Dark Things IV

by Stacey Longo

  George started toward the ledge. At the boulders, he smelled smoke and heard voices. George froze. A tickle of chilly fear worked through the humidity and landed on his spine.

  “Yeah, fuck America. Fuck the flag,” a female voice tittered. Then a man’s growled the very same thing.

  A puff of oily smoke drifted up from behind the outcrop of rock. George’s next breath burned in his lungs. He detected singed hair, accelerant, and the stink of burning plastic.

  “Die, fuckers,” said the female voice.

  Slowly, George approached the boulder. The cold clawing at his spine intensified, working deeper into his flesh. Closer, closer yet. He peered around the boulder to see the dirty smoke, the fire consuming photographs, an American flag…and was that a wig?

  There were two people, a young man with a large, square head wearing a fawn-colored tee-shirt caked in dirty smudges. The angle of the rock hid the woman’s face. A whiff of burning hair and charred flesh assaulted George’s nostrils. It wasn’t a wig that they’d lit on fire.

  He turned and hurried away. By the time he reached the ledge, he was running, scrambling through poison oak, no longer caring if he touched the toxic velvet and giant itchy pustules rose between his fingers in response, popping under even the slightest flexing, leaving deep divots of raw, crusty flesh. Didn’t care that one of the plastic shopping bags tore open, sending his butter and a half-gallon of one-percent tumbling down the hill, through the brambles.

  George raced across the street, oblivious to the danger from passing cars. Luckily, there were none. Perhaps their car was but the latest victim of some hungry car-predator, thought the voice in his head. He made it between the pallid, white two-story apartment building next door and the dark-skinned, dilapidated temporary place where he and Bruce had been condemned to live.

  Gasping for breaths that refused to come easily, he braced the wall and waited. Whoever was in that vacant lot, he didn’t want them to see him.

  What were they burning? Was it alive?

  Back against the wall, unable to breathe, George waited.

  Drip...drip...

  The sound reached his ears through the galloping cadence of his heartbeat. He shifted in place, the soles of his sneakers squelching in mud. The smell he’d noticed down near the neighbors’ vegetable garden surged back, bitter and undiluted.

  Drip...

  Turning toward the other apartment house, its white paint dulled to the color of old bones, George zeroed in on the second-story room adjacent to what was their bedroom, where Bruce was no doubt still sleeping, still useless. One window, a single pane, was caked in ice. Waxy yellow icicles dripped from the outside sill.

  There was no air conditioner unit in the window. Whatever the source of a cold so intense it had frozen the window solid at the height of summer was based inside the room.

  ***

  “Come on, wake the fuck up, would you?” George snapped.

  The shrouded figure on the bed stirred, sucked in a breath, peeled open its eyes. But those eyes looked unfocused. Already dead.

  “The people next door. There’s this room, all refrigerated. That’s where the dripping noise is coming from. It’s seriously fucked up. Smells like something died over there.”

  Bruce groaned a lazy expletive and rolled over.

  “And there’s something else. These freaks, across the street in the vacant lot.”

  “Just five more minutes, for Chrissakes. Why don’t you ever let me sleep?”

  ***

  George paced the area of the coffin-shaped apartment that contained the refrigerator. Night had fallen, and the humidity had turned the space at the top of the open staircase into a miasma almost impossible to breathe. The ghostly light of the television broke the darkness at the end of the hall. At some unknown point, Bruce had put in a DVD they’d watched numerous times, because they didn’t have cable and couldn’t afford it, but the volume was muted. As depressed as that made George feel, he was still grateful because only the bathroom lights had any bulbs. Either the previous tenant or the landlord had removed all of the others prior to their moving in.

  He wasn’t hungry, but his stomach ached. The temptation to walk out the door, into the night, and keep on walking made him reach for the doorknob. Twice, he turned it. But their home was two towns away, and it wasn’t their home anymore. It belonged to an evil institution that had relegated them and countless others to living in vulgar shanties like this dump. The car was dead. Bruce had given up.

  Just go. Now, if you have to. Get out of here before you give up, too.

