Echoes of Darkness

by Rob Smales

  Holding the gun low, he walked back to the trunk and pushed the key into the lock. At the slight metallic sound, the girl inside the trunk went silent. Benny took the silence as a warning, readied himself, then turned the key. The lid exploded upward as the girl inside thrust with both feet, but Benny was prepared. He yanked his left arm out of the way of the lid and pulled the trigger.

  The dart thudded into her thigh, and her eyes bulged at the sudden pain, her full lips flattening against her teeth as her mouth opened wide. Her powerful scream might actually have rocked him back a step if he hadn’t already been leaning forward to slam the rebounding lid back down. Her thrashing lasted for a slow five count, then faded to stillness once more.

  The tranquilizer darts he was using were supposed to take down a bear in five seconds, and keep it down for a couple of hours. A girl like this . . . hell, it had to be a bad batch. He pulled a dart from his shirt pocket and inspected it.

  Looks fine to me, he thought, slipping the dart into the gun. He carefully opened the trunk and looked at the girl. The yellow fletching from his darts showed at her throat and thigh as she slept, hands cuffed behind her back.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, and the word echoed in his mind, buoyed by the memory of that last scream. What a voice!

  Benny stood, looking down at her and fighting against a sudden, dark surge. This battle for control had happened before. Often, in fact. Benny likened it to bladder control. The pressure would grow, and grow, like a filling bladder on a long road trip, but more slowly. Exquisitely slowly—sometimes taking months. But then the Need would reach the painful point where it was release or burst. Having the girl right here, right now, should be acting as a balm for his condition, allowing him to relax, but that was not the case. Like someone in search of a restroom who is told there is one nearby, only to feel a sudden increase in bladder pressure that forces them to run in the indicated direction with short awkward steps, Benny fought for control. The sudden proximity of a playmate caused the Need to flare up strong; almost too strong. His hands trembled, and he licked sandpaper lips with a tongue gone dry. He looked around at the highway, the drainage ditch and the trees.

  I could do it right here. I could play right here, but I don’t have my toys.

  He looked at his surroundings again, almost desperately.

  And it’s not safe. It’s just not safe. Someone might hear.

  “I’m really looking forward to this,” he said to the unconscious woman, in a voice choked with emotion and effort. “But better safe than sorry.” He fired again and a third dart appeared, this one sprouting from her belly, before he closed the lid again. He got back behind the wheel, but left the radio turned off for the rest of the drive. He preferred to remember the screams that had so recently come from the trunk.

  It was like mental music that he played again and again to soothe himself as he drove. The anticipation grew as his dark twin, the one whom no one ever saw but Benny himself, and then only in the mirror while they were playing, grinned and danced to the delightful song. The tightness across his lap was a constant reminder that his body was straining with its own eagerness of things to come.

  She’s heavier than she looks, he thought as he carried her through the large, shadowy basement, past storage containers and old coal bins, toward the back of the house. To his playroom.

  It was Benny’s favorite room. Stark white walls. A metal table with restraints. A wheeled instrument tray containing his toys. Two portable work lights. A dual slop-sink in the corner. A top-of-the-line digital voice recorder on a shelf all its own, the long wire running up from the machine and across the ceiling to dangle the microphone, perfectly placed above the table to capture his playmates’ “performances.” Everything was lit up by bright fluorescent lights, like a surgical suite.

  It was perfect.

  He had built it himself, after inheriting the huge house from his parents. His parents had come from money, and now everything was his. His money, his house, his car, his . . . hobby. He had needed a place to bring his playmates, so he had converted one of the basement rooms into the playroom. Double-thick walls, with lots of insulation. With the door closed, no one could hear his playmates scream. And, oh, how he loved it when they screamed . . .

  He placed his new playmate on the table, flopping her down and spreading her limbs out toward the corners. Easier to work that way. Her head lolled to the side, and he stroked her hair. It was so soft. Lovely.

