Their forms rub up against me, there being so many of them that I can hardly breathe. Disjointed voices, so unlike the unified choir of before, whisper in my ears then flit away, only to be replaced by others. So many voices telling me stories, all of them different.
Spirits! Ghosts! That’s what they must be. But why are they taunting me? What have I done to them? None of the voices are recognizable to me. And none of the stories shed any light on why I am their target.
The dwellers within this demonic limbo attempt to inflict their pain upon me, but even if I wanted to help, there is nothing I can do. They are stuck within a dwelling place chosen for them by the Dark One himself.
But . . . but does that mean I am dead as well? Did I die and not know it? No, that can’t be! I felt the pain with the pressure, the rats, the flooding in the bathroom, and the banging of the doors. That was real! I know it.
I don’t belong here. Wait: they don’t belong here. No. They should be outside with the others, the ones roaming the streets in search of food, ready to do anything it takes to get some. Like these monsters in here, they use the dark as cover for their heinous acts, although how they can find their way about remains a big question to me. Even now, through the tortured whispers of those in my room, I hear them.
“You don’t think you belong with your new room-mates?” The voice of the Shadow says. “What makes you better than them? What makes you better than the ones lurking around outside doing whatever it takes to survive?”
I am not like them! The water, the canned goods, everything in my apartment I got before the calamity or just after. Yes, I harmed no one to get what I have here.
The voices outside my door get ever closer. Do they know I’m here? Will they attempt to break in and take what I have?
Shit! The voices of the limbo dwellers are alerting them to my presence. Damn them!
My door! They stop just outside it. It moves a bit within its frame as if ears are being placed against it, trying to determine if anyone is home. Sniffling sounds move around the frame, people attempting to find treasures via their nasal passages.
I can not afford to move a muscle, although my unholy companions are intent on making me an unwilling accomplice against the forces of the Dark.
My door rattles. Some one is trying to break in. They know I’m here, damn it!
More people push on the door and the frame creaks to the tune of destruction. It can’t last much longer. Shit, it’s only wood, old wood at that. This place is ancient, built only God knows when.
God? Where is He? Why does He permit all that’s going on to take place? He is the Lord of the Light, but there is far too little light any more. The Dark . . .the Dark reigns supreme. And the Shadow Being; He appears to be running the show, pulling all the strings, and revelling in the pain and agony he inflicts. And yet, when the night leaves and the light returns, He vanishes along with the Dark. It is his domain and one he chooses not to abandon.
Why should He when everything contained within belongs to Him? My only hope is to last out the night once again, make it to the dawn, a time of rebirth for me. That’s when I can sleep in peace. Only then.
The door splinters and pieces of it reach as far away as I am. Shit! Tonight I am doomed not to make it to sunrise. I will join the others wandering through my room in search of an answer other than complete damnation for them. They are looking for the Light. We are all looking for the Light.
But the Light is becoming ever more elusive.
They come running in, forcing their way through my limbo room-mates, knowing something is there but not knowing what. Their solid forms surround me, and I fear for my life. Any second now and I will be found out for who I am and killed. They will know I am different: the person living here, the one they are after. After all, even in the dark, they can tell I am naked and not like them.
But . . . but I’m not naked anymore. I’m fully clothed!
“Welcome to the party,” the Shadow says. “One word of advice to you: you will not find what you are looking for here, so there is no sense looking for it. This place is mine. Everything within the Dark belongs to me.”
Once again, the darkness of the room increases as His shadow spreads over the entire room. Screaming at the top of their lungs, the recent invaders cower before the Master of the Dark. All of us are thrown together into one huge, spinning maelstrom of fury.
I can not breathe any longer, and I collapse . . .
***
The lights are turned on in my room and the doctors come running over to me, trying to comfort me, wondering why I suffer the same torment every night. Only, it gets progressively worse every night. Their white coats match the white of the walls and floors, everything padded so that no harm comes to me when I chose to withdraw into my world of darkness.
