Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller

by David C. Cassidy

  “JESUS!”

  He backed off as fast as his stumbling hands and legs could move. The cat-thing had sunk its jaws into the crown of Pepper’s head and was eating her alive. It kept on at the open flesh there, attacking it viciously, purring as it did. But what had truly sent him reeling was that Pepper simply stood there, staring, blinking slowly, her empty eyes drifting, as if she were powerless to stop it. As if she were already dead.

  The cat-thing looked up from its meal and gulped down the crimson mash in its maw. It couldn’t force the stuff down fast enough, the meat a bulging lump in its thin throat. And when it saw Ryan reaching for a rock, it instinctively clasped its jaws into the fur at the back of Pepper’s neck and dragged her, still alive with vacant eyes, into a dark crawlspace under the farmhouse.

  “PEP!”

  He couldn’t breathe; could not believe. He dropped the rock and cupped his hands to his ears. Sickening sounds were coming from the crawlspace, gnawing and purring sounds … and then, one final, helpless meow.

  Ryan Bishop shut his eyes tight, and began to weep.

  ~ 9

  It would be no trouble getting in. When the liquor ran dry (either in town at the garage or out at the Wild, and in any case, not likely before two in the morning), the idiot would slip out of his pickup, and somehow, God knew, stagger his way to the fuckin’ shack (as Ray Bishop referred to the guesthouse, always emphasizing it, Yeah, yeah, lay off me, woman, I’m gonna fix that goddamn window in that fuckin’ shack). Almost always he would fall over, give royal shit to something or other that had tripped him up, usually a cat or a rock or his own useless feet, never knowing, never caring, that his young son could see him from his bedroom window, see him slip a greasy hand above the door for the key. Most times he came home alone, sometimes with the boys … and sometimes not. Ryan never dared a peep about the women, Christ no, never had the guts, and he had always hated the sonofabitch for it. Hated himself for it.

  Mom probably knew … and he hated that, too.

  He supposed the Ghost was right after all. Everybody had secrets. Everybody.

  Henry Roberts had Billy Kingston. He had his father. And all the horrible things the bastard had done.

  And Kain Richards had his, didn’t he? He couldn’t be certain that what had happened to Beaks had happened to Costello, but of this he was dead sure: the Ghost was the smoking gun. He did something, all right. Did something to all of them. And now, it was time for his little secret to come crawling out of the darkness like the creature it was.

  He slipped the key from the lock and returned it to its safe place. He turned the knob, but drew away from it suddenly. His hand was still trembling. He made a fist and got a grip. When he could, he turned back to the veranda. He sniffled as he fought the tears. His mind was still screaming that what he’d just seen was impossible. That this was all like some horrible dream.

  Like a dream that was real.

  He didn’t want to go in. He had wanted to for the longest time—at least, he thought he had wanted to—but the reality was, he was scared shitless. Scared of the truth. Scared of what this drifter could really do when his world came crashing down around him. The funny thing was, in the end, Bullshit Benny had said it best.

  That guy scares me.

  He swallowed a fist in his throat. And just when he feared he might reach for the key and lock himself out, he heard those gnawing sounds in his head … and Pepper’s last pitiful cry.

  Ryan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  He surveyed the room. Too neat. As if the guy was ready to bug out at a sneeze. He took a stiff shot of the No. 8 and set it on the table. He went through the drawers quickly, careful not to disturb the few clothes he’d discovered. Nothing in the pockets. Under the bed. Under the mattress. The bathroom was equally frustrating.

  Then he saw the knapsack in the corner.

  He checked the window. Checked his watch. Still early. They would stay for the fireworks. They always did.

  He took up the bag and placed it on the table. It was a ragged leather thing. It smelled old. Not like a forgotten chest in a dank basement, or even that old library smell. Like something that had been around the block a time or two, absorbing all of the smells of all of the places in its travels … and he supposed it had.

  The side pockets held some coins and some matches. A couple of dulled pencils. A small folding knife that had carbon shavings on it.

