Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales

by Simon Strantzas

  Rex didn’t bother turning. “It’s the time of year, bro. This place is literally crawling in the summer, but it’s the end of the season now. They’re going to be shutting down after this weekend for the winter months.”

  “But is it safe?”

  Rex made a noise that was as much snort as it was scoff. Garrison had heard it before, and it did nothing to relieve his anxiety.

  “If you do what I tell you, there won’t be a problem. Now are you ready?”

  Reluctantly, Garrison nodded.

  “Yes.”

  Rex climbed, chalked fingers into thin crevices, edges of his shoes on narrow projections. The guide wire slipped easily through the rings on his harness as he effortlessly scaled the rock face, and when he was a few feet above Garrison’s head he paused to shout down, “Start climbing! Just use the same holds I did. If you get stuck, let me know.”

  Garrison looked around again to see if someone—anyone—was watching. Then he swallowed hard and told himself, “You can do this,” before putting his fingers into the first groove.

  The two climbed. It took less than two minutes for Garrison’s muscles to start complaining, and he had to fight the urge to simply give up. After another two minutes the sensation dissipated, and his breathing regulated. All his attention then focused on climbing.

  Periodically, Rex would stop to hammer in another loop for their safety wire. When Garrison passed each he would look at it and feel intense doubt that it could support his weight if he fell. He was glad at least to be pressed so close to the rock’s face; it prevented him from looking down at how far they’d travelled. He had a feeling the sight would not be comforting.

  “I bet Mom would have loved it here,” Rex said, oblivious to the effort Garrison was making simply to keep up. “The air is completely awesome, isn’t it? There’s nothing like it. I found out about Downe Park on the Internet. Apparently, it’s the best climb for miles. It’s the rocks—this used to be a lake once, and all the years of sediment have shaped it in such a unique way. I love this place. Sometimes, when it’s windy, the howls sound like people screaming.” The idea overjoyed Rex for some reason. Then he paused and looked down at his brother. “How are you doing down there?”

  It took most of Garrison’s concentration to keep focused and remain moving. If he stopped, the terror might prevent him from ever starting again. “I’m okay,” he rushed, hoping his voice didn’t betray his fear. All that he heard chanted over and over again in his skull was the howls sound like people screaming, and he wondered how many of those people were plummeting to their deaths.

  After the first fifteen minutes they arrived at a small plateau, and Garrison used the last of his energy to pull himself over the edge. He lay on the ground, panting heavily as Rex chuckled above him.

  “You’re out of shape, bro.”

  “I . . . could have . . . told you that,” Garrison sputtered through heaving breaths. His heart thundered in his ears, and with his head resting on the rock it sounded as though something was moving within the stone. By the time he could sit, Rex was kneeling in front of the rock, inspecting the next leg of their journey.

  “Hey, there’s something carved here, like words, but I can barely read them . . .”

  Garrison’s head, however, was swimming with other thoughts.

  “This seems like a waste of time. What are we trying to prove, Rex? Really?”

  “We aren’t proving anything. We’re just doing something different. Would you rather stay at home some more in the dark? It’s not good for you.”

  “I really don’t mind it,” he muttered.

  Rex’s brow furrowed.

  “Well, it’s not good for me then, okay? I need to get out. Think about something other than Mom. You know she wouldn’t have wanted you to be like this, don’t you? Missing her so much? She’d want you to get on with your life.”

  Garrison didn’t want to look at him. “I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t see how.”

  “You don’t see, or don’t want to see? You were the same way when she was sick—you didn’t want to know anything about it. As if ignoring it would make it go away. Sticking your head in the sand and hiding didn’t do you any good. It just gave you less time with her. And you obviously haven’t learned your lesson; you still have your eyes closed.”

  Garrison felt his throat closing. He breathed deeply, trying to remain in control, and avoided looking at his brother. He knew what expression Rex would be wearing.