  As it had on the road, the Need pulsed in his head, driving him to move faster. He made two selections from the tray of glittering objects by his side. A thin, sharp knife and a pair of scissors. With swift, sure strokes he began to cut the clothing from her body, but, with the Need pushing him, whipping him like a jockey using the quirt in the home stretch, his pace quickly became more frantic than meticulous. He pulled at the fabric to open the cuts faster, tearing the cloth. It was a good thing he was so practiced at this; many playmates had wound up in his playroom. Each slice and snip parted fabric, not flesh. Jacket, shirt, pants and panties. In just minutes his new playmate was naked, lying on the shredded remnants of her clothing.

  He caressed the bare skin of her stomach: smooth, like warm silk. He was thrilled to see she was unmarked—a blank canvas that cried out for his special creativity. His eyes went to her nipples, dark and contracted in the cool air of the cellar, and he felt himself stiffening in response. He longed to touch them, but knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even be enjoying the feel of her belly. Not yet. She wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t . . . prepared. He rolled her on her side in order to pull the last bits of clothing from beneath her—and froze.

  What the hell is this?

  He stared at the thin line of fine hair bisecting her back. Starting up at the nape of her neck, where her hair left off, it followed her spine all the way down her back to end at the cleft of her backside. The stripe was about a half an inch wide, and the individual hairs were a uniform length, around an inch. It was the same color as the hair on her head, and, when he stroked his hand down it, it felt just as soft. He was reminded of a horse’s mane as it ran down the horse’s neck, but this was . . . different.

  His pulse throbbed in his temples and groin, the Need swelling in her presence to a nearly tangible thing. He had to prepare her. Quickly. Tearing his gaze from her strange mane, Benny yanked the scraps of cloth from beneath her and lowered her onto her back again. He circled her, stopping to secure each wrist and ankle with the leather straps and cuffs bolted directly to the table.

  Once she was safely spread out like a frog pinned to a dissection tray, he paused again, admiring her. Limbs long, and well toned. Torso lean, breasts not overlarge, but firm. Athletic. Look at that muscle, he thought. No wonder she’s heavier than she looks. He ran his hands along her arms and legs, over her ribs, marveling at those expanses of perfect, unblemished skin. He wondered what to use first. The scalpel? The saw? The drill? He quivered at the thought of punching patterns into that perfect skin. Carving designs. There was a sound, and he glanced at the girl before realizing he’d moaned aloud. He was so hard it hurt, and hurried to finish his preparations. The dark twin was more than ready to play.

  Her nails were long, and strong, but unpolished: that would never do. He filed each one, shaping them neatly, then applied some fast-drying polish—Ruby Red, his favorite. He fetched the makeup tray and moved to the head of the table. Her head was rolled to one side, a stream of sleep-spittle connecting her mouth to the metal, and he wiped her face clean with a towel. She wore no makeup, her natural beauty probably making her feel it was unnecessary, but that wouldn’t do for a playmate: it wouldn’t suit his twin. Benny went to work with eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara and blush, applying them with heavy, broad strokes. Whored up, his mother would have called it.

  “Whored up,” he said, holding her chin in one hand and applying lipstick with the other: more Ruby Red.

  “Yes. Whored up,” he murmured, only barely aware he was doing it. �
�Oh, God, yes.”

  Her eyes opened, and he snatched his hands away from her mouth, his heart skipping a beat, then recovering with a strong, fast rhythm as her eyes drooped closed again. No wonder, he thought, considering the three darts he had used to get her here. He hoped she would throw off the effects soon. If she didn’t, he would have to inject a stimulant. He needed her awake to play. He slapped her cheek, gently.

  “Wake up.”

  Her eyes opened. Then closed.

  “Wake up!” His palm cracked against her beautiful, whored-up cheek. Her eyes snapped open, rolled once, then focused on him. He slapped her again, harder. “I said wake up, lover. It’s time to play.”

