by Kevin Lucia
A squelching behind him.
He whirled and scanned the dark but saw nothing, his mind struggling like an animal caught in a snare. Unreasoning terror filled him as he imagined some creature circling in the dark, primal fears painting an image of gleaming claws hungry for flesh...
Obsidian eyes.
Thick, mucus-slicked hide bristling with tiny hairs.
Soul-plundering teeth clicking in anticipation.
A voice screamed, shattering the silence with syllables that blasted his mind. Gavin clapped his hands over his ears but the booming voice set fire to his thoughts and as he collapsed to his knees, screaming, the words burned themselves onto his brain…
MENE, MENE!
TEKEL UPSHARIN!
Everything convulsed: himself, the darkness around him, his insides. He jerked and seized. The light exploded, the voices exploding into a wailing crescendo…
MENE!
TEKEL UPSHARIN!
And Gavin collapsed to his knees alongside Route 95, North Portsmouth.
#
He looked up. Intermittent highway lights blazed in the darkness. For several seconds he remained there along the highway, kneeling, disoriented. Memories of that dark place and the thing in the darkness with the screaming voice faded quickly. He’d gotten into an accident, had hit his head – on the damn airbag, of all things – and must have hallucinated it all.
He struggled to breathe, the cold air burning his throat. Gradually, he managed to slow his gasps, taking deep, controlled breaths, and an uneasy calm settled over him.
He looked up and down the highway and saw nothing. Both I-95 North and South faded into snow-speckled darkness. The roads were empty. Not a vehicle in sight.
He looked over his shoulder and saw his wrecked Prius, its front fender crumpled, the driver’s side door hanging open. A pair of crooked, stumbling footprints led to where he knelt at the highway’s shoulder.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he remembered.
Steel shrieking, tires squealing, the steering wheel spinning in his hands, the guardrail jumping out in the car’s headlights, his forehead slamming into the expanding airbag…
He shivered, opened his eyes and touched his forehead, feeling a warm bump near the hairline. He winced as he remembered again his head striking the airbag, realizing with a deep chill he was fortunate not to be lying unconscious inside his wrecked Prius, in this cold.
I remember the accident. I remember spinning across the highway into the median. I can’t believe someone coming behind me didn’t hit me… but somehow… somehow, I got out of the car and stumbled here…
A thought struck him. With renewed vigor he stuck his hand into his front jeans pocket, grasping for his cell phone. Relief filled him at the touch of cool plastic… a relief that faded when he opened the cell and was greeted with a red X instead of service bars.
No service.
Why the hell not? You can get service everywhere these days.
But there it was, nonetheless. Didn’t matter how high he held it up, waved it, walking back and forth along the snowy highway that red X remained, mocking him and his efforts to find a signal. After about ten minutes more he cursed, snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket, wondering what the hell he was going to do next.
He looked up to scan the highway again and this time saw what looked like an old, run-down diner on the other side: a vintage roadside joint, a trailer mounted on a cinderblock foundation. Above the diner, an old florescent light flickered Al’s Eats. The place blazed hospitable light; offering him a sliver of hope, but also the slightest touch of dread.
Because he saw no one inside.
Nor did he see any vehicles parked outside. He supposed some could be parked out back, but even so… despite the light streaming from its windows, the place seemed empty, dead still.
And an idea tickled the back of his mind that he didn’t remember seeing signs for a diner anywhere along the highway he’d just traveled.
Of course not, dumbass. You were half-drunk and you don’t know the area.
A reasonable explanation, one that didn’t make him feel any better. However, if the place was inexplicably abandoned, light meant electricity, which at least meant warmth and maybe a working phone. Best case scenario the phone worked, the diner’s owner was out back cleaning, and he’d not only call Jim (who’d hopefully forgive him for his behavior and come get him) but he’d also get a burger and fries and a Pepsi. Worst case scenario, if it was empty – which didn’t make sense with the lights on – at least he’d have shelter against the frigid wind.
