Midnight Falls (The Order of Shadows Book 2)

by Kit Hallows

  Dutch's Tavern was still there, as was the old rusted tractor that stood out front. The place looked like it had had a fresh lick of paint, which somehow made its dusty pockmarked exterior seem even grimier. The same neon sign buzzed in the window and the faded blue T still flickered like a beacon. It was dark inside but the football game on the plasma screen illuminated the men sitting on the stools at the bar. Each and every one of them wore plaid shirts, jeans and baseball caps. I suddenly felt out of place and wondered if I'd regret breaking the local dress code.

  I opened the door, ignoring the heads that turned my way and the long searching glances. A lean fidgety man with grizzled grey hair stood behind the counter absently wiping a tap. "Help you?" he asked, his tone not entirely welcoming.

  "Pint of amber, please."

  "Pint of amber," the decrepit old man on the stool next to me mimicked, to who exactly I wasn't sure. I ignored him. Thornton had never been the friendliest of places.

  I took my beer and grabbed a table near the back of the room. The fields stretched out beyond the window, the lowering sky weighing down on them like a blue-grey blanket. It was such a melancholy sight. Nothing had changed, and barring a nuclear strike, it probably never would. But I'd changed. I'd gotten out and found a new life. I'd battled monsters, I'd loved, and I'd lived. And now I was back, nursing a lukewarm beer in this miserable pit, trying to summon the courage to visit a man I'd avoided for almost twenty years.

  I took a long drink, draining half the glass, glad for the numbing buzz as I watched the hypnotic red and pink taillights wind their way through the fields.

  "Can I get you another?"

  I recognized the low, husky voice immediately. Tara Evans. She stood right in front of me, a warm but slightly cautious smile on her plump lips. She still wore her hair up, and it was still chestnut brown streaked with blonde. Just as she'd worn it at high school. She'd kept her looks, but the inevitable crow's feet had begun to assert themselves near her expertly mascaraed eyes.

  "Sure." I gazed at her, looking for a spark of recognition.

  There.

  "Morgan?" She asked. She shook her head, uncertain.

  "Hey Tara." I offered her a smile. She held her hand out in an oddly formal gesture and shook mine with her fingertips. And then I noticed the purple-yellow bruises in a ring just above her wrist.

  "Wow!" She looked me up and down. "You've changed." I couldn't tell if this was good or bad. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to visit the old man. Is he-"

  "Yeah, he still comes in most every Friday. Still drinks too much and has to get a ride home. At least since the DUI. You probably heard about that."

  "Actually, we haven't spoken in some time." I was about to enquire further when I noticed the two men watching from beneath the TV screen at the end of the bar.

  They wore football jerseys and their guts hung liberally over the waistbands of their jeans. Aside from their hairlines, they looked just the same as the last time I'd had to dodge them. Micky Greer, the leader of this undynamic duo, was the first to stand. Bill Baker, his orangutan lieutenant, followed. They clenched their beer bottles as they approached and their brows furrowed over their stupid narrow eyes as they tried to stare me down.

  "Tara." Micky slipped a proprietorial hand around her waist. "What's up?"

  "You remember Morgan Rook?" She asked, trying but failing to keep her tone light.

  Yeah, he remembered. And time hadn't chipped away any of his hatred or lessened the malice in his eyes. Bill's body language was an echo of Micky's, just like when we were kids. Judging by the way they were slowly swaying, they'd poured at least half a dozen bottles of beer into their ample bellies. And it looked like the slow anger of unfulfilled aspiration was gnawing at their dim empty minds.

  "What's going on, Rook?" Micky asked, the question more threat than pleasantry. He looked me over, sizing up my clothes and shoes, just like he'd always done, ever since we were kids.

  "Nothing much."

  "Still wearing black, I see," Micky said, provoking a high-pitched laugh from Bill. "I thought you'd been warned off lurking round graveyards!"

  "That's funny, Micky." I forced a smile. The last thing I needed right now was a confrontation with this idiot.

