Personal Effects: Dark Art

by J. C. Hutchins

  “Pop,” Lucas said, “he doesn’t want t0—”

  “Shush, goddamnit,” he snapped. Lucas flinched. Dad’s eyes returned to mine. “You can undermine me all you want, Zachary, and I can live with that. But you’ve undermined my case. The media is circling like sharks now over this so-called ‘conflict of interest.’ I’m the victim here. You’re the perp. Why couldn’t you just drop this? Taylor Family Loyalty, son. Thicker than water, thicker than profession—we always tell each other the tru—”

  I wanted to punch him in the face.

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Dad,” I said. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

  I turned around and walked away.

  As Rachael, Lucas, and I walked the East Village streets in silence, a war raged in my brain.

  The rational and irrational sides of my mind screamed at each other, one-upping each other in vitriolic arguments and counter-arguments. This is textbook paranoia, my Spock-side said. When the mind looks for patterns, it finds them. The Dark Man is a delusion; it’s always been. The emotional side of me—the part that powered my sketches, that spoke through my art—insisted that an unholy thing was set to feast on my friends and me.

  Unprovable, Spock said.

  That’s what the atheists say, came the reply, but God’s still up there.

  I smirked, nodding at this. I was quoting Henry, my uncle-who-never-was. Henry had been put away for a crime he said he didn’t commit—a crime my heart didn’t believe he could commit. Twenty years ago, the Dark Man had been paid, paid in blood, and had destroyed my family in the name of vengeance.

  Vengeance for what, I did not know. But I knew it was back. I’d sensed and seen enough today to finally understand that.

  And I knew, with steel-bladed certainty, that I wouldn’t let that fucker harm my family.

  You’ll find the path, Uncle Henry had said. Or the path will find you.

  Oh, yes. In this eclipsed world, the path blazed bright.

  I strode between them, my hands in my pockets, wincing at the wind.

  “We have to talk about this,” Rachael said. “Make sense of what happened tonight. Explain it. We have to understand those photos, and that effed-up phone call. Coincidence. Timing, bad timing …”

  I wrapped my arm around her waist. I think I loved her more right then than I ever had. There was Rachael, her purest essence bared on a Manhattan street corner: my better half, the brains of our operation, looking for answers.

  “You’re right,” I replied.

  Lucas glanced up from the sidewalk.

  “Dude, there’s no way I’m going back to your apartment.”

  I threw my other arm around his shoulder, drawing him close. What happened at the apartment had been terrifying … but for Lucas, I think our father’s actions had somehow been worse.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You guys head on over to Stovie’s. It’s a few blocks away and I bet the power’s on over there. I’ll go get Drake’s map and cell and meet you there. We’ll talk over burgers and brews, sort it all out.”

  My brother’s face brightened. I grinned back at his thousand-watt smile.

  Rachael nudged me.

  “Z. Babe. What about the dark?”

  I looked into her eyes. The wind gusted, again.

  “We all have to face our fears at some point,” I said, and kissed her.

  Autumnal leaves swirled around us, skittering against the sidewalk.

  Tktktk.

  The kitchen match scorched to life in my fingers as I stood in the front doorway. Our living room flared in a dance of amber and shadow. I picked up the nearby scented candle and lit it. The thing flickered feebly, beating back the black.

  I made quick work here, harried by the surroundings.

  Drake’s bizarre mural map went into my back jeans pocket. I slid his cell phone and the rest of the personal effects into my canvas satchel. The Brinkvale files went in, too. I thought of where I was headed and considered liberating Lucas’ pen flashlight from his backpack. Instead, I retrieved our stocky Maglite from the kitchen tool drawer.

  I scooped up my pencil and small Moleskine sketchpad from the steamer trunk. I tore out a page, placed the pad in my bag.

  There. Nearly ready now.

  I stopped at the end table by the front door, bending low to write my note by candlelight. They’d hate me for this, and I loved them for that.

  Dear Rachael and Lucas,

  For the past four days, the “Dark Man” has been a fiction for me, a boogeyman myth painted in rumor and shadow. An unreal thing.

