Dark Deaths_Selected Horror Fiction

by William Cook

  “But I digress, I have a proposal for you that will give you another thirty years to enjoy your family and your pitiful life but I need you to know that your word is your bond. Your father reneged and it cost him and now you, dearly. For you see, dear Laroux, because of your father’s deception you have inherited part of his debt. He too had thirty years allowed to him also; for it is a family curse you travel with. The land you stand on is the root cause for your station and your lot in life. You can never leave this place; but you should’ve left – generations ago – for your family holds a cruel history, Laroux. Very cruel indeed. The blood spilled on this land filled the swamp and then the lake with its torrents. The murder and torture committed here prompted my engineers to run track right through this place; au propre comme au figuré, of course, my dear Laroux. In fact, right where we stand, right where my locomotive is parked, is a station of the night, only visible to those who have a ticket.”

  Abel’s mind twisted and turned with what the driver told him. His sense of disbelief had vanished and he knew that everything he had been told was true. A dreadful sense of foreboding washed over him and all he could think about was Mary and his sweet daughters.

  “Take me but please don’t harm my family. They are innocent – they know nothing of my family’s past. Please . . .”

  The driver held up a long tapered finger and pressed it to Abel’s trembling lips.

  “I have what I came here for, Laroux. I have been waiting for the last in your family line and I now have him. You, on the other hand, will keep. As I said, you have another thirty years before I come for you again. Look, can you see the family resemblance?”

  The driver’s skin seemed to blacken as he held his hand aloft before him. In the remaining light Abel looked and saw the small body hunched in the creature’s palm, slick with bodily fluids and blood, the thin dripping umbilical cord dangling in the cool night air.

  “I don’t understand . . .” Abel said, unsure of anything now.

  The driver shook his head as if trying to rid himself of an unwelcome insect. His face blurred and shifted shape and then Abel’s Pappy stood before him . . .

  “Pappy? Pappy, is that . . .”

  What appeared to be his father began to chuckle, the same deep low guttural sound the creature had made before. The bloodied fetus was still held out toward Abel and seemed to be making slight mewling noises, much like a newborn piglet. With his other hand, Laroux Senior reached up to his forehead and yanked at the exposed flesh, tearing a massive slab of skin and gristle away from his cranium before flicking the limp tissue into the darkness. Abel dropped once again to his knees, unable to even form words in his mind let alone from his open mouth, as the creature grew swollen and its limbs popped and yawned as they elongated above him.

  “Your ignorance outweighs your stupidity by mere fractions, Laroux. This . . .” – the creature dipped down and held the nearly embryonic remains of the child beneath his nose – “. . . is your unborn son. And now he is mine.”

  The creature stood at full height, its massive horns tilted at the clouds, smoke rising from its flared snout as it tilted its huge head back and opened its salivating jaws, the rows of teeth vibrating like a chainsaw blade as it stretched its mouth wider and wider. It lifted the remains of Abel’s unborn son high into the air as the clouds parted, revealing a silvered full moon hanging in the distant sky, and dangled it above its open mouth, the long black tongue twisting underneath it like a cobra. Abel threw up as the creature dropped the tiny child’s body into its cavernous mouth. He sobbed as he curled up on the dirt amongst his own waste and other viscous fluids that covered the surrounding area.

  “Come now my child. You have protected your family – your wife will return to full health in the morning and you still have two beautiful young daughters.” The creature leaned low, its eyes – two twinkling infernos in the night.

  “But don’t forget . . .” he grasped Abel’s hand and effortlessly splayed the palm open with a long black claw. “You are mine, Abel Laroux; just as your Pappy and his Pappy before him.”

  The creature dug his curved talon deep into Abel’s palm, first length ways then sideways, leaving a bloody wound that cut right to the bone.

  “This is your ticket, Laroux. Now, return to your stool.”

