Dark Things IV

by Stacey Longo

  “You mean the girl?”

  “For a while,” he said, turning towards me again. “Her murder had turned her, warped her, and when she emerged it was as a mad, laughing girl wearing a red dress.” My heart lurched in remembrance of my vision through the keyhole. “She quickly became volatile and my protests to her were futile; now she avoids me. I can never find her, only sense where she has recently been. It’s a timeless game of hide and seek and my patience is wearing thin…I’m losing the power to materialize the longer this goes on. My presence is entwined with hers, and both of us with the house.”

  “Entwined how?” I asked, still confused.

  “It’s difficult to explain, it’s more a feeling than anything else.” He laughed wryly. “And yes, I do feel those, regardless of being a bedtime story inside a haunted house.”

  I shook my head, still hoping I was in a dream but afraid to reject the Dustman’s bargain in case he fled and left me by myself. The desire to see the laughing girl again was smaller than jumping off a bridge, but I consoled myself with the idea that the Dustman would take over once I found her. All I had to be was a scout and then hopefully I could regain my memory and leave this awful place behind.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll help you.”

  The Dustman looked at me silently.

  “I believe you,” he whispered. “And just in time…for my power is waning. I will need to go to spirit form to recharge. Say my name twice in quick succession when you find her and I shall return if I am able.”

  “What? You’re leaving me?” I cried.

  “I must for the moment. The malevolence finds me if I linger in one place for too long, and that would be bad for both of us.” He spun round to the door, his coat wind-milling behind him. “I must leave. Good luck.”

  With that he faded away, leaving hundreds of dust motes floating in the air, and almost instantaneously I heard a click as the projector switched on, showing a grainy white picture on the wall screen. It was snowy at first, but I heard voices whispering, so I moved closer, trying to make them out. The screen grew darker, an ominous hiss overpowered the voices, and then an image flickered onto the screen—even though there was no reel in the projector. It was a corridor, in black and white and riddled with scratches, but clear enough to show a scuffle in the shadow of a room. The camera moved forward and I heard a man shouting and a woman screaming in pain, but I only saw their shadows as they struggled out of sight. The scene flickered, the camera lurched level with the doorway, and I saw a man bending over something, breathing heavily.

  A chill ran through me as I saw a feminine hand try vainly to grab his arm, but then there was a strangulated cry, a piteous sob, and the arm went limp. The man continued to breathe heavily, and stood over the girl for a few moments before barking a rough, inhuman laugh. The projector cut out with a violent bang and I was staring at a blank screen once again, chilled by the suggestive scene and the man’s mad laugh, which stayed with me—worming into my head and taking root there. At that precise moment I knew I had to hurry, or else the house would claim me—regardless of the Dustman.

  I heard a creak outside and then heavy footsteps ran past the room in the direction of the front door. I heard it open and then close with a horrendous crash, making the ground shake like an earthquake had hit. Giggling followed, a raven squawked far off in the distance, and I knew a fresh and desperate assault was coming.

  I knew I couldn’t hesitate, so without waiting for further ‘bumps in the night’ I threw open the door, to confront…an empty corridor, only the silence was deafening. I listened for the storm outside but it seemed calm, and my hopes rose that maybe I could escape without the Dustman’s aid after all. I peeked behind me and then crept forward, keeping a wary ear open for creaks and an eye open for the Dustman. I hoped he couldn’t smell treachery, because even though he had been relatively benevolent thus far, there was an unpredictable aura about him that unnerved me.

  I reached the door without incident but through the glass all was dark—was it night already? Had I been in the house for so long? Something heavy fell behind me and I saw a small stone statue lying on the floor barely ten feet away. How it had gotten there, or from where was a complete mystery, but I couldn’t stop myself from investigating.

  It was a gargoyle, a spiteful-looking thing with long ears and a crooked snout, and it had fallen sideways, its head tilted towards me as if it awaited my approval on something. I had never liked statues, their eyes gave me the creeps—cold parodies of humanity, stone irises bereft of any feeling or empathy, representing a lifeless being, a sentinel, and a voyeur who wouldn’t go away if shouted at. At least this statue was partly broken—I rejoiced childishly at that—but it was still disconcerting how it had appeared from nowhere, and why it stared at me with bloody eyes.

