Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology)

by Larsen, Christian A.

  It came as it always did; first, the calm enveloped him, increasing as he read further on the page. Then, the quiet would overtake him as his ears seemed to close off the mortal world around him. Sight was affected next, the darkness closing in around the outer edges of his vision, forcing his focus on the small volume gently held in his hands. As his vision blurred the letters on the page before him, he continued to recite the words from memory as the characters on the page seemed to melt into a series of straight lines.

  From these lines would then miraculously form the words he had been seeking, the name of the next one, affirmation that his duty had been performed well and that his work should continue.

  A smile formed on the man’s lips as he rejoiced in the continued confidence shown in his labors. Making a mental note of the name revealed, he would start the investigation the next morning, taking his time to ascertain all of the facts before coming up with a solution.

  As he finished up, he again crossed himself before leaving the altar. As he tried to stand, his legs gave out from under him. These sessions often took a lot out of him, many times making him too weak to walk. Slowly he pulled himself over to the old cot, pulling himself up and slowly rolling onto the blanket. Covered with sweat, he was nevertheless very happy…extremely happy. The exertions were yet another small price he must pay in the fulfillment of his mission.

  The smile was still on his face as he fell instantly asleep, a dreamless and restorative sleep.

  * * *

  The sun was an hour from rising when the monk arose, anxious to serve; he wanted to get a start on his next “project”. Lighting a candle, he pulled out a drawer in the old table, extracting a dog-eared stack of pages as he started a search for the name revealed to him the night before. Finding it on the third page, he copied down the pertinent information onto a small note pad before replacing the pages in the drawer.

  The woman revealed lived close. He would take his morning walk past the house as the first of the many steps he would take in investigating this next subject.

  The man excitedly contemplated the investigation, working forward toward his favorite part, the solution. He took great pride in his work, and to his final solutions that always cleared up the problem.

  His heart beat excitedly in his chest, and he realized that he was again showing overt pride for his work on the missions, a personal flaw that seemed to haunt him like no other. He fell to his knees and said a short prayer of contrition for his hubris, asking for continued guidance in his work.

  Rising once more, he contemplated his calling as he cut off two slices of bread for his breakfast. Having seen his future in a vision many years ago, he was humbled to serve and had dedicated his life to the cause.

  Is it so unnatural to take pride in a calling that one devotes himself to and executes to satisfactory completion without fail?

  He of course knew the answer, also knowing that if it were easy, anyone could do his work. He smiled at the thought; most of the people he’d met didn’t even have faith enough to believe in God anymore, much less to serve unfailingly something they could not touch or see.

  He let out a long sigh, so much to do, and he was only one man.

  Shaking off these negative thoughts, he sat down to slowly consume his meal, pulling off small pieces of the bread as he started jotting notes on his next mission. A couple of weeks were usually needed to compile the information needed in these matters, and he had no reason to feel that this one would be any different.

  Sticking the notes in his pocket when he was done, he stood and collected the crumbs of his meal in his hand before donning his hat and opening the door. Clearing the tiny space between the buildings, he tossed the crumbs out into the open yard, letting the birds take nutrients from his leftovers.

  He then started off at a good clip for his morning walk, following the new path he had laid out that morning. He was looking forward to working in his rose garden when he got back, the fragrant blooms calling him even now.

  Hard work will always produce beauty if the senses were allowed to be attuned to the results.

  His spirits high, he stepped up the pace slightly, letting the resultant breeze cool the perspiration forming on his face. It was going to be a glorious day, a glorious day indeed!

  “You have yet another project I see, Brother Girard,” the man suddenly beside him said while matching his stride, “Good…very good.”

  The monk was unfazed by the sudden appearance of someone beside him. He knew this man with long blonde hair and blue eyes as his spirit guide…his guardian angel. His heart swelled at the comforting recognition of his mission that his appearance always represented in his mind.