  Abel rose in a trance, his shocked mind in complete disarray as he plodded mechanically back to his seat in the shadows of the porch. He sat quietly in his soiled clothes, his back rigid, his wounded hand cradled in the other. He watched the creature as it bent over the locomotive to inspect it. The creature tinkered with the engine compartment and then abruptly turned and stalked back towards Abel and the house. Abel remained motionless – his mind was devoid of rationale – all he could do was watch the creature approach, growing larger with each step until it passed the house, the earth trembling under Abel, causing the tools on their wall-hooks to rattle and sway. Minutes later, the earth shuddered again as the creature passed the house, heading back towards the waiting locomotive, except this time laden with a squirming armful of Abel’s hogs. He opened a side-door on the furnace chamber and flung the squealing pigs into the glowing firebox before melding back into the front cab, seemingly swallowed by the side-panels of the engine house.

  The eerie whistle pierced the night once again and the large lamp in front of the smokestack glowed its sickly green light as the first bellows of smoke and steam burst from the locomotive. Abel’s mind twitched as he watched the black train chug to life and the black smoke belch from the smokestack as it began its reverse journey back into the swamp. He shuddered as the distinctive ancient voice inside his brain echoed a sardonic farewell; the crossed wound on his palm glowed a fiery red in the darkness.

  “Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons à nouveau, Monsieur Laroux. Until we meet again, adieu.”

  Hopeless

  Anne hugged her little legs tight to her chest. She sobbed quietly in the dark space at the bottom of her closet. Mummy and Daddy were making big noises in the dining room, again. The darkness in the closet scared her but Daddy scared her more. Mummy was too frightened to be Mummy these days – she spent all her time crying and sleeping when Daddy wasn’t home. Anne counted slowly in the dark: ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ...’

  She jumped as her father smashed the dining-room window with her mother’s forehead, a handful of jet-black hair clenched in his fist as he pushed her face into the pane of glass. Her mother screamed as broken glass cut a deep track across her forehead and into her scalp. He pulled her backwards and down, ripping a clump of her long hair out as he threw her across the room. She crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor, her head bleeding profusely as she swam in and out of consciousness. Anne bit down on her small knuckles until she drew blood. She wanted to scream but knew that if she did, Daddy would pay her a visit next. Mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy...

  Anne hesitantly made her way down the hall and into the dining room after her father had slammed the front door and left the house. She found her unconscious mother crumpled on the floor in a pool of dark blood, broken glass sparkling in her thick black hair, a large flap of flesh and scalp dangling from her forehead. Anne threw up in the corner of the room, she felt dizzy and lost but still somehow managed to lift the telephone receiver and dial 911. ‘My mummy’s dead. She’s not moving. Please help. Please help. Please . . .’

  The officers first on the scene had determined that her mother was still alive. They shook their heads and tried their best to make her comfortable while they waited for the ambulance. One of them went outside to the waiting squad car and Anne followed and sat with him in the back-seat until the ambulance arrived. The officer kept talking into the radio on his shoulder; “. . . domestic incident, possible attempted murder. Suspect absent. Next of kin requested . . .” She sat quietly, shaking as if it were a winter’s day, despite the sun streaming through the squad-car’s window. The ambulance came and went; she saw her mother’s long black hair ha
nging down as they wheeled her out on a gurney and put her in the back of the vehicle. The other officer returned to the car and got in behind the steering wheel. He looked over his shoulder at Anne before reversing out of the driveway and onto the main street. Ten minutes later she was standing on her Grandmother’s porch, watching as the police informed the old woman about the assault on her daughter-in-law and the fugitive status of her only son. Her Grandma showed no emotion, just clasped her shawl tighter about her and said quietly to the shocked officers: “Good riddance to bad rubbish! And I don’t mean my son!” With that, she had promptly slammed the door shut on the two officers.

  Anne overheard the cops as they clomped their way down the porch steps before leaving her all alone with the old witch.

  “Jesus Christ! No wonder the husband’s a prick. Poor chick, having only that woman as her next-of-kin!”