With that in mind, he moved toward the diner. But as he stepped onto the road, a familiar sensation pulsed through him. He wavered there, on the highway’s edge, staring at the diner, a harsh, guttural voice echoing in his ears…
mene, mene
tekel upsharin
He stood there, foot suspended ridiculously like a marionette, cocking his head, listening intently. Part of him strained to hear the dread whisper, convinced it was important that he understood its meaning.
mene…
But the voice faded, as well as the strange, dreadful urging. Now he heard nothing, save the empty sighing of a winter’s wind.
A little disgusted at his dread fancy, he snorted and trotted across the highway toward the empty diner.
#
For several seconds after the wooden door screeched shut behind him, Gavin stood in the middle of the diner’s thick, oppressive silence. All the lights blazed with homely warmth, but no one stood behind the counter and no one bused the tables or swept the floors.
“Hello? Anyone home?” He winced at his squeaking voice and swallowed, injecting a heartier tone as he bellowed, “Got a paying customer out here, Al.”
Nothing but silence, and perhaps most disturbing was its quality. There was no echo, as if he’d spoken into a hungry vacuum that swallowed his voice.
He passed a cursory glance around, seeing nothing unusual. A chipped Formica counter ran the diner’s length on one side. Booths with dull, faded red leather cushions lined the other. Along the counter stood evenly spaced stools with red, round cushions that looked like gigantic push-buttons on a toy radio. Behind the counter gaped a rectangular window peering into the kitchen beyond, through which a short order cook could slide plates and trays, presumably ringing a bell and barking out orders in a clichéd, gravelly voice.
He stood on his tiptoes and peered through the rectangular window for a glimpse of the kitchen, but he couldn’t make out much past a row of what looked like silver heavy-duty refrigerators. He gave up and turned toward the entrance, spying an old cash register sitting on a podium next to the door. But when he craned his neck, looking closer, he saw the empty cash drawer hanging out.
He sighed and took a few circular steps, eyeing the place some more. He’d dined in plenty of these joints over the years. He remembered college road trips and more vividly, two years’ worth of weekends in similar establishments as he chased stories all over the Adirondacks for The Utica Times-Herald, covering everything from human interest stories, fall festivals, school board meetings, court cases, and local high school sporting events. He’d been paid a meager freelancer’s rate but he’d been young, fresh from college and working as a sorter at the local can and bottle recycling center, and his weekend reporting trips had been necessary breaths of fresh air. He’d been writing and getting paid for it, which had felt like a small slice of Heaven at the time.
Also, he’d eaten in plenty of these places during his book tour for his first hardcover, Shades of Darkness. He especially remembered one diner just outside Philadelphia, the tour’s last stop. He and Jim (Gavin was one of his first clients) had sat at the counter, eating burgers and fries. The book tour had been a moderate success. He’d hawked considerable copies of his first novel, made some good contacts, and had a good time.
He remembered sitting at the counter of this Philadelphian diner, chatting
with Jim, when the diner’s owner – a large, forty-something, barrel-chested man named Hank – approached them and rumbled, “Get ya dessert?”
Jim smiled, shaking his head, Gavin saying, “No, thanks. It was fantastic. Not sure I could fit dessert in, honestly.”
Hank accepted the compliment with a brisk nod. Instead of drifting back to check on other customers, he asked gruffly, “Couldn’t help over-hearin you fellas talkin.” He nodded at Gavin. “You a writer?”
Gavin smiled like a mindless idiot. Damn, he thought to himself, I guess so. Aloud, he’d replied, “I am. Just finished my first book tour, and I’m heading to my hometown to speak at my alma mater’s graduation.”
Hank grunted. “Where’dja grow up?”
“Clifton Heights, New York. In the Adirondacks, north of Utica.”
“Huh. You usta be country folk?”
