9 Tales Told in the Dark 4

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  The girl, his devoted companion of years, tried to reason with him. “Nothing had prepared us for that, Professor,” she said. She faltered miserably. “It was instinct in action. I didn’t think. I felt the presence of deadly danger.”

  “That is nonsense. While you cowered here, I continued my never ending studies.”

  Aaron stepped up, cried, “I should’ve known better. It was the mad act of a moment. I shamed myself.”

  Vorchek said, “You can surmount weakness, so long as there is more to learn. I continue to gain insights. There is no limit to this knowledge.”

  “What of Josh?” Theresa demanded. “Good riddance to that bum, but shouldn’t we hunt for him before he gets in a jam?”

  Vorchek, uncharacteristically, snickered. “His jam, as you put it, can not be worse than it already is. Forget him. I brought Mr. Fentz for a limited purpose, and he has served the majority of that. I now know, through my own observation, the constricted ability of the power of the vortex to touch lesser minds, those nearer to the beast. That finding does not involve the two of you. Your minds are of genuine quality and open to the influences. It is time to indulge your full scope as entities of awareness.”

  The professor smiled through his beard, that boyish, charming grin that had pulled Theresa into many a grand adventure. “Miss Delaney, this is your time. Take my hand, and come with me. No, Mr. Rucobi, remain where you are. I will be back for you soon.”

  Theresa, almost fighting herself, gave her dainty hand into his big grasp, felt comforted at the touch, allowed herself to be led onto the close woodland path that ran upward to the cave of the vortex. As they walked Vorchek gently spoke, saying, “You come to this place armed with unassailable belief and a boundless craving to immerse yourself in the mysteries that lie behind the tawdry surfaces of things. Complete personal realization I offer you this day. Dismiss the fears of weak flesh, of phony corporeality. Stride like a true discoverer into the light beyond the darkness, and you shall stand like a goddess over infinity and eternity. Here we are, my dear.”

  They stood before the cave. Vorchek’s words petted her ears, the celestial music stroked her mind. Theresa gazed into the revolving lights, sensed (rather than saw this time) others mysteriously beckoning to her. Vorchek drew his hand from hers. Theresa stood for a long moment, staring into the expanding sphere, seeing more than brain could immediately grasp... and she stepped lightly and vanished into the cave.

  Aaron fretted woefully, squatting by the fire, debating furiously the proper course of action, in effect doing nothing but pile thought on clashing thought. As evening fell Vorchek reappeared. The youth came to his feet, adopted a guarded stance, framed the other in a circle of light. “We must make haste,” advised the older man. “It would not do to carry that flashlight with us.”

  Aaron asked warily, “Where is Theresa?”

  “She has crossed over, of course. Did you doubt she would? I never did. I know her.”

  “I won’t go,” Aaron cried. “It’s crazy, too risky. Remember Mathers, his family, the monstrous deeds. I can’t let myself succumb to that.”

  Said the professor, “Walk with me, son, as far as you wish, that I may speak to you.”

  The boy sighed helplessly, reluctantly went. Vorchek said, “You are not Mr. Mathers, you are not capable of being him. His was an admittedly strong mind, capable of full reception, but ignorant, tragically so. What he could not understand, he corrupted. Remember that. Our world is being strangled by those who, having glimpsed a minute fragment of reality, act only on that meaningless sliver. Your position in the grand scheme is wholly other. Your brain is designed to imbibe the absolute, to factor every step of the ladder leading from blinding darkness to heightened awareness. The knowledge is there for you to seize as your own. It belongs to you by right. Think, son, reason your way into knowledge beyond the mere trappings of time and space. It is all waiting for you, in there.”

  They stood before the cave. Aaron stopped as if he had met a wall, but he peered into that orb of maddening strangeness, attended the musical calling in his brain, endeavored to reason to a conclusion... and then he grinned, nodded to the professor, and strode with set jaw past the darkness into the spiraling glow.