  Her mother spent three days in the hospital undergoing micro-surgery to mend the deep wound that her husband had given her. She also underwent treatment for a severe concussion and fractured ribs. “A nasty tumble down the steps” was what she’d told the doctors, despite the fact that there were no steps tall enough to cause the injuries she had. No steps near a window, to cause the horrible scarring she now had to live with. The doctors wrote down the mother’s statement in their notebooks and on the medical documents, but they still referred her to the trauma counselling department for a pre-release session.

  Anne stayed with her Grandmother while her mother was in hospital. Her father’s mother was as cold to her as she’d always been – she said nothing to her, indifferent to the child’s presence in her home. Meanwhile, Anne’s father went on a three-day drunk while she sheltered in her Grandmother’s lonely house, seven doors down from her family home. At night, she lay in the dark, the starched sheets cold to the touch on her father’s childhood bed. The old house creaked as she tried to sleep but all she could think about was her mother. During the day, she wandered between the two houses, unsure of where she should be or what she should be doing. She couldn’t wait ‘til her mother returned home. She missed her so bad. On the third day, Anne walked to the hospital. It took her a good hour to walk the distance and her little legs ached when she arrived at the main entrance. No-one at the hospital spoke to Anne. It was like she was invisible, as she sat quietly in the waiting room with all the other patients’ families. The medical staff were constantly moving back and forth as new trauma cases flooded the emergency department. It was nearly impossible to catch someone’s attention to inquire as to the state of her mother’s health.

  After nearly three hours of waiting, Anne decided to walk back to her Grandma’s house and get some sleep. She felt strange as she walked the darkening streets – as though she was floating in a dream, her legs now numb with exertion but thankfully no longer aching.

  Her father turned up that night, banging on her Grandma’s front door and stinking of cheap gin and cigarettes. Anne noticed the cuts and marks on his knuckles from where he had hit her mother. “Bitch had it comin’,” was all he said to his mother as he climbed the stairs and entered his old room, removing a shoe-box from the depths of the cluttered closet. His mother stood sternly at the entrance as he descended the stairs, holding the door open for him, not saying a word.

  Anne climbed into the back seat of her father’s car, careful not to trip on the empty beer cans and liquor bottles that littered the floor in the back. She sat silently as her father climbed in and stashed the shoebox under the passenger’s seat before steering the car towards the hospital, chain-smoking cigarettes and sipping beer from a can as he weaved in and out of traffic – not saying a word to his daughter. When they arrived, Anne was shocked at the sight of her mum. Her mother said nothing, just looked at the floor and hobbled alongside her father who was joking and flirting with passing nurses. Somehow, he’d managed to bluff his way onto the ward – the nursing staff had been so busy they hadn’t even noticed as he bundled his hunched wife up under a coat and shuffled her out towards the exit. Bandages swathed her mother’s head, purple bruised skin ringed her eyes, and stitches lined her face.

  As they stepped out into the sunlight, her father wrapped his large hairy arm around her mother’s weak shoulders and whispered in her bandaged ear.

  “What a great day to be alive eh, Beverley?”

  As her father walked around the car and got in the driver’s seat, Anne heard her mother mutter under her breath, as she gingerly opened the passenger’s door and lowered herself into the seat. “Fuck you, you bastard. Fuck you.”

  They drove slowly home, her father singing a mindless tune out loud until they pulled up in the driveway. He turned the ignition off and looked at his wife for a few long slow seconds before winking.

  “I have a surprise for you when we get inside. Yes sirree.”

  He got out and slammed the car door before opening his wife’s door, gripping her arm tightly as she struggled out of her seat. Anne looked at her father and felt nothing but hate for the man who stood before her.

  “Come on,” he yelled, “didn’t you hear me you stupid bitch? I have a surprise waiting for you, now fucking move!” He shoved her frightened mother towards the front door and then retrieved the shoebox from under the seat.

  “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the kitchen chair. Anne did as she was told while watching her mother slowly seat herself on the chair. She saw the pain in her mother’s eyes and knew that the pain went a lot deeper than the fresh scars on her face. Her father burped and ceremoniously placed the shoe-box in the middle of the kitchen table.