  "What's with the old raincoat?" he persisted. "You a detective now?"

  "Something like that." I had nothing left to say so I just finished my pint.

  "Want another?" Tara asked.

  I smiled and shook my head. "No, thanks." I placed a ten on the table and declined the offer of change. "Take care, Tara." I stood to leave but Micky blocked my way, his hands clenching into fists.

  "I think you should stay, Rook," Micky said. "Reminisce about the good old days for awhile. Now sit back down."

  9

  "I'd love to stay and chat but there's somewhere I need to be. Evening gents." My shoulder brushed Micky's as I pushed past him. Bill glared at me but I winked and continued on my way. A few patrons looked up as I left the bar, their casual interest in the potential for a fight as sickening as their willful squalor.

  I'd almost made it to the car when I heard the bar door swinging open. I didn't need to look to know who it was.

  "Where you going, Rook?" Micky called. "Off to see your loser father?"

  I was about to unlock the car when a beer bottle shot past my head and shattered in a pothole near the front tire. "Whoops!" Bill held his hands up in mock apology. "Butterfingers."

  "You should go back inside," I said, barely suppressing my sigh. I didn't have the time or the inclination for this bullshit. I was about to climb into my car when a hand seized my shoulder.

  "We've got unfinished business," Micky said. He yanked me back. I lost my footing and almost fell into an oily puddle of water.

  "Okay," I straightened up. "Let's get this over and done with."

  Bill began to circle behind me like a crazed animal as Micky squared up. I reached into my pocket for a crystal and absorbed its power as I glanced at the trunk of my car. It was tempting to pull out my sword, if only to see the look on their faces. Maybe make them beg for mercy for a bit.

  "Something funny?" Micky asked.

  "There's nothing remotely funny about any of this. It's fucking sad. You're fucking sad. A pair of walking cliches, and..." I heard Bill lunge and spun round in time to duck out of his way. As he thundered past me I held out my foot, tripped him and sent him tumbling to the ground.

  Micky snarled and bore down on me, and for a flashing moment I was a kid again, terrified of those mean dead eyes.

  But only for a moment.

  Micky swung his fist, I sidestepped and watched it sail past me. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and relished his scream. "Shut up, you fucking coward," I said as I placed the palm of my other hand on his forehead.

  The magic thrummed through my palm and into Micky's mind. I saw flashes of his life. Tara crying and, behind her, a scrawny child weeping. Filthy carpet and chipped mildewed walls. Coffee table filled with beer cans and overflowing ashtrays. A gun. And...

  There.

  A ghost in the corner of the room. A woman, long-dead; she'd lived and died in that old farmhouse. Watching and hating everything she saw. Desperate to harm Micky, but impotent. I'd rarely seen such hateful intent in anyone's eyes as she stood each night over his bed, watching him snore and drool.

  "See her?" I asked. I gave Micky a flash of second sight, a glimpse beyond the veil of the blinkered.

  "Who's...?" His words trailed off, and I felt him shudder.

  "Do you see her? She's there right now. Waiting for you to return. Waiting for the opportunity to get a hold of you. And it will come."

  "No. I..." Terror filled his eyes as he saw the ghost and the malice that twisted her spectral face. How she hovered around him, always lurking, watching. "Please!" he begged.

  "There's nothing that can be done, Micky. You're cursed," I said.

  I heard the fist before I felt its sting. Bill's right-hook con
nected with the side of my face and sent me reeling. A sucker-punch; his favorite mode of attack.

  It really, really pissed me off.

  I closed the distance between us in a fury and punched Bill in the solar plexus. He doubled over, his face turning puce. I seized him by the throat and stared into his eyes. They widened in disbelief and then pure, unadulterated horror. "I could destroy you," I whispered. "Do you understand?"

  He nodded hard and fast.

  "Now get back to the bar and go make plans with your new roommate."

  "R...roommate?"

  I turned back to Micky. "You're moving into Bill's trailer. And you're leaving Tara tonight. For good. Isn't that right Micky?"