  The soft, sinister creak of the front door opening slithered through the musty air. Noise stirred at the base of the open staircase. The staircase that Bruce had offered to hang a sheet over, or some of those fake bamboo shades.

  There was somebody down there.

  Sour adrenalin surged through George’s blood, paralyzing him to the spot. The sound of a female voice, giggling secretly beneath its breath, drifted up the stairs.

  “Come on,” he heard the woman say. It was the same voice from the vacant lot.

  “Bruce,” George whispered. “Wake up, please…” But his voice died ineffectually in the shadows, right as the creak of footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “Hurry up,” the woman said around her insane giggles. “There’s at least two more of them in here.”

  About the author:

  Gregory L. Norris is a full-time professional writer, with numerous (thousands of) publication credits, mostly in national magazines and short fiction anthologies. A former writer at Sci Fi, the official magazine of the Sci Fi Channel (before all those lousy movies and pesky y’s), he once worked as a screenwriter on two episodes of Paramount’s modern classic, Star Trek: Voyager. He is the author of the handbook to all-things-Sunnydale, The Q Guide to Buffy the Vampire Slayer (2008, Alyson Books) and last year, saw two of his paranormal romance novels for Ravenous Romance (www.ravenousromance.com) re-issued as special editions by Home Shopping Network for their “Escape With Romance” line, the first time the network has worked with novels. Recently, stories and novellas of his have been accepted at Monster Mash, Zero Gravity: Adventures in Deep Space, Horror Comes Out (tales of glbt horror by openly out writers), and Call of Lovecraft, which not only features an original tale by Ramsey Campbell, but a reprint by the man himself, HP Lovecraft. He thinks if he could travel back in time to tell his high school version this news, he’d faint dead away of shock.

  The Dustman

  by Tim Reed

  One minute I was in my car, cursing my luck at the engine failure that had left me marooned in the woods, and the next I was walking up a decaying drive, purposefully avoiding the weeds that threatened to overrun the path. How I got there I had no idea, but the only thought in my mind was ‘thank God for this shelter’.

  I was almost at the steps now—worn away to the point where they looked like mounds of dust, interspersed with a stone or two—and a strong, cold gust of wind rose at my back, buffeting me with icy fingers towards the door. Shivering and wet—though the sun was out—I was only too glad to comply, and I leapt up the dusty mounds to the relative safety of the porch, where a heavy oak door with brass hinges greeted me.

  Turning back, I saw the path and immense trees lunging towards the house, overhanging the bent wire fence as if crowding to eavesdrop on some secret conversation. The sight chilled me a little, as did the porch columns depicting unknown runes and clawed feet, and at their top, two gaping mouths smiled into the garden, showing rows of granite teeth. I was in no mood to smile, but neither did I fancy braving the howling wind, nor the dense forest in the suddenly fading light. The best thing to do would be to go inside – not far, only into the first room I found—gather my wits, wait out the night, and try and regain my memory.

  Mind made up, I turned my back on the trees, scratching my head and staring at the door. There was no bell, but a heavy brass knocker shaped like an inverted horseshoe was fixed to the keyhole, so I
puffed out my cheeks and rapped it three times, causing a dull thud that reverberated through the wood. I instinctively took my hand away, but as I did so a horrific din sounded above me, a terrible thumping of feet on the porch—like a demon doing a tap dance.

  “What the hell!” I muttered, cowering against the door.

  The banging rattled on—like hailstones on a tin roof—and then suddenly stopped, and the silence that followed seemed worse, so I held my breath, wondering what on Earth could cause such a noise. The wind momentarily died, the trees were still, and my heart was ice, but I waited, not daring to try and enter—and therefore turn my back on my tormentor. A tense moment passed, and then a head appeared, peering at me through coal-black eyes.

  It took a moment to realize I was staring at the inverted head of a crow as it bent over the porch to scout me out, but it still made my spine tingle; the bird cocked its head, uttered its familiar hoarse cry, and then disappeared off towards the trees, feathers falling in great spirals. Strangely, I got the impression that it had welcomed me in some ironic way—or maybe warned me—but the fright pushed me into trying the knocker again.