  I blinked. Had I seen the gargoyles eyes as red? They were only stone now, but I could’ve sworn a moment ago they were as red as…the crimson dress of the laughing girl. Yes, that was the correct image—it was the same vibrant and intoxicating blood in its eyes, and it had been weeping whilst smiling through its fangs at me.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “I can’t face her…forgive me, Dustman. I just can’t.”

  With that I staggered back to the door, dreading the Dustman’s cold voice, but he didn’t appear so I wasted little time in pulling it open and stumbling onto the porch. Except there was no porch…and beyond there were no trees, or path, or arrogant ravens flapping through the storm. There was nothing, not even a breeze or ‘feeling’ that there was anything out there—just oblivion. I felt the blackness try and push me back, yet at the same time draw me forward, off the edge of an abyss into madness, so I hastily slammed it shut, abhorred that I was trapped in this house with nothing but the Dustman’s word to rely on. Claustrophobia battered me and a hopeless terror that I was alone and unable to remember my past, or what I was supposed to be doing. I began to doubt my existence—whether I was dead or not, or if I had strayed into another plane, and everything conspired to drive me insane—if I wasn’t there already. The only thing that kept me from finding a rope and using the ceiling hooks was the Dustman’s story; its touching melancholy brought out my humanity, and I clung to it, knowing all was not lost just yet—I just needed the courage to see it through. Unfortunately, that courage was in short supply, as my nerves felt like fireworks, and I couldn’t bring my feet to turn and walk the half-dozen steps to the laughing girl’s room; I did manage to shuffle away from the front door, though I could feel the blackness wanting to break in and dominate.

  Suddenly, the house started to ‘bend’ inwards—bulge with the pressure of the abyss—and I felt myself fall onto my backside and scramble backwards like a crab, relying purely on instinct to retreat from danger.

  A terrible thing then began to happen. A puddle of darkness appeared under the front door and slowly migrated into the house until a perfect circle had formed—like a macabre welcoming mat. I stared, entranced, as it wobbled in the candelabra’s light, and then it began to move, human arms jutting out of its depths, clawing at the floor as if determined to drag it down to Hell. It felt horrifying—like on those rare occasions when you see someone’s shadow as something else, and your heart leaps for a second before your brain catches up with you and sets things right. Now, I felt my heart pound, but the feeling only grew as I saw a human shape materialize, crouching like an Olympic sprinter. I scrambled back again but my movement seemed to set the shadow off, and it ran towards me—I don’t know how, as it was two-dimensional, flat against the floor, but run it did, hideously fast and as straight as a die.

  I screamed and covered my face—a last, desperate attempt at defense—but the suspected assault didn’t come, only silence and a sudden drop in temperature. The house’s mugginess was replaced by a cool wind, as if some forgetful butler had finally remembered to open all the windows, and I cowered for a minute, two minutes, an age, before I dared to raise my head. But an instant before I did, I got th
e nagging feeling that someone was standing right next to me, staring directly into my face, almost nose-to-nose, and I knew this face would be blank, just an outline of shadow—smooth, malevolent, and bereft of mercy, quivering with impatience for me to look up…so it could strike.

  Courage almost left me then, but with a swift counter I opened my eyes and jerked up my head, thinking action the only thing to dispel fear.

  I stared at a blank face so close to my own that we almost touched foreheads. It stood there, hunched over my form, a shadow of little substance but of terrifying menace, and I saw shoulders shaking with laughter, though there was no sound at all; I sensed silence was its language, fear its elixir, but before I could react, it raised a black hand and slapped me across the cheek.

  I blinked and raised my head—hadn’t I just done this? There was nothing in the corridor; the shadow was gone and all was silent, and I felt strangely empty of fear. A memory nagged at me but I couldn’t grasp it, so I got to my feet and headed towards the keyhole room, walking on tip-toes to try and avoid any creaking. I felt slightly disconcerted that I hadn’t heard anything from the Dustman in a while, and for a moment I considered he may have laid a trap…but no, he had sounded as earnest as anyone I’d ever heard. I had to believe he would hold to his bargain.