  And yet, somewhere in the unreality of today, I found reality. Belief. I don’t know if the Dark Man is a tangible thing, a monster capable of murder … but I realized tonight that if it is, I will not let it hurt you.

  I love you—I’ dore you—more than the world. You’re my tribe. So I’m going north, to pull its gaze away from all us … to just one of us. Me.

  Drake’s map, a thing that was undoubtedly drawn by his subconscious (and I know a little something about that, don’t I? hee) leads to his son’s home. Answers wait for me there. Answers, I think, from Drake himself.

  Is Amazing Grace trying to redeem himself? ‘Was blind, but now he sees?’ I don’t know … but I hope that whatever I find ends this. I hope it saves him. I don’t know what I’ll find there. I don’t think Drake knew when he drew his map. But there’s something important there; the secret to all of this, I hope.

  I’m sorry I don’t have the courage to tell you this in person. I’m sorry I know you well enough to know what you’d say.

  If The Dark Man is real and hunting us, it’ll come for the person coming for it, the man driving on the red road, toward the map’s black moon. I’m going there, and I’ll be back soon.

  I love you,

  —Z

  I blew out the candle, locking the door as I left.

  23

  The countless, shimmering confetti lights of the city finally relinquished their hold on the passing landscape, allowing sleepy suburbs and townships to emerge on the horizon. Then they, too, disappeared in the Saturn’s rear window … and all was dark. Inky penumbrae of trees and hills now blurred past the windows, illuminated briefly by the high-beams, now gone. The moon glowed like a spotlight, fat and full.

  I drove, alone.

  I wasn’t alone.

  The beast was here, slithering in the back seat—I could hear it, the sound of a spoon swirling through cottage cheese, a wet, slurp-swish that rushed from the right side of the car to the left, restless and hungry.

  Glancing into the back seat or rearview mirror was pointless. It didn’t want to be seen. And yet it loomed, always invisible, sliding its tongue against its fangs—obsidian razors, Mr. Taylor, tktktk—huffing its gelid breath against my neck.

  I twitched, wide-eyed, hands frozen to the steering wheel. The Saturn’s heater was set to high. It blew cold air.

  The car sped on, northward on the interstate. I craved distraction from the sounds behind me. I fiddled with the radio, tapping the “seek” button with a trembling finger. The manic side of me—the side that had split this morning as Emilio’s skull split against Brinkvale tile, the side of me now drinking the Dark Man Kool-Aid, glub-glub-glub, refreshing ice-cold India ink, it hunts best in the pitch, paid in blood, ohhh yeahhhh—wasn’t surprised by the music that slipped through the speakers.

  Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” The Doors’ “This Is the End.”

  I barked a crazed laugh when Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” hissed through the static on the FM dial.

  “I get the fucking point,” I said.

  The radio snatched another station. A wicked, never-ending cackle roared from the dash. I shrieked. Vincent Price laughed on and on in his timeless walk-off from the Michael Jackson song “Thriller.” The Dark Man, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

  It’ll play, Mr. Taylor, play with you like …

&
nbsp; “ … a cat plays with a …”

  Tktktk.

  I switched off the radio.

  “Grih-grih,” I muttered. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them, focused on the road ahead. Watched the highway’s dividing line tick past the car hood.

  “Grip. Get. A. Grip. Zach.”

  The air from the dashboard vents blasted hot, drying my eyes. I blinked, savoring the cascading warmth. The Doberman behind me growled, as if suddenly understanding.

  “You’re not real,” I said. “You’re a psychic virus. A transmythssion. A figment.”

  The thing’s jaws snapped now, hollow fangs clicking in a vibraslap staccato. The sound of skulls.

  “That’s right. Drake was patient zero, brainwashing us with his CIA training, spreading his sickness. But you’re paranoia. You’re delusion. You’re … not … real.”

  An awful sound hailed from behind me—the sound of slop dumped from a bucket. The heater still blasted, but my body jolted uncontrollably, wracked with shivers. The thick splash hadn’t come from below. It came from above.

  It was on the ceiling.

  “Not real,” I whispered.

  My hair stood on end. Icy spider legs swirled across my arms, my neck, my face.