  The zipper gave him trouble, but it came. He unfolded the sack and some clothes threatened to fall out. He tucked them back in, set the bag flat, and opened it.

  He took up the envelope there and found it unsealed. He slipped it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper. He shook his head in disgust and slid the insulting note back.

  He went through all the clothes. Every pocket, every arm, every leg. Even the socks and underwear. Nothing.

  Inside the pack, two stitched pockets held a few small bills. He took five dollars and slipped the cash in his back pocket, then had second thoughts and returned it. No sense giving the drifter a reason to suspect him.

  Disillusioned, he straightened the clothes and placed the envelope neatly on top. He was about to close it all up, but he noticed that the lining inside bulged slightly in one corner near the bottom. He felt around. Fingered it. He took the clothes out and set them on the bed carefully.

  There was something beneath the lining.

  He couldn’t find a zipper or a flap of any kind. He checked the exterior and found nothing to indicate a way in. He thought of the knife, then thought against it.

  He set the bag upright. He poked at the lining. Slowly, he ran a finger along its edge and stopped where he felt resistance … then slipped it deep inside a fold. He had missed it the first time.

  A zipper.

  He found the clasp and had to work to pull back the lining, revealing a hidden compartment. He opened it.

  A small cloth sack, drawn closed with a thick string, beckoned him. When he removed it, he was surprised by its substantial weight.

  Inside, eighty, ninety dollars. Enough to keep a runner running for a while.

  He took up the book that was inside. It was solid and leather-bound, at least as old as the knapsack, and just as traveled. A small piece of paper marked a spot in it, and as he went to open it, the paper slipped out.

  A photograph.

  The black-and-white print was faded and wrinkled. But she was young and pretty, with wide eyes brimming with spirit. Her smile was quite infectious. Nice lips.

  “Not bad,” he said, and wondered how it was a guy could have a looker like this and just leave her behind. Then he thought of Ben, how he had left Marge Bonner just like that. That was different, sure, but it always amazed him how guys could do that.

  There was a stain there, yellowed from years, just above her head. It might have been a water stain from a single drop, but he didn’t think so. This had started life as a tear.

  “Guy had it hard for this one,” he said.

  He went to put it down, but those eyes held him. They really were something.

  He flipped it over. Read the scrawl on the back.

  Angela

  Newark, 1934

  Thirty-four? Didn’t make sense.

  Newark? That made sense. A lot more than Miami.

  He set it aside and stared at the book in his hand. It felt so much heavier suddenly, like an old chest filled with secrets.

  Ryan opened it, took a good drink, and began to read.

  ~ 10

  Kain huddled against the passenger door. His clothes, still soaked from the on-the-spot shower, were tight and uncomfortable. The air in the cab was hot and dead. He was ill of color and still felt nauseous. His eyes fell closed a moment. A little better. He could still hear the muted thrum of the holiday crowd.

  Lynn, she too a drowned rat, signaled right, waited for a car to pass, then steered her father’s flatbed onto the road. Parked vehicles stretched for a good quarter mile on both sides, nar
rowing it to one lane, and then they were clear. She flicked on her high beams.

  Kain apologized again.

  “Would you stop it?” she said. She looked over at him. “Don’t … don’t you say it.”

  He started to.

  “Listen,” she told him, cutting him off. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me how better off we’d all be if you hadn’t come into our lives. That doesn’t wash, and you know it. You don’t know him, Kain. Not like I do.”

  He could only nod. The static had ebbed, but his head and his body ached. And damn it all if he didn’t crave a cigarette.

  He spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

  “I should be asking you,” she said. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

  He rubbed his eyes. His temples. The headache was killing him.

  “I have some aspirin at home,” she said.

  What he wanted was a bullet.

  “She’s fine,” she said, as if reading his mind. She sighed. “Tonight’s just full of surprises.”