  As I approached I craned my head to see if any light came through the keyhole, but none did, just a teasing darkness, so as before I sidled along the wall until level and then stealthily lowered my head to the hole; there was no vision, so I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and turned the handle.

  The door opened into an inky chasm and I was struck by the desolation of infinite night, but then I heard a noise and realized my eyes were adjusting to the gloom—unlike on the porch. Vague shapes came into focus—a cabinet against the far wall, and something standing a half-dozen paces away from me, as still as a statue. I froze, thinking it a person, but it just stood there without sound so I convinced myself it was a mannequin.

  “What do you want?”

  I jumped in fright at the voice, which came from the figure’s direction, feminine and petulant, but with an unbalanced quality that I associated with acute terror. I felt the same terror but something inside told me it would be fatal to show it, so I took a deep breath before answering.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Who are you?” she countered sulkily.

  I bit my tongue and took a breath—this wouldn’t be easy.

  “I am searching for someone,” I said. “A girl.”

  I saw the shade cock her head.

  “I am a girl,” she said quietly. “At least I think I am. He he. Who knows or cares anymore.”

  I was taken aback by her change in tone, as she now sounded like a frivolous, deranged child, somehow dangerous and vulnerable at the same time.

  “Y…yes,” I stammered. “You sound like a girl to me. Maybe you are the one I was sent to find—a very important girl I was told.”

  Silence followed and the figure—still in shadow—took a tentative step towards me.

  “Important? Me, important?” She broke off into harsh laughter. “Daddy thought I was important…not Jerry though.” Her voice thickened with emotion. “You’re not him are you? God help me if you are.”

  “I assure you I’m not,” I said quickly, but she carried on as if she hadn’t heard.

  “Yes, I think that you are most likely him. Torment…torment is all I find now. He he. It makes me laugh, not having any feelings.” I didn’t point out the contradiction in what she was saying. “You have come to slay me in my room…slay me again for the hundredth time!”

  “Now hang on,” I said.

  “I feel the noose tightening, the blade cutting. Why can I see blank faces all around me…just staring, frozen with anticipation…I can’t rid them of me—I mean me of them.” Her voice lowered to a piteous whisper. “Please help me.”

  I took that as my cue to call for the Dustman, so I whispered his name twice and prayed he would answer. Almost immediately I felt a rush of wind in the corridor—the door was still open—and a presence approached, as did a familiar rise in temperature.

  “What is this?” asked the girl angrily. “More tormentors for a poor girl a hundred times dead?”

  “I have never been called a tormentor,” said the dry voice of the Dustman. “And you once called me something much different.”

  I saw his silhouette rise up out of the floor, turn stiffly, and nod at me in thanks. The girl let out a frightened wail.

  “Ahh! He has come! You have called the monster,” she shrieked.

  “No no, you don’t understand…” I began, but the Dustman raised a hand for silence.

  “I am not the monster,” he said. “I have searched for you for aeons, or so it seems.”

  “Searched so you can torment me!” she snapped, but I thought she sounded a little less sure of herself.

  “No no, Amy.” So that was her name. “I am an old friend from years past. You had a name for me once, do you remember?”

  “I remember a knife and rope…and Jerry. His face!” She screamed, and I covered my ears in horror.

  “I am the Beach Watcher,” roared the Dustman. “Do you remember me now?”

  The girl immediately stopped her screaming and I felt the tick of an invisible clock as time crawled past. My brain was frazzled, but I felt detached from the scene, an onlooker only—and for that I was thankful. The battle of warped wills was huge, beyond my understanding, but I saw the girl twitch and then let out a long sigh.

  “I remember the smell,” she said eventually. “Like my grandfather’s room, it was odd but strangely comforting. That was you, was it?”

  “It was. Always watching and smiling, bound to you with the simplest rope of care. You have eluded me for too long, but at last we can end the torment we have both felt. I promise that.”