  Again there was no answer, but the door gave a little with the force—it wasn’t locked after all! There was no resistance to my push, just the gloomy darkness beyond, so I gathered my courage and shouldered my way in, calling out to anyone inside that, “Your door is unlocked! I am a weary traveler, can I stay until rested?”

  “I can pay of course,” I finished, but no one answered.

  Unnerved, I stared into the house, leaving the door ajar to illuminate my surroundings. I was in a long, narrow hallway, though long wasn’t the word—it was infinite. Away it stretched, dotted with doors on both sides, lit only by a few candelabra placed at irregular intervals. I approached and found them loose in their holders—evidently for the use of whoever lived here—so gingerly I took one, and careful not to drip wax on my hand, I wandered off, looking in vain for a light switch.

  “Damn it, I feel like Rip Van Winkle creeping down here,” I muttered.

  I reached the first door, put my ear to it, and listened, but after half a minute’s silence my ears began to ring, so I gave up and moved onto the next. Within a few steps I figured I heard something, a pronounced creak, as if someone were shifting their weight on the other side of the door. I stood absolutely still, suddenly afraid, feeling vulnerable in the open and not daring to breathe, but the sound didn’t repeat itself. Still I didn’t move, having the creeping fear that whoever was on the other side was waiting, ear to the wood for me to move, and to heighten my fear I noticed the door had a large keyhole.

  There was shadowy movement beyond.

  A sudden, daft ultimatum came to mind—I could stand where I was, possibly indefinitely, and scare myself into believing all sorts of ‘bumps in the night’, or I could do the sensible thing and investigate. So thankfully for my nerves I decided on the latter, creeping up to the wall and sidling along until I was alongside the keyhole. I thought I heard the creaking again and fear struck me, but I forced myself to get down on one knee and look. My head throbbed as I moved it to the keyhole, but there was no monstrous eye staring back at me, only darkness. This in itself was almost as monstrous, as it was a complete, unnatural void—illuminating nothing.

  I glanced away, grabbed my candelabra, and then looked back, but again I was faced with darkness. I fancied I heard a third creak behind me in the passage, sounding like someone stealthily closing the front door, but when I looked over it was already shut, and the hallway empty. A cold chill swept over me, but I waited a moment, shook it off and looked again through the keyhole. The scene I witnessed was as inexplicable as it was terrifying.

  My view was dragged through the small opening into the room…only it wasn’t the dark void that it had been, but a room with strange apparatus hanging from the walls and a large pit at its center. An eerie red glow flickered like strobe-lighting, giving the illusion of time slowing – even though the event I saw only lasted a few seconds. It was difficult to explain, but on and off it flashed, making me nauseous, and every time it lit the surroundings I saw more marks appearing on the walls. They were scrawled words and something about them seemed diabolic, dripping down the surface as if written in blood. This was abhorrent in itself, but standing above the pit was something—or should I say someone—truly bone-chilling.

  I only caught glimpses, but saw enough of a young woman, slender, with thin arms spread out as if in ecstasy. Her movements were jerky—like a marionette’s—swinging her shoulders freely and twisting her legs together in spasmodic pleasure. I felt a lump in my throat, but worse was to come in the form of her dress, which was wrapped layer-upon-layer, deep crimson—so vividly viscous that it overwhelmed me in a way difficult to explain. I could almost taste the mixture of heavy material and something else…something stronger.

  Blood.

  “Blood gives and takes.”

  For a moment I thought I had spoken but then realized I hadn’t. I blinked, and when I looked back through the keyhole the depressing gloom had returned. I stared dumbly, wondering if I had seen a vision, or whether truly some errant bolt of lightning had struck the room and shown me its contents. But this couldn’t be so because I had heard nothing, even with my ear pressed to the wood. And besides, all I could hear outside was the wind—no storm.