  The girl’s head lolled left and right as she took in her surroundings. The white walls, the lights, the table. When her eyes focused on the tray beside her, on the array of shiny, sharp instruments, the leather restraints snapped tight as the muscles stood out in sudden, stark relief along her long and lovely limbs.

  “Over here,” he said, snapping his fingers to attract her attention.

  Her gaze found his again, her eyes round and rolling, and she bared her teeth at him. He was surprised at the aggressive expression on her face, in her eyes. He would have to change that. He slapped her a fourth time, then grabbed her face again, digging his fingers mercilessly into her cheeks and jaw, holding her head still so he could lean down to stare straight into her wide eyes.

  “Scream for me.”

  Her head thrust forward in a sudden, powerful motion, catching him by surprise; only his startled recoil saved him from injury as her white teeth snapped closed a fraction from his nose.

  “Jesus!”

  She was strong—very strong—and seemed to have thrown off the effects of the tranquilizer with amazing speed, but it was more than that: she was struggling, as they all struggled, but he stood frozen in surprise, realizing that she was straining not to get away from him, but to get at him.

  He was unnerved. Wrong—this was all wrong. She was his playmate. His. He needed to regain control of the situation. To regain dominance. Steeling himself, he touched her, trailing his fingertips slowly down her body, from the base of her throat, down between her heaving breasts and over her taut, quivering stomach. The muscles beneath her skin felt like shifting stones.

  “You’re a strong one,” he said. “It’s going to be fun to break you. And I will break you. You will scream for me, little girl.”

  Her only response was a growl, a grinding rumble deep in her chest, as she continued to strain. Beneath her growl, and beneath his own sharp, nervous breathing, Benny swore he heard the leather restraints creak.

  He weighed the idea of giving her another dose of tranquilizer. I will break her, he thought, but better safe than sorry.

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere!” He forced a laugh, striving to sound casual. He turned from her and went out into the main basement, letting the playroom door swing shut behind him, and started walking toward the stairs.

  He wanted the dart gun.

  He was at the top of the stairs, pushing the door open, when he heard it.

  A thump, down in the cellar.

  He half turned, looking down the stairs. I shouldn’t hear anything, he thought. I built that room to be completely soundproof.

  Leaving the door to the kitchen open, just in case, he slowly made his way to the bottom of the stairs again. The cellar was spooky. It consisted of three corridors, all running parallel, separated by storage closets and old coal bins. The light switch at the top of the stairs turned on only the lights in the main corridor, leaving the side corridors and the spaces between the bins swathed in shadows. He looked down the central aisle toward the playroom, and saw a sliver of light along the floor.

  The door was ajar.

  Well, that explains it, then. He had forgotten to close the playroom door all the way, so some sound was leaking out into the real world. Simple.

  It didn’t feel simple.

  What the hell is the matter with you? spoke a voice from somewhere behind his eyes, the voice of his dark twin—the voice of his Need. Look at you! Frightened by a helpless playmate! You need to be a man, take control! It’s your game! It’s our game!

  Benny had put off his Need for quite a while before he’d gone hunting this time, and it had grown so, so strong. Almost without a thought, he took a deep breath and started toward the door. He tried to ignore the shadows that loomed to his left and right, in the dark spaces. He needed to shut in the sounds, and shut out the world. He needed to close that door, and fetch the dart gun. Then he could get on with his game.

  Fine, said the twin behind his eyes. Go get the gun. Bring it back; then we can play. We can play hard.

  As he approached, his hand outstretched to push the playroom door closed, something felt wrong.

  Why can’t I hear the girl?

  She should have been screaming for him. Or crying. He should be hearing the sounds of her struggling, pulling futilely at her straps and sobbing. But he heard . . . nothing. Unnerved, he opened the door wide.

  The cuffs were empty, the torn straps lying loose on the table. The room was silent.

  The girl was gone.

  “Shit!” He looked at the shadows shrouding most of the basement, wondering how long it would take him to find her down there, when he suddenly remembered that he had left the—

  The kitchen door at the top of the stairs slammed shut.