  “How?” she whispered.

  “A touch—the simplest of things, but yet not so simple in this instance.” He laughed dryly and turned to me. “Friend, I would ask your help this one last time. Will you listen?”

  I felt a heartbeat of warning inside me, but then common sense kicked in and I pictured the dark void outside the house.

  “You can get rid of the darkness outside?” I asked, and the Dustman nodded. “And shake this damn amnesia and send me to my car?”

  “I can.”

  “Then tell me what you need.”

  “Very well,” said the Dustman. “I cannot touch another ‘other’ being in this house directly, just mentally or with objects, so what I need is a medium, so to speak. I need you to stand with me and Amy, and we will both touch you simultaneously, thereby forming a link…and setting us both at peace, I hope.” He turned to Amy. “Will you do that?”

  She giggled but I saw her nod.

  “Very well, Beach Watcher, though I’m not totally sure what you mean.”

  I noticed that since the Dustman’s arrival, she had grown far more lucid with her speech, and slowly but surely my frayed nerves returned to normal. I had the feeling that the climax was near, that I would finally return to normality and flee this bizarre house and its ghosts, so it was with hope that I stepped into the center of the room and waited for them to approach.

  The Dustman was first, flowing up to me like the wind, and putting a dry, calloused hand on my shoulder. I felt my skin blister under his touch, but I endured the pain and waited for the girl to approach, which she did, haltingly shuffling forward, the sound of her dress fabric grazing the floor strangely soothing. Darkness still shrouded her features, but I caught glimpses in the hall light of her red dress, bringing back memories of blood and laughter.

  “It’s all right, boy,” whispered the Dustman. “Just a few seconds longer and it’ll all be over.”

  I forced myself to relax as the girl closed in, putting a quivering, dainty hand before her—as if she had trouble seeing. Finally, I felt a cold—inhumanly cold—and velvety touch on my other shoulder, and
bile rose in my throat as my body struggled with its temperature.

  “Didn’t I tell you it’d all be over swiftly?” asked the Dustman as I saw him reach inside his trench coat.

  It took a moment to realize what he was doing, but then I saw a flash of metal and a wicked-looking dagger appeared. I froze, confused, as it descended into my chest, and then I tasted blood in my mouth, flowing out with impossible frequency down my chin. I heard the girl laugh but she sounded far away, and suddenly, I realized I was on the floor, looking up into the glowing, lemon-like eyes of the Dustman.

  “…Dustman…broke promise,” I gurgled, trying to move but failing.

  I saw his burnt mouth twist into a smile.

  “The Dustman didn’t,” he said, “because he never made a promise. I did. You see, fool, a little glamour can go a long way. I was right when I said that my brother and I are never in the same place, but I am the Sandman, and unfortunately for you…” He shrugged mock-defensively. “I was telling the truth. I am cruel and bloodthirsty, and it’s your blood that will sustain me and Amy for a good few centuries more. Isn’t that right, my love?”

  A second face materialized above me, this one smiling childishly, but with hollow cavities for eyes. Amy giggled once, dropped on all fours like a dog, and began to lick the floor—not the floor, but my blood! I should have felt outraged, but feeling was beyond me as I became a spectator to my own impending death. The Sandman crouched down, his lemon-eyes staring directly into mine for a few seconds, and I tried to see regret, guilt, anything that would show a semblance of humanity, but I couldn’t. His head moved out of my vision but he didn’t leave me to float away in peace. Instead, his true, horrific voice was revealed.

  “I’ll give you this last grace,” he said mockingly. “I’ll save your eyes until last.”

  About the author:

  Tim Reed hails from England, where he has been writing consistently since university. His interest in fantasy, weird, and dark fiction is insatiable, and he regularly gobbles up classics like Blackwood and Lovecraft, as well as modern authors like George Martin and Christopher Golden. He has had short fiction published with Wyvern Publications and Mytinyglobule.net, has self-published his fantasy novel Everlace, and is scribbling hard at approaching mainstream with his latest work.