  “Welcome, Camael,” the monk said evenly, keeping his eyes focused forward. He knew the tall and well-built apparition on his right was visible only to himself. He definitely didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention by being seen apparently talking to himself.

  “Your support and attention to my work are greatly appreciated as always,” the monk continued humbly.

  Camael clasped his hand to the man’s shoulder. “Indeed, Brother Girard, your work is appreciated beyond description in my heaven.”

  Camael’s smile was bright as day as he looked upon his dedicated servant. Pulling his hand back, he clasped it behind the light-gray overcoat, the long tail of which flowed behind him as he walked. His brilliant white shirt sported a neatly tied royal blue tie within its neatly pressed and starched collar.

  “In fact,” the angel continued, “Your name was brought up at a gathering I attended just yesterday. Your work is well-recognized within our small group.”

  Suddenly, Camael stopped mid-step, causing the monk to stop, as well.

  “I just realized that you might actually be interested in who brought your name up in that conversation my friend. Would that be of interest to you?”

  “I am most honored that my work is appreciated, Camael. I need no recognition per se, but if you are of a mind to reveal the man you speak of, I would take it as a privilege.”

  The angel’s smile beamed back at the monk. “Why, you devil you! Pride being a sin, you have expertly worded your response so as to absolve yourself of any sinful pride. Simultaneously of course, you have almost forced me to reveal the name of the man to you as a matter of good manners.”

  “Well played, Brother Girard. Although, now that I have seen through your ruse, I hesitate to tell you as a matter of principle.”

  Nodding, the monk continued to stare ahead as he walked. “Forgive my perceived error, Camael. The human spirit is weak, even in those of us striving for a righteous life.”

  Camael grinned. “I was just messing with you old friend. Of course, I will tell you that which you most secretly desire…it was His Holiness himself!”

  Girard’s breath caught in his throat. “The Pope…he knows of my work?”

  “Absolutely, my old friend. He has been a member of our little sect since his birth. You see…he was chosen by the ‘big guy’ before birth to lead us. Now that he has been installed as the pontiff, our mission can flourish!”

  Unabashed pride flowed through the veins of the Monk as he realized the implications of this revelation. A tear streamed down his face as he stopped once more and turned toward his angelic companion, no longer worried about outward appearances.

  “Thank you, Camael, for sharing that wonderful news with me. You have indeed revived my soul, as well as my commitment to our work. I dare say; you have created an even more devoted solder to the war that we engage in to right the wrong of sin and pride. I am dedicated, as you know, to this mission to my dying breath.”

  “Wonderful!” Camael beamed. “I shall pass that on to our fearless leader!”

  Holding out his hand toward the monk, they shook warmly, basking in the revelations of the day.

  “I must be off now, my friend; I must spread the word to my other charges around the world. May the Lord guide your mission and bless your soul with a special pl
ace at the end.”

  Girard bent over and kissed the ring on Camael’s finger reverently, the tears in his eyes staining the angel’s hand.

  Turning, Camael strode off in the direction from which they had come. As he walked, his wings grew out of his back, the raven-black feathers glistening in the sunlight. The beautiful visage of his face shattered suddenly, dropping away like porcelain to the sidewalk, revealing his true countenance.

  The chalky gray skin pulled tightly across his skull, revealing a smile full of rotted teeth, his lips a thing of the past.

  “We have a special place for you indeed,” he said with a sneer while leaning forward to take flight. “In Hell!”

  13

  By K.R. Helms

  The house was dark, except for the jack-o’-lanterns that lined the porch. Some of the pumpkins grinned in masochistic glee, baring shark-like teeth while others screamed silently from their perch in horror of their recent evisceration. Fallen leaves danced and pirouetted to the accompaniment of the autumn wind, their dry edges scraping against the concrete walkway. The leaves seemed to whisper his name.

  Ssssssaaaallll.