Yes, that’s what they call it. I have tried to explain to them about what is coming, that they better prepare for it, but they always treat me with scorn. I can see it on their faces. No matter. I care no longer; I have done my part.
They walk towards the door, wanting to get away from the crazy guy, but the power goes out and the lights are no longer on. An enormous black shadow envelops the entire room, the images playing against the dark background sending out tendrils of fear to the doctors.
“You are in my world now,” the Shadow Master says. “And, where I rule there is no joy, no warmth, no love.”
Overwhelming darkness envelops everything, and I can only hear their cries of pain, the scent of their blood pouring onto the soft, white floor which has now become a giant sponge for the rivers of red life flowing out of them.
But they are the fortunate ones. For them, it is over. I am doomed to relive the rituals of horror administered by the Dark One for time eternal.
He laughs once more, revelling in His power, knowing full well that nothing can stop Him.
Nothing can stop the Dark. The Dark is evil. I know; I reside here.
Once more I try to hide from the presence within the room, but He controls me.
My God! Another stench, worse than any of the others, comes towards me. I attempt to scream out from the pain of my mental anguish, but no sound comes forth.
“Cat got your tongue?” He laughs. “If not, then soon, perhaps.”
The roar of a giant cat rips through the room . . .
THIS DARKNESS . . .
—JOHN CLAUDE SMITH—
Skulking around the apartment sans clothing, focus scrambled, brain fried by the mid-August heat in Portland, Oregon, Susie felt like a caged animal. Her flesh was varnished with sweat, her mood dour before having her hackles raised by the escalating temperature. The last few months with Andy had been less than inspired, not that they’d been noticeably inspired the five years they’d already languished together. But the heat only sheered the edges of her ire to unbearable. Yet she didn’t know if she wanted out or what exactly she wanted.
Procrastination seemed the modus operandi of their relationship. Drifting without direction.
When Mitch called just past midnight, bored to tears that evaporated before sliding down his bristly cheeks, it was a welcome respite.
“Can’t sleep. Can’t think. Need brewsky.”
Susie harrumphed, but smiled as she did. “Hello, loser.” Andy pivoted his head toward her, ungluing himself from the sticky sheets and his stretched out imitation of a dying star.
In a deep voice, feigning authority, Mitch said, “No, this is God. I command you to pick up Mitch and get at least a six-pack of beer to, um, help him eradicate his thirst.”
“Eradicate—big word, God. Slake is more your speed. Sure you can handle it?”
“What’s he want?” Andy propped up on his elbows, naked white pasty body glistening beneath the fluttering pale light of the ever-droning television. Susie put her finger to her lips and shushed him as she carried on her conversation with God. Or Mitch. Did it really matter? It was better than vegging out to the tenth or twelfth straight episode of the M.A.S.H
marathon.
Life was a marathon. At twenty-three, already worn out from it all, Susie recently came to the revelation she had just begun her race. If that was true, she really needed to find a new pair of running shoes, a different race track, something, anything—God help me!
But obviously not this God.
Dragging Andy out of bed and meeting up with Mitch for a six-pack of “brewsky” might not be world shaking, but it seemed a better option than slowly fading to non-existence while Hawkeye Pierce cackled astute one-liners. Even if she didn’t like beer, often professing it tasted “like bull urine,” inspiring Andy to gleefully prod, “So, now you’re a specialist on bull urine, eh?” followed by sophomoric snickers, as if he’d just beat George Lopez or Chris Rock in a comedy competition and won—yes, of course—a six-pack of beer but no brain cells and definitely not a sense of humor worthy of anyone but a fifteen-year old in need of friends. Inane and head-shaking stuff already old five years ago when he barely graduated from high school.
What was she doing with this dim bulb boob?
No, that wasn’t the real question. That would be: What was she doing with her life? Was this living?
Then she’d remember a sweet moment, something out of the blue and into her icy heart that would melt and run down her thighs and she’d smile, then shake her head as usual at the absurdity of it all.
“God says, let’s pick him up and get a six-pack.”