  For Josh, this had been a bad day that only got worse. Smothered by terror he had abandoned his comrades, bulled his way by main strength into the pine forest, only later thinking to set a course that would get him off the increasingly gloomy hillside and out onto the plain where he might, unaided by others, chart a direct and swift journey homeward. He did not fare well. The wood lore upon which he counted availed nought, and sense of direction seemed impossibly broken in that awful, confining landscape. He ran, he thrashed, he climbed and crawled, without ever escaping the darkening canopy of conifers that cloaked the morbid hill. Many miles he desperately traversed, but the intense night still found him hopelessly flailing.

  A glimmer of far off light caught his eye, drew him like a moth to flame. What was this? Where was he? A long way, evidently, from that foul cave and its sickening occupants, which was a good thing, evidently far enough to have stumbled upon other people—real people, he said to himself—campers out on a decent hike. It had to be, for that was surely a camp fire ahead. He bashed toward it through clutching branches and clinging undergrowth.

  His stomach lurched.

  Josh coughed back the bile, telling himself that it was impossible. There was no way he could have run so long and far, regardless of confusion, only to return to the detestable site of that last camp. Yet by the flickering flames of the ringed fire he recognized the clearing, the stands of cottonwoods, the glittering stream, the accouterments spread about by him and his fellow campers. All this he saw and knew, and something more.

  The knots in his belly further constricted.

  Vorchek was there, alone, seated casually by the fire, flares of yellow light clearly illuminating his unwelcome countenance. Josh did not want to see him, did not want to speak with him. That man, he felt, was the author of all his troubles, that high-faluting egghead with his crazy ideas and his slippery talk. Josh had never taken the professor seriously until that last shocking moment, when he suddenly experienced, before the cave, the horrid assurance of certain death confronting him. Josh knew that situation was no good, quite rightly took off. Old Vorchek was just the kind of clever fool to happily drag others into a mess, thinking nothing of it.

  All that he felt, had done for hours, now felt more: a definite, if unreasoned, horror of the man himself.

  Vorchek rose languidly, stood darkly, silhouetted by the fire, a large black outline. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Fentz,” he called. “Though you can not hear or feel them, the cosmic forces swirl about us. I was told they would draw you back. Come, join me by the fire. We will talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” cried the boy. “Look, Professor, I just want out of here. I don’t want anything from you, you don’t—don’t want from me—I mean—”

  “I have ideas on the subject,” said Vorchek.

  “Where are they?” Josh hollered. “Theresa, and Aaron; what did you do with them?”

  “They are gone. They will return at the appropriate time. You need not concern yourself with them. They are, by now, joyously fulfilled.”

  “And I’m next? Over my dead body.”

  Vorchek laughed, a bubbling of genuine mirth. “Splendid, sir, those well chosen words. You possess the knack, at odd whiles. Come to me, son.”

  And this was the most incredible thing: he, Josh, obeyed, and did come!

  Said Vorchek, “The human race consists of an amalgamation of disparate units, the high and low, the evolved and the retarded. The most advanced, the objectively special members of our species, are fit to treat with those who dwell beyond the gate, to become one with them. That I did, months ago, as our colleagues have today. Others, perhaps, possess enough awareness to sense the powers, without ever really grasping their immensity. Therein lies frustra
tion or tragedy. Then, Mr. Fentz, there are the rest, maybe the great mass, whom evolution has discarded, those who will not see because they can not. At the intellectual level they lack volitional purpose. Sometimes, like now, it is necessary to assign purpose to them.”

  Josh listened when he wished to run, but his feet were lead, his legs stiff posts. He wailed,“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You have not,”admitted Vorchek, stepping nearer,“a fact, unfortunately, of sheer irrelevance. You may not cross over, nor could you rationally obey. The ethereal entities of the vortex will not tolerate your presence nor, under the circumstances, your continued existence.”