  The silence hung on, and part of Garrison wondered if the world had frozen. Then he felt a nudge to his ribs, and he turned and squinted at the shadow standing above him, silhouetted by the sun. Strange waves emanated and grew from Rex’s body, but those subsided as Garrison’s vision adjusted. Rex rubbed his hands across his shirt, leaving the ghost of chalk streaks across it. “Are you ready to keep going?”

  Garrison looked at the path they had ahead of them and felt physically ill. His joints ached in protest. Rex was looking at him suspiciously, as though he already knew what was next.

  “I—I don’t think I want to keep going.”

  A flustered but unsurprised sigh.

  “I knew you’d chicken out on me, Gar. It’s only another forty minutes up. You can do it.”

  “I don’t want to do it. I feel like shit. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I just don’t feel like doing this today. I’m sorry.”

  Rex’s nostrils flared, and though Garrison couldn’t see past his brother’s sunglasses, it was clear he wasn’t impressed. Every fibre of Garrison wanted to relent and do as Rex wanted, but instead he stood silent. Part of him wondered if his mother’s death had finally added something to compensate for all it took away.

  “Fine. Get your stuff. We’re going home.”

  Leaves the color of burnt umber floated past Garrison’s face like the feathers shed from some strange bird, but he tried not to become distracted by them, not as he carefully descended. A few feet above, his silent brother followed, removing pegs as he passed them, his small hammer striking vibrations that reflected back from within the rock. The trip downward proved strangely more difficult and treacherous, and though each near-miss of a hold let loose a wave of paralyzing fear through Garrison’s body so strong he nearly wept, he pushed through it. But only then because he did not want to fail further in Rex’s eyes, and because he saw no faster alternative that would return him to the ground—a place he swore he would never again leave.

  It was unclear what happened next. Without warning he found himself floating, the world spinning vertiginously. Images of deep unyielding sky and solid red rock flickered before him. But there were other images, images that moved too fast to comprehend, images of dark flesh and multitudinous eyes, all staring outward. He felt a thousand touches brush his face, and as everything flashed his already tenuous grasp slipped. Then in an instant it was over, and he was upside down, dangling, his right arm caught behind his back and filled with intense paresthesia. He was disoriented and nauseated, and wasn’t sure if he was going to pass out or simply cease to be.

  The sensation of something dripping onto his face kept him awake. That, and the voice screaming from somewhere far away; too far away, though, to warrant much attention. Garrison lazily put his free hand to his cheek to brush away whatever was kissing it, and was genuinely amused to see it slick with dark blood. He laughed, and the sound echoed and the world spun again and everything disappeared into the void of his unconsciousness.

  Garrison woke engulfed by the sight of that empty blue sky, the edges of which had already started to darken with grey. He attempted to sit up, and his sense of equilibrium spun violently before everything went dark once more. The next time he opened his eyes the darkness had bled further inward, but the bulk of the sky was filled with Rex’s concerned face.

  “Gar, you awake, bro? Say something.”

  Every inch of Garrison’s body ached. He was still dizzy, but managed to remain upright.

  “I think so. What ha
ppened?”

  “You fell. You’re lucky the line caught you but it looks as if you messed up your arm. I cinched a towel around it, but we need to get you to the hospital.”

  Garrison caught a glimpse of his wrapped arm and his stomach rebelled. The once-white towel had turned a dark russet red, and merely observing it made the damaged limb ache. Part of Garrison wasn’t surprised. The rock finally got what it wanted. What was strange was that Garrison had managed to live through it.

  With help from Rex, he was able to get to his feet. Rex helped him back to the car and put him in the passenger seat before throwing the gear into the trunk and getting behind the wheel. “You’re going to be fine,” Rex kept repeating in his usual calm voice. “I’ve done a lot worse. You got really lucky.”

  “I don’t feel so lucky right now. I feel sick.”

  “If you think you’re going to throw up, let me know and I’ll pull over. You’re in shock, but it’ll pass. I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood for it to be anything worse, but hell knows what’s happening inside. I still can’t understand how you did it. Did you just lose your grip?”