“Is God payin’?”
Without hesitation, she said, “Yes, of course God is paying,” which roused a faint but useless groan of protest from God. What better way to waste the night than in the company of these two idiots, especially when her only option besides that was spending time with only one. Double the pleasure, double the . . . inanity!
Anyway, getting out of the furnace that was the apartment and getting ice-cold something sounded good, perhaps mandatory.
“Probably cooler up in the mountain,” Mitch said, running an unopened can of Old Milwaukie across his forehead. Much to Andy’s beer snobbery mindset, Old Milwaukie was barely a notch above dirty water or, possibly, bull urine. Susie could care less, she just wanted cold.
“I don’t think it matters, but getting away from these buffoons would be appreciated.” She nodded toward the young boys with their many toys, primarily skateboards, arms dipped in colorful tattoos, their assembly line girlfriends with their pink and purple iPhones, twitchy thumbs texting like duelling beetles, as well as their pierced belly-buttons and all year tans and their own assortment of tattoos, rather, tramp stamps poking out above snug cut-offs. The din of half-cocked conversations about nothing in particular that meant the world to them—conversations that made Andy’s and Mitch’s seem like dissertations on quantum physics—creased a permanent scowl on her face. She was only a few years older than most of them—when did she grow up so fast? She laughed at that wayward thought: grow up? She was stuck in limbo in Portland, Oregon, with a boyfriend more inclined to smoke weed and play video games into the wee hours, usually with Mitch along for the brain-wasting duration, than in the advancement or growth or care of their relationship.
She sighed. She remembered a Dr. Seuss quote about nonsense waking up brain cells and begged to differ. Oh, no, this kind of nonsense annihilated one’s soul. Slowly, like the erosion of a cliff by crashing waves and time.
What the hell was she doing with her life?
“All right, Paul Bunyan. To the mountain, pronto!” she said.
“Tonto? Ain’t he with the Lone Ranger?” Mitch said.
Andy scoffed, “You moron. She said pronto, as in, get a move on. My question, though, is who’s this Paul Bunyan dude? You having flashbacks to an ex boyfriend?” He actually looked irritated, which only magnified the farce that was her life. Still, perhaps in the mountains she could get lost for awhile and not have to face this dreary, spirit-draining place. Or perhaps get her head and life aligned for something more than the constant nothing.
Who was she kidding?
Weaving through the darkness, barely acknowledging the forest as the primer-coated-for-so-long-it’s-now-the-regular-color light gray Mustang’s beams, even set on high as there was no traffic to be had, seemed barely able to cut through the intense darkness. Susie had never felt darkness like this before: a choking, oppressive darkness. The beams showed exactly what fell in their path and nothing more. A gray-black pavement trimmed with motes of light like squiggly fireflies, more aptly distinguishing the molecular breakdown of light into an unyielding dark; at least that’s how she saw it.
Because this darkness seemed more full, more robust and tactile; more pitch black yet alive. And needy, as if it did not want to give up its place amidst the insistence of the beams.
When they made the top of the mountain a large parking lot flattened the landscape like a blotch on nature and served as their welcome mat. Humanity’s intrusion, a carbon footprint stamped hard into the asphalt smothered soil. Yet, again, the beams only showed a sliver of this, cutting through the night as Andy looped in wide circles, thin white lines mostly covered by leaves indicative of parking slots, as if it mattered. He abruptly braked and all three of them lurched forward. He needed beer. He needed it now.
He shut off the headlights and Mitch’s voice squeaked in protest, a Chihuahua yip of annoyance. “Turn some light on now, jerk,” Susie said, never one to fear the dark, yet made suddenly uncomfortable by the blanket of this darkness. She couldn’t see either of them. They were within touching distance, yet there was no real indication they were there, at least for these few precarious moments.