  “Shit!” The bitch was getting away! He sprinted for the stairs. Shadows loomed on his left and right as he ran toward the exit, arms and legs pumping, mouth open and shouting in time to his slapping feet.

  “No! No, no, no! No—”

  He was almost to the stairs when something burst from the shadows to his right and hit him. He caught only the barest impression of motion from the corner of his eye before the impact lifted him from his feet and drove all thought and breath from him. Whatever it was hit him and didn’t stop, Benny’s own weight not slowing it at all. His feet never touched the ground as he was driven sideways into the door of the old coal bin, through the door, breaking it to splinters with his shoulder and back. Benny was carried along until he smashed into the back wall of the bin, hard enough that some of the boards broke. He slumped to the dirty cement floor, paralyzed by pain. His body struggled to draw a breath while his mind looked for something to focus on. As he sat there, he noticed he only had one loafer on, the other foot clad in just a black sock.

  Hit me right out of my friggin’ sh—was all he had time to think before his breath came back, rushing down into his lungs with a loud whoop. Then a second. And a third; inhalations so strong he rocked as he sat there. He focused on counting his breaths so he wouldn’t have to look at the feet.

  Right there in front of him, pale in the dim light leaking through the shattered door: bare feet and legs. Female. Shapely. He could only see them to the knees, but he refused to look up. A sound came from up there, above the legs, but he didn’t want to think about it. Growling, low and guttural and growing. Beneath that sound, Benny was aware of a sound from his own throat; a high, terrified whimper, like that of a frightened dog.

  Hands gripped him, shockingly strong; they squeezed his shoulders and lifted him off the ground. His back was pressed hard into the wall, his feet dangling; the one without a shoe felt cold. His eyes were closed, and he intended to keep them that way. This was playtime, and playtime was supposed to be fun. But this was not fun.

  “Look at me.”

  He felt her breath upon his face, warm, and moist. He tried to jerk away, smashing the back of his head against the wall. He did not care. All he wanted was to get away from whatever was holding him. He twisted in her grip, trying to turn away from that mouth, so close to his face.

  “Look at me!”

  Flecks of spittle sprayed Benny’s cheek and neck. It smelled of decay. The voice was deeper, rougher than before. Louder. More insistent.

  “No . . . please, I—no . . .”

&
nbsp; As Benny heard himself begging, part of him searched within his head, poking into the shadowed corners of his imagination for the backup he always found there; this was playtime, his dark twin’s favorite time, and he would know what to do. He would know. But the vaults of his mind were empty, with no sign of his powerful twin.

  He was on his own.

  No . . .

  He gasped as the grip shifted, and something—a thumb?—pressed against his collarbone. Hard. Harder. His gasp became a high-pitched mewling cry when, with a sickening crack, and an explosion of pain, the bone snapped.

  “Look—at—me!”

  The voice would not be denied, and when Benny felt a similar pressure start to build on his other clavicle he turned his face toward the voice, its breath fluttering his eyelashes.

  He opened his eyes.

  Her eyes glowed, red in the dim light, but it was her mouth that captivated him. It was inches away, and it was wide. Too wide. The teeth were long and white; almost luminescent in the gloom. The lips were drawn back, baring the teeth in a snarl. As he watched in horrified amazement, the mouth grew even wider, the teeth longer. Through the growl that issued from between those teeth he heard . . . cracking. Snapping. The sounds of bones shifting, moving and locking in place. The jaws opened, impossibly wide, and within that cavernous maw a tongue, long, and black in the shadows, writhed. Flicked along teeth growing longer still, thicker, stretching their sockets in the pink gums. The jaws came together, slowly, lips stretching down to cover most of the teeth, the tongue slipping out to moisten the lips. The voice came once more, but the halting, straining quality of the speech hinted at a mouth no longer suited for forming words. As that mouth spoke, straining to articulate, Benny noticed that those impossibly wide lips were stained with color.