  “For God’s sake, Professor—”

  “For this moment,”Vorchek said, looming a head above the quivering youth,“I speak of my sake, and for the others who await over the strange passage.” Josh screamed as Vorchek changed before his frozen eyes. Another image superimposed itself upon that human form; something not human, something that mocked the human frame with its hideous additions and alterations. The thing that passed for Vorchek, that reached through him, said in a dreadfully different hissing voice, one emitted by alien jaws, said as it stooped to its shrieking victim,“You may not join us, but you may still provide... sustenance.”

  THE END.

  For more from Jeffery Scott Sims check out

  http://jefferyscottsims.webs.com/index.html

  JUST LIKE JIMMY DALTON by Sara Green

  The horrors of that night never left Sean Benner, but they never interfered with his life. No the horrors were just reduced to echoes in the back of Sean’s head when he thought of a horrible death the phrase, “just like Jimmy Dalton” echoed in his head. Just those words again and again, the rest of the memory was repressed until he wanted to feel sorry for himself and dig deeper.

  A whole life defining moment, summed up in ‘just like Jimmy Dalton.’

  Then he was diagnosed with cancer five months ago, and the words didn’t echo. They just fell flat against certain death.

  Sean sat with Georgette Dawkins, they were trying to bring that horror back. Sean had convinced himself he wanted to face his fears and his guilt and enter the next life free from the horror. In order to do that he had to face the fate he dodged all those years ago. He had to remember who killed Jimmy Dalton.

  Georgette called it pent up survivor guilt.

  It wasn’t.

  It was his first time visiting the scene of Jimmy’s death since he was dragged to the one-year anniversary. That was thirty-two years ago. He couldn’t even recognize the 30th block. It had some nice homes, stranded in the middle of the ghetto. Some lady had layered the outside of her home with security cameras, and the same rotten convenience store had kept its decorative drug peddlers outside on the sidewalk.

  “You’re safe here, cops come by every twenty minutes, just making rounds.” Georgette reminded him, she didn’t live too far away, and probably knew more of the playmakers than the police.

  They stood in the middle of the intersection. Jimmy’s blood had been paved over many times in the years since, but Sean could’ve sworn the recently patched pothole marked the spot exactly. “Evil leaves a stain the rain won’t wash away, the Clorox can’t get it out. I can feel it. There is so much here. Not just your Jimmy.” Georgette said as she looked around. “So much evil.” Her voice was chilled, even on so hot a summer day.

  Sean knelt down at the asphalt patch. It was cold even in the late summer evening. Georgette began encircling him with white chalk. There was an argument at the other end of the block that carried in high-pitched screams.

  “Twenty minutes?” He asked.

  “Don’t you worry, we’re safe, they know better than to mess with me.”

  Jimmy laughed and Georgette followed, who was she kidding? The best she could do was scare them off with her reputation as some kind of psychic. Although on better days Georgette denied such a label, she was just religious.

  “No, I meant, we have twenty minutes and then the cops will probably stop us?”

  “Oh.” She nodded and continued, starting a second ring of chalk. She squatted like a dog and sidestepped around, added symbols between the two rings. Sean knew it was some kind of voodoo mixed with a Native American ritual. A religion she called Umi-nodin. Couldn’t find anything about it. All of Richmond used to be prime Native American real estate, before they were betrayed. The beautiful Powhatan River renamed after a British king. Not content with that massacre, the invaders brought slaves from all around, kept the blood flowing. It had become a citywide tradition.

  People need something to believe in, to get through the hard times. Being able to curse and will events can make the hardest of times seem manageable. It’s what Sean needed. He needed to believe in something more than himself and the cancer inside of him.

  Sean had raised Jimmy’s brother Ryan that way he would’ve his own. He always had his back. Kept him in sports when he could’ve turned to alcohol like his parents. Ryan had ended up finding another way to express his grief. He could play football like a pro, but had turned to psychology. He helped those like himself. He couldn’t help Sean this time. Couldn’t talk him out of this, all his life he knew it should’ve been him. What had Sean contributed that Jimmy wouldn’t have done better ten fold?