  Jesus Christ, it’s on the ceiling and it’s sagging now, the sound, dear God, milkshake sucked through a straw, no, not real, colder, getting colder in here, Antarctic wind, no, not

  “ … real,” I hissed. “Not.”

  Loud, by my ear: TKTKTK.

  I screamed.

  The cell phone in my hip pocket sang “Birdhouse In Your Soul.”

  Rachael. I pulled out the phone, hit “talk,” smiling, relieved and grateful—so goddamned grateful.

  “What kind of macho bullshit is this?” she snapped. “‘ … So I’m going north, to pull its gaze away from all us … to just one of us.’ What’s gotten into you, Z? You don’t just do this, you can’t just up and leave without telling us. We waited for you. Waited for more than an—”

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” I said. The gooseflesh relinquished its hold on my skin. “I couldn’t, just couldn’t. You and Luc are all I have. I—”

  “What”

  “You guys are it, babe, all I’ve got. You were nearly killed tonight. If this thing’s real, I won’t let it—”

  “—eaking up,” Rachael’s voice said. “—amn it, Z, we’re suppos—”

  I gripped the wheel. No. Goddamned cell phone reception failure, not now.

  “Rache, listen. I’m the bait, it’s the only way. I wouldn’t be able to live …”

  My voice trailed off, distracted. The car was warm again. No, the car was hot again. No feeling of being watched, no slither sounds, no bucket of Black sloshing in the backseat.

  Flash-bulb memory: Drake’s last word to me yesterday, as I ran from Room 507.

  Pray. Or prey.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “—ach, you’re …—ouble here …—ow … no …—earn—”

  “No,” I said. I stared at the midnight wilderness before me. “Don’t you dare, not her, you fucker. No, oh no, no-no-no—”

  “—help—”

  The line went dead.

  The dashboard vents whirred merrily, filling the interior with white noise and hot air. My fists pounded the steering wheel as I wailed, sweat suddenly streaming from my pores. The phone was worthless. I threw it into the passenger seat, snarling, sick at heart.

  Tears made the yellow line ahead blur and shimmer, a nighttime mirage.

  You’ve damned her. Damned them all.

  The wheel’s leather grip moaned as I squeezed tighter. I hated myself. Hated Drake. Hated the inky thing hunting us.

  Uncle Henry’s voice: Sometimes you find the path …

  Too late. Too late to turn back.

  My foot punched the accelerator. Eighty. Ninety. Past ninety.

  “Come and get me, you cold-hearted son of a bitch,” I growled to the Dark Man. “I’m heading to your home. Come and get me.”

  I drove, alone.

  24

  Daniel Drake’s house rose out of the blackness like a theater proscenium, blasted bright by the Saturn’s headlights. The thing reminded me of a rotten tooth, mottled with decay, covered in filth and splinters. The one-story building felt taller than it had yesterday morning. Impossible, I knew; a trick of the light. But it loomed and leered at me, its darkened windows now eye sockets.

  Watching, like tot-lot ghouls.

  I killed the engine and the headlights. I slung my satchel onto my shoulder and stepped out into the chilly midnight air. I clicked on the Maglite. My eyes adjusted to the stark contrast of bright and darkness. Above me, the moon was fat, nearly full.

  I was grateful for the flashlight: it wasn’t enough. I felt my nyctophobia pumping fear into my brains, my veins—but for this moment, the emotion was far away, glimmering like a lighthouse beacon. There were other emotions throbbing in my mind—anger, determination, concern. What overpowered them all was the flat sensation of sleepwalking … of arrival without travel … of inevitability.

  Daniel’s blue pickup was gone. I peered at the building, listening. Music rose and fell from the living room, muffled by the walls. I walked through the muddy front yard to the porch. The house remained lightless, lifeless.

  The music was clearer now. “Night On Bald Mountain.”

  My knuckles rapped against the cracked front door. No answer. I knocked louder, calling Daniel’s name. I pounded. I yelled. My voice echoed in the night. I thought of Bethany Walch, the woman who’d befriended Richard Drake and his son ten years ago. The one who’d been threshed right along with the hay.

  We heard her screams three miles away.

  No answer.