  The chill in the air invigorated Sal Wynn, but it wasn’t just the cool, damp night that thrilled him. There was something else in the air—something mysterious and unexplainable. Where most kid's eyes grow large with excitement at the anticipation of Christmas, engrossed with visions of a tree teetering precariously atop a pile of presents, Sal felt that way when October howled for harvest—the dirge of summer. When Sal would see the corn go to tassel, he would watch every day to see it fade a little bit more from green to brown and soon the stalks would be cut and bound, tied into shocks. Then, his eyes would grow large with excitement and anticipation. But Sal's excitement had nothing to do with the greed shared by Christmas kids. For him, it wasn’t about buckets of candy or getting the chance to wear a cool costume. Sal didn’t need some cheap nylon department store facade to play a charade. Everyone changed into something else on Halloween; they might not be aware of the transformation, but Sal knew.

  Shadows were darker come October and that certain, special feeling in the evening air was a primal calling.

  The leaves whispered his name. Ssssssaaaallll.

  Sal had turned thirteen years old this October 31st, and he believed that this year was even more special than the previous ones. He was a firm believer that people wore costumes to subconsciously hide the changes that were only visible if you knew how to look and peered close enough. Masks were worn to conceal who they really were.

  But Sal knew. It was there, in the way the bonfire flames that writhed and danced like druids, shadows shifting on their unknowing faces. One moment they may look warm and secure, the next as the shadows flickered, exposed them, and they were monstrous and evil or scared and ashamed. It all really depended on how the flames directed those shadows.

  Sal didn’t dress up for Halloween; he wasn’t ashamed of that Hallowed Eve exposing him for what he really was.

  “What about that house?” asked Benji in a muffled voice. The latex mask he wore made his voice sound weak and far away.

  Benji was a new kid at school and had immediately latched onto Sal as his new best friend. Sal didn’t mind. Benji was a nice enough kid and being 13 years old they had a lot in common. Benji had opted to dress like a zombie this year. In years past, he had been many incarnations, but when he had discovered Night of the Living Dead in his father's video collection he had virtually gone insane about zombies. It appeared that Benji’s dad had shelled out a ton of cash for the grotesquely realistic costume.

  Sal nodded to the pumpkins that lined the porch, then shook his head. “Jack-o’-lanterns,” Sal said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Benji had no idea what that had to do with anything but shrugged his shoulders amicably. “Hey Sal, did you know that the Irish used to carve potatoes as jack-o’-lanterns?” Sal's teacher Mrs. Roberts had given them a lesson on the history of Halloween earlier in the week.

  “That’s what I hear,” replied Sal.

  “Mrs. Roberts said that Halloween used to be called Sam Hain,” added Benji.

  “Mrs. Roberts needs to work on her pronunciation. She said it phonetically.”

  Sal had a way of confusing Benji; he always used big words. “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Benji ran around in front of Sal and walked backward. “Hey, Sal. Did you know that the only way you can kill a zombie is to shoot it in the head?” He didn’t wait for Sal to answer. “My dad told me that.”

  “Good to know, Benj.”

  “Hey Sal. Did you know that…um…” Benji was always an endless source of information “that…um….zombies eat brains?”

  “I did not know that,” said Sal, humoring his friend.

  “Hey, Sal…I’m a zombie, and I’m gonna eat your brains,” he said, throwing his arms up and to the front like Boris Karloff in an old Frankenstein movie. “Rrrrrrrrr…Brrraaaiiinnns…”

  “I think someone already ate yours,” said Sal, batting Benji’s hands from his face.

  “Hey, Sal. How come you didn’t dress up for Halloween, anyway?” asked Benji.

  Sal just smiled.

  “I was the Lone Ranger last year; you could have worn that costume tonight.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Tonto was a zombie,” said Sal with a laugh.

  “Huh? Oh yeah, I get it. You’re funny, Sal,” said Benji in his usual good-natured tone.

  “Hey, Sal. When are we gonna get some candy?”

  “Trick-or-treats, huh?” asked Sal, disinterested.