  True enough. After Ray Bishop had left, Big Al had asked (demanded, not surprisingly), just what the hell that crazy had been on about. About how he knew Kain to begin with—and more to the point, how Kain had owed him. Lynn had started in with a lie, but Kain had stopped her. The old farmer had taken the truth in stride, but his better half had surprised everyone. While Georgia in no way approved of her daughter’s silence on the issue (not to mention Kain’s), she understood. Hugging her child tight, she had thanked the Good Lord He’d seen fit to send Kain to her that day in the diner, and looking over Lynn’s shoulder, she had regarded the drifter with a reassuring smile.

  “You up for another?” All of a sudden Lynn held this impish smile, and with barely enough time to turn, she veered off the main road. She headed up a rather bumpy stretch about a half mile and turned into a clearing. She killed the lights and the engine and sat without a word, staring out over the meadow. In the distance, you could still see the soft sheen of the river shimmering beneath the curve of a saffron moon. The soothing rhythm of crickets broke the silence. When he asked, she shushed him, shushed him again about thirty seconds later, and then, after the first wild burst of red lit up the sky, they sat silently, watching the light show. When it was all over about twenty minutes later, they both turned and smiled.

  “That was fantastic,” he said. “I haven’t seen fireworks like that since I was a kid. Thank you.”

  Lynn regarded him mildly, her expression diminished.

  He sat up. He knew. He could see it in her eyes.

  “Another dream.”

  She nodded. “I had this one before.”

  “The one about Ryan?”

  “The one with Ben Caldwell.”

  “I remember.”

  “Kain, I—” She paused, clearly frightened. “After last night … I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “… About me.”

  “About everything. Wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s okay. Just start at the beginning.”

  Lynn looked at him gravely.

  “The storm,” she said. “It was all about that storm.”

  ~ 11

  It begins with a whisper, the breeze from the plain warm and seductive. She cannot recall such a tender touch, although her first time with Ray, the old Ray, young and strong and handsome, would be close. Teasing like a sweet dream, it caresses her arms and her shoulders just so, her fair skin coming alive with gooseflesh. It kisses her gently on the cheek, and she turns from her watering to look up. She smiles. The barn is old, but it has a bold new face, a beautiful blue smile of fresh paint. The guesthouse, once an eyesore she had wanted to raze not for its ugliness but for the women, brims with color and warmth, a nice little house on the prairie. The grass is rich and green and trimmed neatly around it, a welcome mat waits at the door. The window is shiny and new. There are fine white curtains in it, and she sees him as he draws them back. He is handsome and mysterious, and her heart quickens. It has not raced so achingly, for so long, she has nearly forgotten what it feels like; what it is to be belly full of butterflies in flight. She stirs, breathless, but as she goes to wave in the want that he sees her, he draws back, fading to the shadows like a ghost … as if he had never been there at all.

  She makes love to her flowers. They are glorious, filled with life, reds and whites in bloom. She moves from one to the next without a care in the world, talks to them gently, tells them they are beautiful and pretty, and in that seductively tender breeze they nudge against her hands, as if telling her the same. They make her happy.

  She turns to her children, grown now, oh so fast. They smile from the swing chair. He has his father’s eyes; she, her youthful innocence. They remind her of what she and Ray used to be, a snapshot of what was. They make her happy, too.

  It is all so perfect. The sky is deep and full, a glorious ocean. Wildflower abounds, bright and inviting, its teasing scent milky and sweet. An oak lumbers; a crow caws and soars free.

  So, so perfect.

  A dog barks. She looks down at the shepherd, the Nervous Nellie old in the body but young in the eyes, and he barks again, as if to assure that he’s there; that he’ll always be there. She rubs him behind the ears. He has been cowering at her side for God knows how long, even before that brutal winter of ’46, the year she found Pepper nearly frozen to death at her door. She strokes his thick fur. It feels right. It all feels right. Except for that sound, that strange buzz-saw sound. It seems distant, almost unreal. And yet, somehow, it seems to grow as if it is nearing.

