. Maybe she'd missed her somehow and she was in the bathroom? Birdy checked but the bathroom was empty. "Mom?" she called out again as she headed to the living room to see if she'd fallen asleep on the sofa, a note of unease creeping into Birdy's voice. Mom wasn't there either. That left... nowhere.

  Maybe she's left for work already, Birdy reasoned. But that wasn't like her mom. No way would she have gone off to work without saying goodbye to her little girl. No way. That left only one possibility: Mom had to still be at the gas station. That had to be it. The weather must have been so bad last night she had spent the night at the Gas 'N Go.

  Birdy walked back to her bedroom and checked her phone. There were no messages. She scrolled through the contacts list on her cell phone until she found her mom's number, pressed the dial button and waited.

  After seven rings the call went to voicemail.

  "Hello, you've reached Elizabeth Finch. I can't get to the phone right now, please leave a message and I'll get right back to you."

  Birdy spoke at the beep. "Mom, it's me. Where are you? Call me as soon as you get this message. I'm going to call the gas station." She tried but failed to keep the displeasure she felt at her mom's lack of consideration out of her voice. Birdy hung up and again scrolled through the phone's contact list, this time looking for the number for the gas station where her mom worked.

  The phone picked up after just one ring and a man with a voice Birdy didn't recognize said, "Hello?"

  "Hi, is Mrs. Finch there? I need to talk to her."

  "Who is this?" the voice on the other end asked.

  "This is Bir— This is Annabelle, her daughter. Who are you?"

  "Annabelle, my name is Detective Collins, and I need you to stay on the line with me."

  The man's voice was calm and soothing but that didn't stop a burst of panic from pummeling Birdy. She felt her throat go dry and her heart begin to pound. How had the police tracked her down so quickly? Maybe from the mall's surveillance video, or maybe Trenton had told them who she was. But why had they gone to where her mom worked? Were they arresting her? Oh my God, Mom is going to kill me, Birdy thought.

  "It was an accident, I didn't mean to do it," she blurted into the phone.

  "What?" The word was spoken sharply and with surprise,
as if she had just slapped the man on the other end of the phone. "What did you say?"

  "It was an accident," Birdy repeated. "It wasn't my mom's fault. I'm the one who took the sneakers, but it was an accident. I was trying them on and then the security guys tried to blame me, and—" The words fell from her lips as quickly as the rain.

  "Annabelle, hold on. Hold on," the detective said. "This isn't about... sneakers."

  Birdy breathed a sigh of relief, berating herself for giving her secret away.

  The detective continued, "I need you to verify something for me, Annabelle, okay?"

  "Uh huh," said Birdy, unsure whether she should actually agree to do anything for this random guy who had answered the store's phone.

  "Tell me your mom's name."

  "Elizabeth. Elizabeth Finch."

  "And she works here at the Gas 'N Go station, right?"

  "Yes," said Birdy. "She works nights. She was supposed to be off last night, but Roberto didn't show up for his shift so she went in to cover him. Where's my mom?"

  The detective ignored her question. "And she was definitely working last night?" he continued, his voice so devoid of emotion that it instantly got Birdy's attention.

  "Yes. Where's my mom? I want to speak to her right now," Birdy demanded.

  There was a pause, "She can't come to the phone, Annabelle. Listen, how about I come and pick you up, so we can talk in person? Tell me where you live."

  Birdy felt a flutter in her chest, like a bird suddenly realizing it was trapped there, beating its wings against her ribs, trying to get out. She felt a tear roll down her cheek but she didn't know why. Her mind was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of white; she felt disconnected from her body. "Please let me speak to my mom," she heard a high-pitched voice say, but it did not register as her own.