Gavin smiled at memories of running through the forest causing mischief, diving off his best friend’s lakeside dock and lazy afternoons fishing, catching nothing but sunburns, bug bites and a few puny blue gills for their troubles. “Yes sir, I was.”
“Well now. I heard you boys talkin about novels an all when ya first sat down. I expected ya to be pains in my ass.” He paused, swiped the counter with his dingy towel and pronounced confidently, “Yer not, though. Seem like stand-up guys.”
“Not a pain in the ass,” Gavin remarked, grinning, “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”
Jim chuckled. “Don’t look at me. You’ve always been a pain in my ass.”
Gavin popped him lightly on the shoulder. To Hank, he said, “You read much?”
The big man shrugged. “Some. I talk rough, but that’s just my way. I read, yeah.”
Gavin grabbed the satchel sitting on the stool next to him, unzipped it and rummaged through its contents. “What do you read, Hank?”
Hank smiled. “Favor Robert E. Howard an Dashall Hammit myself.”
From his bag Gavin pulled a black and white hardcover book, a picture of an adolescent’s shadowed profile on the cover. “Hank, this was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten, and you’re a pretty stand-up guy yourself…” he held out the novel to the short-order cook, “I’d like you to have this. It’s my last copy, and though it’s not Howard or Hammit, I think you’ll find enough action in here to suit you.”
Hank accepted the book with an air of rustic grace. “That’s good of ya. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” He laid the book on the counter. “Mind signin it?”
“No problem.” Gavin snagged a pen from his shirt pocket, opened the book to its first page and dictated while he wrote, “‘To Hank – best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass.’” He signed his name with a flourish and returned the book to the cook.
Hank accepted it almost reverently. “That’s awfully good of ya, sir.” He looked at the book with a grin and then said, “You come back through anytime ya want. Dinner’s on the house.” He nodded, tucked the book under his arm and moved toward his other guests.
And in that abandoned diner, Gavin was still reminiscing on the memory when his eyes fell on the hardcover book sitting on the empty front counter.
#
His heart stuttered.
It wasn’t really a book. It only looked like one in the dark, and…
He frowned. It was getting dark. Odd, because moments ago the diner blazed with light. As he looked around he realized with cold shock that it had gotten much darker than it had been minutes before, the diner’s lights dimming, as if on the verge of blacking out entirely.
He looked back at the book on the counter.
No, that’s stupid. It’s not a book. It’s an account register; a ledger… but it’s not a book, no way.
But as he eased closer to the counter he couldn’t deny what he saw. The object looked just the right size for a hardcover novel. He squinted, trying to make out the author’s name or the book’s title…
No.
No, his stubborn mind protested, it can’t be. But as he moved closer, his unbelieving eyes discerned an adolescent boy’s gray profile, features shrouded by darkness, and printed across the bottom was: Gavin Patchett.
One of the story’s main protagonists, Michael Lockenstein, was an autistic savant whose prophetic visions had become entangled in a serial murder case. Hence the book’s title – Shades of Darkness – because it described the different shades of darkness the boy had endured his entire life.
His first novel.
And deeply personal, based in part on an autistic boy he’d known growing up. While he’d written it, he’d truly felt alive, as though he’d been accomplishing something important, something real. He’d enjoyed writing all his novels well enough but he hadn’t felt the same since that first one, like his writing was making a difference.
He lifted a trembling hand.
And with an odd combination of loathing and need he flicked open the book’s cover, revealing the inscription: To Hank – best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.
He jerked back. “What the hell?”
Something scraped the floor behind him.
A footstep, approaching.
Gavin spun and saw a fifteen-year-old boy standing about ten feet away, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a checkered red and black flannel over it. He wore an open winter jacket and his feet sported ragged, mud-splattered Nikes. The boy’s hands were jammed into his pockets. Unruly brown hair spilled across his forehead and clear blue eyes pierced Gavin with a disconcerting stare.
“All right,” Gavin rasped, “who the hell are you?”