  “Nosey shit ain’t ya,” he drawled drunkenly, as he loomed over his cowering wife.

  “But you’re right in thinkin’ there’s something in that box that should interest you.”

  “Open it, wife.”

  She raised her head slowly and looked at the shoe-box for a second – unsure of what lay in store for her.

  “Open it, bitch,” he hissed at her and tugged her hair.

  She winced and whimpered as the stitched wound on her scalp flared with hot pain, but she did as she was told. Anne watched her mother remove the cardboard lid and set it to one side – a shocked look on her face and then the tears began to run down her bruised cheeks. She wanted to reach out and comfort her mother but she had never liked to be touched. Instead, Anne sat motionless and watched her mother cry as her father removed the snub-nosed revolver from the shoe-box and held it up to admire it. He tilted it in the light, watching the steel shine – he hefted the weight of it in his hand and then levelled it at her mother’s head.

  “Now I bet you’re wondering what I’m gonna do with this little puppy, huh?”

  Anne felt her bladder loosen and a flood of warm pee wet the seat of her skirt.

  “I am sick of having to keep an eye on you. This here’s gonna be your passport to hell if you don’t get your shit together and do what I fuckin’ tell you to do.”

  He ranted wildly, waving the pistol about.

  “GOT IT? HAVE YOU GODDAMN GOT IT?”

  Anne and her mother simultaneously uttered their affirmative replies between sobs.

  Her father aimed the pistol directly at her head for a minute, before caressing her mother’s head bandage menacingly. Time seemed to stand still and Anne was sure he was going to kill them both then and there. Her father smiled and stepped back, putting the revolver in the waist-band of his trousers.

  “Good. Now go to your room,” he commanded.

  Anne found herself hunkered down amongst the shoes and fallen clothes in her parent’s closet. She sat in the dark space, much the same way she had so often hidden in her own closet, her little arms wrapped around her bent knees drawn up under her cherub chin. Tears freely ran down her soft pale cheeks as she waited in the dark. She knew something bad was going to happen soon. Something really, really, bad. She heard her mother quietly sobbing as she lay on the bed. Anne put her eye up to the crack in the door and watched her mother as she lay on the bed on
her back, rigid, waiting for her husband to enter the room. Daddy was a bad man and he was going to do bad things to mummy. She felt so sad for her mum and she wished she could make things better. Then her father kicked the door open and leaped on top of her screaming mother, ripping at her clothes like a wild bear, slapping at her, pushing her, saying disgusting things to her as he pulled his own clothes from his drunk sweaty self.

  Anne looked away, trying hard not to throw up as she covered her ears. It seemed to take forever, as she sat there in the closet shadows feeling the thumps and vibrations on her cold back as the bed-head smacked against the bedroom wall. Finally, the noises ceased and she took her hands from her ears. Anne could hear her mother’s sobs and light footfalls as she stumbled from the bed and left the bedroom. Her naked father lay on the bed on his back, his large gut rising and falling as his snores began to fill the room. Anne hated the sight of him, every ounce of her being wanted to be rid of him as she wished him dead.

  She opened the closet door and stepped into the half-light of the bedroom, the sunrise creeping between the cracks in the old curtains. She pulled the bloodied bed-sheet up and covered her father’s flaccid sex. She stood next to him, looking down at the man who she had once idolized. She knew what she had to do as she turned and left the bedroom, making her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  On the way back to her parent’s bedroom she looked in her own room. Her mother was in her bed facing the wall. She closed the door gently and crossed the hall to her parent’s bedroom. Her father hadn’t moved although, she noticed with disgust, he had relieved himself in the bed – a spreading wet stain on the bed-sheet, testament to his weak bladder. She placed the shoebox on the bedside table and removed the lid. She stood there for a long minute, listening to her father’s drunken snores, as she stared at the chrome-plated revolver. Anne willed herself to pick up the handgun – using all of her strength she raised the weapon with her small opaque hands. The weight of the gun was nowhere near as heavy as the dread which accompanied her decision.