  I stepped from the porch, skulking to the side of the house, comforted by the heft of the Maglite in my hand.

  Its bulb did not flicker, didn’t strobe as I’d seen a dozen times in the past few days. The Dark Man didn’t want to warn me this time. The bulb inside blasted ultra-bright for a moment—far too short a time for me to realize what was happening until after it’d happened—and then it shattered, the tiny shrapnel shards tinkling against the lens glass.

  I stopped, glancing first at the dead weight in my hand and then to the sky, looking for the spotlight above. My fear of the dark surged like a wave, cold oil on my clammy skin, as a cloud swept over the moon.

  Black. The whole world had gone black.

  I doubled over, dropping the flashlight, clutching my arms, my stomach, gasps hissing from between my teeth. The fear … was a swarm.

  My mind flickered, on-off-on-off, just like the Brinkvale hallways, Room 507, the hellshow, a horror strobe light. Bile, sweet and sickening, gushed against my tongue, filling my mouth.

  Nonsense filled my head. I seethed, breath screeching as I hyperventilated, thick spit oozing from my lips, and this is how it ends Zach, alone in the dark, gobbled by black flies, shoo fly shoo, shoes, pinned me down to my six-month-old-Vans, pinned like a lepidopterist pins a-mazing Grace how sweetthesoundthatsavedawretchlikeme

  My knees buckled. I fell. The phobia was my blood, my air, the pillow pressed to my face. And my God, the faces came now, all painted black, eyes and teeth frightfully white: Emilio (Vuhvammpire, he said) and Drake (Be sure to breathe, Mr. Taylor) and Henry (mercenary, a thing summoned from the) and oh God, there was Mom, pupil-less, blood bubbling from her mouth, singing me a nightmare lullaby. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

  My cheek pressed into the cold mud. Black vacuum. Airless. Soundless.

  A century passed. An eon. And then, finally, the cloud’s tendrils swept past the moon. The world around me brightened slightly. Air rushed into my lungs.

  I stood, body quaking, eyes blinking. I remained still, waited for the lights in my brain to come back on. I didn’t move until I was certain I wouldn’t piss myself.

  The sound came from ahead, from behind the wood-frame house.

  Tktktk. Tktktk.


  “Back,” I said, slinging a palmful of spit from my mouth. My voice sounded alien, unused. I was drowning in the fear now. I coughed a manic laugh, recalling an AC/DC song.

  “Back In Black,” I said.

  Tktktk.

  I stepped forward, nodding at the noise, heading to the rear of Drake’s home. I passed a waist-high pile of chopped wood. Yellow eyes glittered from the gaps between the blocks. Raccoons. Or darkling friends, perhaps.

  The grass field behind the house rustled, whispered. I came to the back door and tried its knob. Locked. I brought my nose to the cracked window, gazed into the kitchen. The world inside was soaked in black velvet.

  “DANIEL!” I shouted.

  The wind swept in, carrying away my voice. The field whispered. And now my mind whispered … whispered slippery, boozy confidence. Oh, I knew this voice. It purred, the voice of a slut, the voice of sin, the voice of the doppelganger—the side we deny ourselves because it always brings misery and madness.

  Hi there, Zach, it said. Long time.

  “Anti-Zach,” I replied.

  I’d lost my mind. I was certain of it now.

  We’re back on the wild ride, ain’t we? Finally? Repeat performance.

  “One night only,” I agreed, staring at the doorknob’s cheap lock.

  Oh, gooood. Giddy-giddy.

  Yes. Giddy-giddy. I opened my satchel and let my fingers slide inside, groping for the folder containing Drake’s Brinkvale admittance papers. I plucked a paperclip from the stack and pulled it from the bag. It glimmered in the moonlight.

  I tugged at the wire, fingernails bending and denting it, using my teeth when I needed to, just like the old days, the A-Z days.

  See, Z? You oughta keep me around. You need me. I ain’t as bad as you think.

  “No,” I said, jigging the pick into the knob. “You’re worse.”

  Ouch, partner. And can you live with that? Can you live with me being in your head?

  The lock clicked. The door swung open.

  “Let’s first see if I can live through tonight,” I said.