The boy remained silent for several seconds, staring at him with those burning blue eyes until he finally said, “You know who I am.”
Gavin stared, speechless, a dread kind of understanding tickling the back of his mind... but he pushed it away. He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.
There was just no way.
“Hell I do. Maybe you look a little like... but no. Fuck no. I don’t care what you say, you’re NOT him.”
The boy shrugged, as if his disbelief meant nothing. “But I AM a messenger, here to remind you of things. Important things.”
Suddenly, the situation was too bizarre for Gavin to swallow anymore: an empty diner on an empty highway, a book that couldn’t be here, this boy (who couldn’t be who he looked like, couldn’t be) glaring at him like he was the child, those voices lingering at the edge of his mind…
mene, mene
tekel, upsharin
He shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about? Never mind. I don’t care. What I want is to get out of here, flag down a cop or a trucker or someone and…”
He took a step forward.
And pain twisted in his chest, cut by a phantom, burning knife. He doubled over and convulsed as a terrible vibration pulsed through him, jolting him to the bone.
The sensation passed.
He collapsed to his knees, gagging, drooling through clenched teeth.
“You don’t understand,” the boy remarked calmly. “There are no police, no cars to flag down here. There’s only you, I and the Other.”
An instinctual kind of panic crept along the edge of Gavin’s thoughts. He looked up at the strange boy and croaked, “What do you mean? Where are we?”
The boy tilted his head, his face blank, his eyes unfeeling. “An in-between place. A crack between worlds. A way station, of sorts.”
Gavin loathed his next words but that hysterical panic was crawling ever closer. “What are you saying? Is this…”
“Hell?” The boy’s eyes hardened, looking inexplicably old and ancient. “A place you couldn’t possibly begin to fathom. Especially considering you don’t believe it exists.”
It was desperately sad, some part of Gavin realized, that his only defense was petulant sarcasm. “C’mon. I’m a midlist genre author. Pretty sure I know what hell is.”
Almost instantly another
burning seizure slammed him against the floor, jerking his arms and legs as he kicked and flailed in agony. It passed as quickly as before, and he collapsed face-first, hacking and coughing. His arms weak and rubbery, somehow he crawled onto his knees and elbows, and in between ragged gasps he croaked, “So. Am… am I dead? Is… is that it?”
The boy drew himself up and clasped his hands behind him, as a lecturing professor might. “No. Not yet.”
Gavin’s response was cut off as he shrieked to another muscle-shaking jolt that throttled his spine while he flopped and kicked and jerked.
“You’re here because you need to choose.”
The seizure released him. Pressing his forehead into the diner’s cool floor, he mumbled, “Choose? Choose what? What the hell are you talking about?”
He breathed.
And amazingly enough, the shock didn’t return, so he lurched upright, sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth on his forearm. “What is this? Some shitty, low budget version of A Christmas Carol?”
A burning look from the boy and all his sarcasm died. “You’re here to decide your destiny, Gavin Patchett.”
Gavin scowled despite the lingering pain in his guts. “Destiny? I don’t have a destiny. I’m a writer. A genre writer.” He wiped his mouth on his arm again. “No destiny here. Sorry.”
The boy remained still, his blue eyes boring into Gavin’s. “You will choose today, Gavin Patchett, what you will serve: order or Chaos. Light or Dark. Purpose… or the Other.”
Gavin shook his head. “Other? What ‘Other?’” He staggered to his feet, but even though he towered over the kid, he felt dwarfed by an incomprehensible presence and regarded the boy warily.
The boy’s eyes pulsed. “You know the Other. You’ve served It most of your adult life. But now It wants more. It wants you as Its Herald.”
Ludicrous. The stuff of cheap horror flicks or badly written End Times novels. However, the boy’s words struck a curious resonance in him, and a memory surfaced, of a massive and inhuman thing slithering in the dark…
mene, mene
tekel upsharin
And that’s when he heard it.