She was happy to hear Mitch’s nervous giggling, “Yeah, turn something on, dude,” after which Andy clicked on the dome light and gulped half a can of beer. “Y’all ain’t afraid of the dark, are you? Couple of pussies.” Susie was surprised to see his wax mask face tilting back the beer can, having not heard the tick of the tab. Ignoring his crude comment, she snapped the tab off her own can, sipped it for the cool chill, and tipped her head out the open passenger side window. The beer felt good going down, but the heat was no less loathsome up here, perhaps worse. There also was the matter of the stars, or the lack of them.
“We overcast?” she said, to no one in particular.
“Shouldn’t be, though it is Portland,” Mitch said, his leering devil-faced Bic lighter flaming to life, joint set between his thin lips, beads of sweat multiplying above said lips. His full ratty beard and no moustache always made her think he looked like a homeless version of Abraham Lincoln.
Oh, hell, thought Susie. She berated herself for her idiocy: this was a great idea, dumb head. Get these two going on weed and they might as well be locked into whatever was this week’s video game purchase. Killing and explosions and she hated it all, falling asleep alone too often while Heckle and Jeckle took over the world.
Staring into the empty sky, then right and left, she could see nothing of substance outside of the dome light’s inadequate glare. Or, rather, the darkness here had real density—so odd. Add this sensation to the burgeoning video game riffing from within the car and she felt like a fist wrapped in a boxing glove, tied off at the wrist and meant to pummel the life out of her already weary soul.
She spent the next fifteen minutes listening to their inane conversation about how to master something called Lunar Takeover, a First Person Shooter game set on an outpost on the moon; same old, same old, only a different location, as far as she could tell. But they fully immersed themselves in the intricacies of what they’d both discovered so far—moon monsters and crater creatures and zombie astronauts around every bend, and the best ways to kill them—as they sucked on the joint and finished off the meager beer post haste, while she sipped and savored the bland drink. Closing her eyes was almost no different than leaving them open. The night was vast, all-encompassing. A weight. A beast. Something that ate stars and devoured moons as well. Something these two blokes would never beat if they met it in an outpost on the moon or staggering out of a closet i
n their bedrooms.
She pulled her head into the car, creeped out by the ambience, the stifling atmosphere.
“You ready to go, Baby?”
For once Andy and she were on the same wave length.
“Too weird up here.”
“What?”
“Yes, go. It’s too weird up here.”
“Yeah. We should’ve bought a case. Gotta get some more and then we can regain rule of the moon, eh, Skywalker?” Andy said, nodding to the bobble-head monkey, Mitch. He cranked the ignition while clicking off the dome light. The engine’s mechanical wheeze and clank was the only thing in Susie’s life for the span of what should have been a split second of transition before he turned on the headlights. She held her breath, the sounds much like the darkness, this darkness—a different darkness—fully immersive, surrounding her. Wagons circling . . .
“Fucking hell, Andy. A little light, pronto.”
He turned on the lights and said, “Yes, Baby?” in a whiny, mocking voice.
She leaned toward the dashboard and gripped it with her right hand, glaring at him, shooting harpoons at his dead fish-eyed stare.
“What?”
He really didn’t have a clue, she thought.
“I think she’s afraid of the dark, man,” Mitch said.
“No, Einstein. Just not digging the vibe up here,” she said, but this darkness was rubbing her wrong, a frisson of unease like a splinter burrowing under a fingernail.
“I think your pussy would love the vibration of this clunker—Ow!” She slugged Andy hard in the arm while Mitch snorted his approval.
“You think everything’s funny, don’t you? You think our whole relationship is one long excuse to laze around in your shit-stained shorts playing video games, getting high or drunk, while I get some schooling in, trying to better myself. All this while occasionally taking a minute or two to express your so-called love to me while unloading in my pussy, without wearing a condom, so perhaps I will get pregnant, which might be what you’re looking for, so I won’t even get the chance to better myself while raising our child alone, even with you there, because you’re never really there and you’re definitely not even close to grown up and anything to do with responsibilities is a foreign language to you, something beyond your fucking understanding because it’s not plugged into the Xbox and —”
For The Night Is Dark Page 19