  Poised at the top of Church Hill, Sean could see the orange sun growing heavy in the sky ready to crash into the city of Richmond down below. The busy sound of cars fighting in every direction nearly muted the chant Georgette began.

  “Remember.” She raised her voice. “Remember.”

  Sean closed his eyes and began to sift through the repeating phrase, ‘just like Jimmy Dalton.’ How? Remember how. Remember when. His mind was black. He could see the words coming at him, repeating. He thought of how deep had he buried Jimmy’s death?

  It was a summer evening like this. They had tried to pop a fire hydrant like they’d seen done on television. But couldn’t do it. They smacked that hydrant over and over again.

  Sean started to remember what it used to smell like back then; couldn’t describe it. He didn’t know then and never thought he’d reminisce about how that time in his life smelled. But his brain must’ve stored it. It wasn’t the smell of gasoline or the sweat that drenched his clothes. It was just everything. It was that time in his life’s signature.

  “Go on hit it, what are you waiting for!”

  Jimmy Dalton!

  Sean spun around and almost hit him with his dad’s sledgehammer. He realized whatever Georgette had started was happening. Sean was back to face what had happened all those years ago.

  “Come on! Watch it will you?” Jimmy grabbed the sledgehammer from Sean. “Wuss, I didn’t want to take it, just don’t swing it at me.” Jimmy said offering the hammer back. Sean couldn’t believe it they were at the same eye level. He stopped and looked all around. There was no James Center looming over everything, no Wachovia building. The skyline across the city was so empty he couldn’t remember if it’s what it really looked like or not.

  “Hey!” Jimmy yelled. He tugged the hammer back away with no struggle from Sean. “Fine, I’ll hit it.” He went back to swinging the hammer at the fire hydrant.

  The metal clashed. This happened back then as well, only he couldn’t remember what had made him space out back then. He knew Jimmy’s murderer would be coming soon. He wanted to see his face, if he could, he could remember it and finally bring him to justice. Sean tugged at his head but it wouldn’t budge; couldn’t turn to see anything else, he was forced to just stare at Jimmy. He was just staring at the fire hydrant waiting for it to burst across the asphalt. Stupid Jimmy! He just kept smacking the hydrant.

  Give up, go inside!

  It was no use, no words moved Sean’s lips. He was in a memory.

  Sean collapsed onto the sidewalk and recognized the patchwork between his hands. His arm scraped across the ground and smeared the chalk.

  Georgette shook her head and lifted Sean up to his
feet.

  “I couldn’t see his face… he was coming.”

  “You have to go with it.” She said; his weight pulled her down as she dragged him to the car. As she slid Sean into the passenger seat he noticed she was wiping blood from her lips.

  “Are you…”

  “I’m fine. We need to go. Cops gonna swing by soon. We have to try later.”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  She slammed the door and moved quickly to the driver side. She looked pained as she started the ignition. He felt the redness on his knuckles. Had he hit her?

  “I’m sorry.” He said

  She acted like it didn’t matter, “If you don’t go with it, I have to work harder to keep you in the memory. But you fought it. If you want to try later you have to give into it. Let it take you through it. You can’t change it.” She said as the car descended Church Hill and hit Main Street.

  “I was there.”

  She didn’t respond. She drove him home. By then Sean could stand on his own so she hopped on a bus back to Mosby Court.

  That night the shadows haunted him. All he could hear was the emptiness between Jimmy’s hits with the sledgehammer. It was all he could see when he closed his eyes: Jimmy hitting that stupid fire hydrant, over and over.

  Sean had tried to leave Richmond so many times. Leave all the memories behind. No one would go with him, couldn’t even find a job that didn’t lead him right back here. He was convinced he had to face it. Just like Jimmy Dalton did.

  He wasn’t supposed to run away that day.

  He was supposed to die that day. And now cancer would claim him. The least he could do was make sure the justice of this world found the killer.