  Micky looked up at Bill, his face as pale as milk. "I'm never going back to that house. No fucking way. You gotta help me, Bill."

  "Another glorious day in Thornton," I said as I climbed into the dreary rental car.

  The headlights flashed over Micky and Bill as they sloped away like a pair of idiot children being sent home from school.

  I drove on.

  10

  The house that I'd grown up in was in a neighborhood just outside of town. It overlooked fields that at one time had seemed to go on forever. Tonight, with the moon partially obscured behind a bank of silver-white clouds, the fields seemed to have been swallowed by a yawning gulf of darkness.

  I remembered gazing out into this same darkness as a kid. It had unnerved me, but not in the same way as the other children in the neighborhood. They'd told made-up stories at sleepovers about the things that lurked in the fields, but their silly tales had never worried me. It seemed, even then, that I'd known full well the difference between the truly horrible things that might snatch you away and their banal urban legends and campfire myths.

  It felt strange to be back. The house looked tiny, so much smaller than I remembered. I climbed out of the car and just stood there trying to make sense of it all.

  The yard was little more than a scrubby scrap of land with a few sprigs of green grass fighting through stony soil. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, my father's house had totally gone to pot and now it stood at the end of the block like a red-headed stepchild. Peeling paint and missing shingles were strewn around the yard like giant, wooden teeth. The overgrown thorny hedges under the windows were like something out of a horror story, and the bed sheets hanging in lieu of curtains behind the filthy glass filled me with familiar unease.

  None of it boded well.

  I glanced back at the car. There was still time to climb inside, quietly shut the door and drive away like my life depended on it. But I knew I wouldn't. I had questions only my father could answer. Plus there was a large part of me that wanted to make peace with him. His bitch of a girlfriend, less so, but I needed to take it one step at a time.

  I rapped on the door and suddenly felt about half my size, like I'd been transported back in time by a machine with only one destination; the unwelcome past.

  The door opened about two inches and my dad peered through the crack, his posture defensive, scared even. Slowly, the gap widened, and either he'd shrunk or I'd grown. Maybe both. His wild white hair had been hastily wrangled beneath a dark woolen cap, and the sides of his face were red with broken blood vessels. He looked tired, his eyes furtive, the initial glimpse of dread fading as he glanced up at me. "Morgan?"

  "Hi, dad."

  He ran a hand over the zipper of his ratty cardigan and pulled it up as if trying to protect himself. "Well I'll be damned," he muttered. "I..." His words were slurred and I could smell cheap whiskey on his breath. "Come in!" He forced a smile that slowly warmed and came to life.

  I stepped into the hall. The place was cramped, claustrophobic and so much grubbier than I ever remembered. The china figurines Kathy had kept were gone, as were a lot of things. The place looked stripped, empty, and somehow it wasn't much warmer than the porch.

  "Drink?" Dale shuffled off before I could respond and it was clear he needed it more than I did. But only just.

  "Come in!" he shouted from the kitchen, a chorus of bottles clinking around him. I strained to listen for Kathy as I milled around awkwardly, noting the missing pictures and empty whiskey bottles lining the chipped wainscoting. The kitchen was an absolute disaster, I'd never seen it so filthy. It looked like it belonged in a frat house. Towers of tinfoil takeout trays littered the kitchen table and bags of stale chips and pork rinds teetered over the edge.

  "Sorry about the mess." Dale held out a can of beer. "Cheers, Morgan. Good to see you. It's been so long..."

  "I'm sorry," I said, and I was. Despite the shit he'd pulled. I glanced around. "Is-"

  "Kathy's gone. Cleaned me out and left."

  "Sorry."

  "No you're not." He gave a tired smile. "And neither am I, the bitch." He drank the rest of his beer and returned to the fridge for another. "But the past is in the past, and long may it rot there." With a fizz and a click he opened the can and staggered out of the kitchen, nodding for me to follow.