  “Something like that, I guess,” Garrison said, unable to explain it in any other way. He remembered the sensation on his chest of being pushed, though he didn’t see how that could be right. His body stung, thousands of little stabs from where he must have scraped himself across the rocks as he fell, yet none of those wounds were on the surface. Like all his others, the damage was on the inside. He imagined he could feel the blood seeping into his body, causing his organs to fail. How often did someone walk away from an accident only to die of a hemorrhage or clot an hour later? Already, his body was beginning to shake, just as his mother’s had before she . . .

  “How many times?” Garrison asked, trying to still his body.

  “How many times what?”

  “Have you hurt yourself like this? You said you’ve done it. How many times?” He struggled to keep the panic from his voice. “Where’s the hospital?”

  “Easy, bro. Take it easy.” Rex didn’t take his eyes from the road, but he reached out a still-chalked hand and put it on his brother’s leg. “The Stouffville Hospital is close to Markham. I already have it programmed into the GPS, so try and stay calm and we’ll be there soon.” At once Garrison’s body ceased shaking, but the pain in his damaged arm continued to radiate outward, entering his fingers and neck. He wondered how long it would take to consume his entire body.

  Garrison rested his head on the window nervously and watched the scenery go by. It was like a blur, the same trees over and over again, the same fields, the same boarded house. He almost didn’t notice when Rex slowed the car down—the spinning in his head continued as though they were travelling at full speed. “The GPS says we’re close, but it’s hard to tell. The route it’s calculated—it really seems overly complicated.”

  As if to prove his point, the soft British accent of the navigator gently insisted he turn off the road they were on and head back the direction they had come. Rex clucked his tongue and kept going forward while the navigator took time to recalculate their route. Once done, it plotted a new course, one that would again take them back the way they had come. Eventually, Rex pulled over to the side of the road.

  “Obviously, this thing isn’t going to be much help. I’m just going to turn off the directions and just drive by the map.”

  Garrison looked out at the flat farmland on either side of the narrow highway. He could still see the edges of Downe Park in the distance, radiating some strange aura of distortion. It pulsed in rhythm with his body. He wondered if he were imagining it, the movement caused by the blood pumping through his head. Everything appeared fuzzy, and he wasn’t sure if what he saw a short distance away was actually there or merely a mirage born of pain. He tried to blink it away, but it remained unchanged.

  “What is that? Is that the Stouffville Hospital?”

  Rex squinted ahead.

  “It can’t be. We’re nowhere near— Hey, you’re right. What is that?”

  “It must be the hospital.”

  “Well,” Rex said, fastening his seatbelt and starting the car. “I always told you I didn’t need that stupid navigator.”

  There on the horizon it stood, but without a point of reference it was impossible to tell just how large the building was until they got closer to it. When they finally reached the parking lot twenty minutes later, Garrison wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not. The hospital was tall and lean, shaped like a dagger digging into the ground, and its once-white edifice looked dirty and worn. Across the overhang of the Emergency Entrance were letters two feet tall that spelled DOWNE HOSPITAL, and though the trees and bushes flanking the entranceway had once been carved into shapes, what those ragged shapes were had become impossible to guess. Garrison wondered for how long it had stood and for how much longer it could remain standing.

  Rex pulled the car up to the door below the giant letters.

  “Well, it’s no Stouffville Hospital. That’s for sure.”

  “It looks deserted,” Garrison said.

  “Hang on,” Rex said, then hopped out of the car and jogged to the glass doors. He put his hands to the glass and peered inside. Garrison swallowed and leaned back against the headrest. His arm was grumbling, and he felt a queer wave of vertigo wash over him. When Rex appeared at his open window, it made Garrison jump, and he screamed from the acute pain the sudden movement evoked.

  “Sorry, Gar. I’m pretty sure I see someone moving inside though. Do you want me to go find you a wheelchair?”

  “I think it’s okay. I just need help getting out of the car.”