  My mind in a whirl, I turned away, unable to shake the feeling that I had stepped into a trap. I needed to escape, to leave the increasingly oppressive corridor and its creaks and groans, so I leapt for the front door, almost welcoming the brooding trees and mysterious forest, but as I approached I heard the ‘pitter-patter’ of rain, swiftly followed by the unfriendly hiss of torrential downpour. I opened it anyway but the roaring gale that greeted me almost blew me back inside, so I used the door as a shield against the elements and peered out. The trees swayed with glee and the crow that had stared me down on the porch was fluttering in a large arc, heedless of the storm and revelling in its freedom. The scene was Nature at its most chaotic, and it brought about a different kind of unease from that of the silent house.

  A sudden crackle of lightning decided it for me. I pushed the door shut and faced the cold, empty—yet not so empty—house again. Swiftly I gathered up the candelabra, though I was loath to go near the locked room again. Instead I crept further down the hallway, gingerly testing doors as I went. All were locked save one—which I found a bit strange—but not wishing to stay all night in the eerie hallway, I turned the handle and entered…

  …Another hallway. Startled, I stopped, watching it running away to the west, and again there were identical doors and candelabras, but this time I noticed a light bulb on the ceiling, with a light switch on the wall. I flicked it, fearing the worst, but to my surprise the bulb sent out a pale light that illuminated little—save for a large, full-length mirror at the corridor’s end. My interest kindled, I headed directly for it, creeping past the rooms, the sense of being watched from behind closed doors returning. And I still had the nagging fear of the unexplained voice that had prophesied about blood during my vision—what was it?

  I found it hard to take my eyes from the doors, listening intently for a breath, laugh, anything that would give the listener away, but there was nothing, so I craned my head to look for light or movement underneath. But only darkness greeted me, and that was threateningly ‘thick’—drawing me towards it like an angler fish’s lure would to prey.

  It took a big effort of will to finally look away, but when I glanced at the ceiling I saw large, rusty hooks suspended every few feet—why hadn’t I seen them before? They creaked from an unfelt wind and I shivered, feeling inexplicably afraid.

  “For God’s sake, what is this place?”

  I jogged the final few steps up to the mirror—doing my best to avoid the hooks—and stared in wonder at the frame, which was wonderfully crafted, set with a myriad of gemstones. At the top two corners were two angelic-looking children—cherubs most likely—who playe
d harps whilst looking downcast at the floor; I touched one of them, eyes shut, marvelling at the smooth contours.

  “They are not as cherubic as they look,” whispered a cold voice in my ear. “See…they are already changing.”

  The voice trailed off into a sibilant hiss but I instantly knew it was the same cold tones that had assailed me earlier. I shivered but did as it bade, looking again at the cherubs—who stared right back at me. My heart jumped into my throat as they glared insolently, harps forgotten, tiny hands grasping the frame as if they meant to leap from it and attack. Instinct told me to back away and run, but terror paralyzed me, and all I could do was look from one cherub to the other, and then finally into the mirror.

  The corridor was still visible in my reflection, though I wished to heaven it wasn’t, because the hooks that had swayed so innocently with my passing were now fitted with long nooses. And at the end of each noose ‘things’ were limply swinging—or pirouetting through the air. For a moment everything was horrifically clear, but in the blink of an eye the mirror misted over, accompanied by a cacophony of hideous choking sounds echoing behind me.

  I shuddered at the voices, which were all too human and agonized, but at the same time mocking, and I felt my paralysis weaken enough for me to turn my head. But the corridor was empty, only the flickering light bulb showing signs of life, so, confused and angry, I turned back to the mirror, only to find myself staring at two people—myself and an unknown, laughing man. My own reflection was muted and transparent, but the other was crystal-clear and laughing silently but maniacally. His head rolled around on his shoulders like a ragdoll in the grip of an irate child. I felt my spine stiffen in horror, but then a hideous thing happened…I started to approach the mirror. I floated forward, dragged by a powerful force, my peripheral vision misted as if in a dream. Maybe I was—I prayed I was—but as I closed the distance and then jerked to a standstill, it all felt dreadfully real.