  The dog growls, and she shushes it. The sound—it is real, she’s as sure of that as the rising thrum in her heart—brings her children to their feet. They look to each other, their young faces spilling with dread, and when the cats, all seven, all crazed, dart from below the veranda and veer off in seven directions, they rush to her side.

  They all hear it. They all fear it.

  One of the cats, pitch black with the cutest white patch on its right hind leg, stops dead in its tracks. It stops to listen, and when its fur puffs out and it hisses at that troubling sound the way it does, not with a cat hiss, but with a monstrous screech, she screams, screams, screams for it to run from harm’s way. Only, it does not run; it does not flee. It turns to her, writhing and groaning, as if its little kitty bones are broken. It is no longer a cat, not puffy and cute, no longer that adorable feline who used to love having her back scratched with a big wooden spoon. It’s a hideous cat-thing, with eggs for eyes and a shrunken head. Its body is slick with oil, skin and bones, really, and just before it scampers off to this odd little forest on her perfect little farm, it tasks her with a crazed look in those eyes … and then vomits some slick green goo that reminds her of her mother’s pea soup.

  She goes back to her watering, but stops to wonder why; it seems an odd thing to do. The sound is growing, that awful buzz-saw, and when she looks up again, a gasp escapes her. The ocean that was the sky is now a dark black pool, the sun but a floating eye. A gust of wind rushes past her, startling her, and a planter, whisked from the railing, crashes to her feet. Sad and uncertain, she stares at the tangled arrangement for a harrowing moment, and when she waters it, thinking how crazy it is to do such a foolish thing, the flowers wilt and die, as if she has peppered them with poison. Her heart sinks.

  Still, she has her home. It is new in that same wonderful blue, the veranda too, and except for the mess, it all looks so beautiful, so perfect. She kneels to scoop up the dark earth from the broken planter, and as she grasps a handful she sees them. She has painted them over and over and over, four thick coats, but still she can see them, those ghostly footprints that have no business being there. She will have to paint them again.

  There. The din is almost on top of them, drowning them. But now, it comes with a new sound, music, of all things, something stirring from Buddy Holly. She rises, afraid, and the watering can slips from her trembling hand. A
nother planter crashes. Another. The wind howls. Somewhere, lost in that strange wind, a cat with dark, lifeless eyes cries out, and she fears for its life … for all of their lives.

  The hair on her arms tingles. The air is electric, a thing alive, thick and deadly. It is hard to breathe. The wind gusts again, rabid and fierce, and she wonders when that black pool will swallow the sun. When it will swallow them.

  Her son points, her daughter cries out … but it is too late. The sound, that unstoppable buzz-saw, is coming like a freight train, coming like a pickup truck. She reaches for her furry friend—she knows her old baby, knows he’s afraid—but now he’s not there. She turns to the din, and when she does, when that canine skull explodes in a burst of blood with a sickening pop, she lets loose a scream. It is a silent one, choked off at the throat, and as her daughter slips into her arms in tears and her son stands taut and cold, Buddy Holly keeps a-singin’ and the truck keeps a-rollin’, and she turns away in horror.

  But the horror has only begun.

  He is there, the drifter, the one from the guesthouse; the man behind the curtain. He stands where those odd footprints are, precisely there, as if placed by magic. A vein writhes in his forehead like a fat worm, is as horrid as the scar on her husband’s face. His eyes are black, as black as that menacing sky, shining like hardened glass; they are an abyss. His right arm is raised, two fingers to his temple, yet the tips barely touch that adorable birthmark, the one that, somehow, she knows, isn’t really a birthmark, and she finds herself wondering not of its origin, not of its curious double, but rather, how isn’t it strange that in spite of the gusting wind, his long and lovely hair stands neatly in place.

  It is strange, she thinks, because her hair is rising. Not from the wind, but from that crazy electricity. It’s as if a storm is raging all around them, as if they are caught in the eerie stir of the eye of a hurricane.