  Rex came around to the passenger side and reached in, allowing Garrison to put his arm around his brother’s neck. Rex lifted him out fairly easily, but Garrison still staggered getting his balance once on the ground. The world had a soft quality to it, as though he were watching it through a gauzy lens. He stood one step out of sync with everything, an observer observing, and the disconnection only made things feel less real.

  There were a few patients in the dim, rundown hallway of the emergency room, citizens no doubt from Markham and beyond all waiting their turn. They stared glassy-eyed, and those eyes seemed unusually large, larger than any Garrison had ever seen—surely an illusion caused by his shock and blood loss. Could that have also accounted for the distant humming he heard? Almost chanting, as though he were in some sort of church?

  “Sit down here, Gar. Let me go find someone to admit you.”

  As Garrison watched Rex disappear down the hallway, what he first took to be the tapping of his brother’s feet echoed longer than seemed possible. He peered around but could see no source for the noise; not unless it was caused by the woman in the row of plastic chairs across from him, rocking slowly back and forth. She was in her mid-fifties, her thinning black hair streaked with the purest white. She looked unwashed and unkempt, as though she’d been seated there for days, continuously shaking and staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes. He leaned closer. That sound, that deep hum like singing, like no song Garrison had ever heard, seemed to bleed from the edges of her open mouth. As it did, he realized, from the other patients as well. Sitting, or standing, or shambling in the hallway, they sang in unison, and yet none betrayed any sign of doing so. It had to be some illusion, some echo carried down the hallway from elsewhere, or perhaps Garrison’s exhaustion was fooling with his mind.

  He laid his head back on the chair and closed his eyes to ease the wave of dizziness that had overtaken him. Slithering, sloping teeth and blood; thin twisted arms and protrusions, like creeping vines yet thicker, longer, spiraling outward; the flicker of faces decomposing, transforming. The violent cascade of images vanished as Garrison was shaken awake, and what he had been dreaming dissipated, leaving only the remnant sensation of unease. Rex stood over him, his face calm and reassuring, as always.

  “I can’t find anybody,” he said. He looked up and down the hall. “I can’t fin
d anybody at all. Has anyone come out to see you yet?”

  Bleary-eyed, Garrison shook his head. He turned to ask the rocking woman but saw only a row of broken plastic seats.

  “Come on, Gar. Let’s go.”

  “What?”

  “Get up. We’re taking a walk.”

  Garrison pushed himself up as best he could, but when his strength faltered Rex stepped in. He swung his brother’s good arm over his shoulder.

  “Rex, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Hang tight, bro. We’ll find a doctor in this place if I have to kick in every operating room door.”

  Rex carried his brother forward down the halls, past unmoving patients who simply stared. Garrison looked at each, and each had that same impossibly wide and vacant gaze, like a menagerie of soulless fish. Did they see something in him? Some sign that his wound was worse than he imagined? His shivering returned, yet if Rex noticed he said nothing.

  “See those doors ahead? The ones that say ‘no entry’? Guess what? We’re going to be entering.”

  Rex pushed through doors with his free hand. Beyond them the light was considerably diminished, as was the presence of the unsettling fish-eyed patients. There was an empty wheelchair along the edge of the hallway, though Garrison wondered if it was in any condition to handle his meagre weight. Rex lowered him into it gently nonetheless and breathed a heavy breath when it did not collapse.

  “That feel better?”

  Garrison nodded, though he wasn’t sure. He squirmed in the seat, trying to get comfortable. The leather felt warm and recently vacated, but there was no one else in the hall who could have been using it.

  Rex pushed the chair as Garrison held his wounded arm. The towel was sticky with drying blood. Garrison’s teeth chattered, the sound barely disguising the rhythmic throbbing in his head. It almost sounded real.

  “Hello!” Rex called out. “Is there anybody in here?”

  They passed room after unoccupied room, and Garrison felt delirium slowly taking hold. Each bed he saw made his heart skip, so sure was he that their mother would sit up and look at them, sallow and pale from her wasting disease, hair in clumps around her. Even in the half-dream, her face was wrong. It was the same impossibly wide stare on the faces of the Markham patients they had left behind in the hospital emergency room.