  “Yeah buddy!” answered Benji. Sal thought that Benji might have already had enough sugar for one day.

  “We’ll get you some after we go to the old Marlowe house.”

  “What you don’t want any…hey…” Benji stopped suddenly, and Sal almost walked into him. “I’m not goin’ in that house. Did you know that Mr. Marlowe killed his whole family in that house and then…” Benji swallowed hard. “Then, he killed himself.”

  “Did your dad tell you that?”

  “Uh-huh. He said to stay away from there.”

  “Well, Benji, if they are already dead, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”

  Benji sounded dubious. “Jeez, Sal. My dad said it’s haunted. Didn’t your dad tell you that?” asked the zombie in amazement. “Everyone knows that their ghosts live there.”

  Sal put a hand on Benji’s shoulder and peered at his eyes through the holes in the latex mask. “Benji, ghosts are everywhere.”

  “Huh-uh…”

  “Ghosts, man. I’ll bet you even have one or two in your house.”

  Benji shook his head adamantly. “No way, Jose. Not in my house.”

  Sal shrugged. “Did your dad ever lose his keys or something then found them in the fridge or some other weird place?”

  “Nope.”

  “Has he ever asked you if you took something that you didn’t?” Sal asked nonplussed.

  “Well…yeah…I guess, but he just forgot where he had put the stuff.” Benji’s voice wavered nervously.

  “Ghosts,” Sal said simply.

  “Hey, Sal. Did you know that ghosts can’t hurt you because Jesus will kick their asses?”

  Sal raised his eyebrows. “Wow, Benj, that is insane. Why would a ghost hurt you, anyway?”

  “To suck out your soul, man. That’s why,” Benji said in exasperation then looked around him nervously and admitted, “I don’t know why. My dad didn’t tell me that part.”

  “Well, maybe you should ask Mr. Marlowe when we get there.”

  “Sal, I don’t want to go in that house. Let’s get some candy then we’ll go watch Night of the Living dead.”

  “What kinda zombie are you?’ asked Sal accusingly.

  “Whadaya mean?”

  “Since when are zombies scared of ghosts? They're both dead.”

  Benji thought about it for a minute, and out of character said nothing.


  Sal continued, “I think your dad would be ashamed if he found out his son were a chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken, Sal,” said Benji morosely.

  “Then prove it.”

  Benji looked down at his spotless white tennis shoes.

  Sal softened his tone. “Just for a little while, then we’ll go get you some candy.”

  Benji raised his head and looked at his friend. For a second, he thought he saw something there. A flicker, a shadow or something in the way the shadows moved on Sal’s face and it sent a chill up his neck giving him goose flesh.

  Sal smiled. “What d’ya say, Benj?” Sal looked intently at his friend, his gaze never wavering. Then, he added, “Just ten minutes. Surely a brain-eating zombie can handle a ghost for ten minutes.”

  “There are three ghosts in there, Sal,” Benji corrected “Ten minutes?”

  Sal nodded and smiled again, spreading his arms in a grand gesture. “That’s all.”

  “Then we get some candy?

  “As much as you can carry, Benj.”

  “Well…all right, Sal,” Benji said then quickly added, “But don’t tell my dad, okay? He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  “You’re already dead, Benji,” said Sal.

  Benji blinked stupidly through the eyeholes.

  Sal said, “You’re a zombie, remember?”

  Benji laughed. “Oh yeah…Brrrrraaaiiinnnsss…” He groaned and Sal thought that George Romero would have been proud.

  * * *

  The Marlowe house sat about a quarter of a mile outside of Blakefield’s city limits. Blakefield, Massachusetts contained a stagnant population of around one thousand five hundred. It had been founded in the same year as the infamous Salem had, but Blakefield did not share such a notorious history. That is, unless you happened to ask one of the locals. The Marlowe house had become a local legend and had sat empty for eight years. During those eight years, the house had also become what all local legends become—a place where the local kids proved their bravery or in most cases proved their cowardice.