  The living room was not much cleaner; the sofa looked like a Pollock painting of what I hoped were just beer stains. Dale gathered a pile of blankets from the armchair I'd always sat in and threw them to the floor. "Have a seat!" He plopped onto the sofa, sloshing beer over his tattered jeans, glanced at me and gave a long, deep sigh. "Well, here we are. If the truth be told, I never thought I'd see you again."

  " I...I've thought about you, often." And I had, even though most of the thoughts had been less than positive.

  We sat there and talked until a long line of empty cans filled the gap between us. I excused myself and headed to the bathroom, passing my old bedroom as I made my way back. Mostly it was filled with junk and clutter, a towering heap of refuse making a glacial migration from house to landfill. Not much was left of the room I remembered, but there were still tape marks on the walls from pictures and posters I'd hung. Rock bands, guys barely older than me, guitars clutched like weapons, rebellion and defiance shining in their eyes.

  But all that was gone now.

  I fought my way through the junk on the floor and sat on the corner of my old bed. It wobbled but held firm and the comforter was dusty but familiar, though the clouds printed on it were less white and the blue sky dingy and faded. When I closed my eyes I could almost smell the cheap aftershave I used to splash on. Like it had somehow seeped into the walls.

  The window was bare and the darkness beyond was like a gaping hole but I could still see the old cherry tree. It had shrunk. Now it seemed just as small, tired, and crooked as my father.

  It felt strange to be here again and I wondered how this tiny room had managed to contain my wild youthful frustration. Magic had fizzled through me even then, not that I'd had any real understanding of it. But I'd felt it stir from time to time, despite having it drilled into me that it was nothing more than a childish fantasy.

  "Dinner's served!" My father called, breaking my thoughts. It was exactly how Kathy used to call us to the table every night. The battle cry that always preceded plates of insipid food and either indignant stony silence or insults and goading.

  I wandered into the kitchen. He'd cleared away all the garbage, laid out a tablecloth and set the table with a butter dish, two cold beers, a loaf of bread and a fresh bag of chips.

  "Chip sandwiches alright?" Dale asked.

  "Why not?"

  We ate and talked and I held back the questions I really wanted to ask as it seemed the time wasn't quite right. Or maybe I was waiting for him to sink a few more drinks. Gradually, despite the cold chill in the house, I found my mood warming.

  Dale seemed happier too, at least until his phone started to rumble. His mood went south as soon as he glanced at the screen, and slowly the tiny fearful man who had peered through the crack in the front door, returned.

  "What's up?" I asked.

  "Nothing," he said, but his tone suggested it was more like everything.

  It seemed it was going to be a long night.


  11

  Dale took a deep breath, slipped his phone into his pocket and downed another beer. "Let's finish dinner," he said, trying to inject brevity into his tone.

  As soon as our sandwiches were gone, we grabbed a bottle of whiskey and went out to the backyard. I helped Dale build a fire from a splintered old chair and some firewood that he'd kept for just such an occasion.

  We used to make campfires together fairly often when I was growing up. In fact they were a cornerstone of most of my happy memories, probably because Dale would relax around the fire, almost as if the flames tamed something inside him. There was also the fact Kathy hated the smoke so she'd stay in the house. It had been nice not having to compete with her constant dogging for my father's attention.

  "Cheers!" Dale said, as we clinked glasses and sat back in the wobbly, old aluminum lawn chairs. I watched as the flickering firelight illuminated his face. He knocked back his drink and smiled contentedly.

  Now was as good a time as any. "Can I ask you something" I said, keeping my tone light to avoid dampening the mood.

  "Ask away."

  "How is it that I came to live here, with you?" I gave him a disarming smile, but I could see the dark clouds drift over his face.

  "Right." He filled his glass and tossed the bottle to me. "Right," he said again. "I suppose I knew this conversation would come up one day or another."

  "I seem to remember asking you about it several times, when I was younger."

  "You did. And I'd lie to you, and you knew it. Just like you lied tonight when I asked you what you've been doing." Dale nodded. "I know you're up to your neck in magic, Morgan. I can smell it on you. As sure as I'll smell all this wood smoke on my clothes in the morning."