9 Tales Told in the Dark 16

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  I squeezed through the gap between the Ford and the trees and found a narrow path at the far end, dead-center with the middle of the grill. I could see the vague shapes of trees on either side in the dark, but they disappeared into blackness after that. I checked my cell phone. No signal. I glanced back toward the road, the shrugged and started down the path.

  Ten feet later, I pulled my phone back out and used the screen for a crude flashlight. It lit up a good ten feet of the path in front of me, but the darkness to my sides seemed to thicken and solidify.

  The path led around a sharp bend and into a small clearing. Jagged boulders filled the far end. There was no sign of the man. I stepped closer, and noticed a narrow gap between two folds in the rocks. I held the phone closer. The crevice kept going, angling down sharply. I took a step back and ran a hand through my hair.

  Christ, I couldn’t actually go down there. For one, I wasn’t sure I’d fit. It looked like it’d be a tight squeeze for the man, and he was pretty small. Second, the buzz from my drinks had completely worn off, and the reality of what I was doing had started to set in. I was alone in the woods with no real clue how to get home. My phone had no signal, and using it as a flashlight was eating the battery. I’d followed some guy out here, despite him obviously not wanting any attention. And the guy had a fucking gun.

  I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the night air.

  Except I’d already come this far. What could be down there? Is this where the man went every night? Why? The questions nagged in my head, and would keep nagging the whole way home. I couldn’t go back to the bar and tell Greg I’d followed the guy out to a cave in the woods and left. That’s no story worth telling.

  I eased my way sideways into the gap. I had about of foot of clearance, six inches in front and behind. Ten feet in, and that halved. I sucked in my stomach and kept edging on. The temperature dropped as I went down, and the sweat that ran down the back of my neck was cold. The gap narrowed. The rough stone scraped and pulled at my clothes. I couldn’t see a damn thing, and, like a moron, I’d gone in with my phone behind me. Turning around seemed like the best option, but at that moment, the rock suddenly gave way to empty space and I sprawled onto the stone floor.

  I’d entered a small chamber. The roof hung low enough that I had to stoop. To my left was a break in the stone, and a light shone from inside.

  The man was in the next chamber. He sat in a stuffed, leather armchair that looked like it belonged in a museum. Next to the chair stood a small table with a gas lamp set atop it. A huge Persian rug covered the floor. The man sat with his legs crossed and a book in his lap.

  “I thought I told you my business is my business?” The man didn’t look up from his book.

  I stood there with my mouth working silently for a second, and then he snapped the book shut and set it down on the table. He rose, and his head cleared the ceiling with some room to spare. A faint smile curled the sides of his lips.

  “Let me guess: you just had to know.”

  I nodded and felt my face heat. The way he said it made it sound such a stupid reason to be out here. Never mind that it was true. He sighed and circled the chair. To my surprise, he grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me further in.

  “I’d offer you a seat, but I have only the one. It’s going to be a long night for me, and you’ll be leaving soon enough, so you can stand.” He set me just to the chair’s left and sat. Standing there, stooped over, with him sitting there looking up expectantly at me, I felt like a giant kid being called to task by the world’s shortest teacher.

  “Do you have a name?” he said.

  “Jake.”

  He smiled. “Well Jake, I am Mr. Burton. I’m glad you finally made it down. I expected you a few minutes sooner, given how far back you were following me.”

  “You saw that?” My tongue felt dry and swollen in my mouth.

  “Of course. I couldn’t have missed a pair of headlights that tracked me for twenty miles.” He smiled and crossed his legs. “So, ask the question you’re here to ask.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. The chill in my spine seemed to press in. He twirled his fingers in the air impatiently.

  “Well, what are you doing down here?”

  “Standing guard.” He glanced down at the chair and grinned. “Metaphorically, anyway.”

  I frowned and looked around the chamber. To either side was nothing but craggy walls of rough-hewn rock. They glistened in spots from slow-running water. The wall behind me was the same kind of stone, but completely flat and smooth except for a small, waist-high hollow just left of dead center. I walked over and felt the wall. It felt like ice under my fingers, and goosebumps sprouted on my arms.

  open the door, open the door, open open open

  I snatched back my hand and staggered back. A hand clapped down on my shoulder and I jumped, banging my head on the ceiling. Stars danced behind my eyes and I spun to find Mr. Burton standing there with a smile.

  “What the fuck is that?” The words rushed out in a whisper. My hand felt coated in grease and I wiped in on my pants. The chill in my spine intensified and my head ached.

  “My prisoner.” He spun me gently and a put a hand on my back. I found myself being led to the entrance of the chamber and locked my knees. Mr. Burton frowned and looked up at me.

  “No. What is that?”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s locked away, and can only escape if someone lets it out. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “It spoke to me.” I glanced back at the wall.

  “Of course it did. It calls out all night.”

  “How can you stand it?” I shivered and eyed the wall.

  “That’s what the earpiece is for.” He gestured toward his ear with a smile. “It doesn’t block out everything, but it makes it manageable.”

  “What happens when someone shows up?”

  “Not many come out here, but those that do find themselves drawn to this cave. I make sure they leave before anything bad happens.”

  kills them, he kills them and leaves their bodies for the crows, just like he will leave yours

  In the corner of my eye, I saw Burton’s head jerk back toward the wall. I turned to face him and we locked eyes for a moment. Then he smiled and reached into his coat.

  I did the only thing I could think of; I grabbed his head and shoved as hard as I could. It hit the stone and I heard a sickening crunch. Burton’s eyes glazed, and his hand dropped limp by his side. The pistol clattered on the floor. He stared absently for a moment longer, and then he fell in a heap. Behind him was a jagged spar of rock, wet with blood. A clump of hair clung to it.

  Spinning, I staggered a few steps, bent, and emptied my stomach. My stomach heaved again and again. When it was done, my throat burned and the room was thick with the smell of bile and rancid beer.

  The lamp flickered and a cold breeze ran over me. I shivered and looked at the far wall. A faint glow shone in the hollow.

  good good, now open the door, he cannot stop you

  I stood there, bent at the waist, one hand braced on the stone wall. My legs buzzed. Deep down, I wanted to go over there. I gave my head a brisk shake, trying to clear it. My stomach lurched. I backed toward the entrance.

  no no no, you cannot leave you must open the door

  I kept my eyes on the glowing hollow, groping the wall as I backed up until I reached out and felt nothing. The way out. I stepped through. The glow blazed, and bright orange lines appeared in the wall. They formed an arch. The hollow was close to the left edge. Right where a door handle would be.

  open the door open the door I can taste the air feel your fear I will be free someone will come and THEN I WILL FIND YOU OPEN OPEN OPEN OPEN OPEN

  The force of it in my head paralyzed. My bladder let go and a jet of warm urine streamed down my leg. I forced my head to turn. In the blazing light, I saw the crack in the far wall, saw the floor rise at a sharp angle toward freedom. I willed my legs to
move, to take a step in that direction.

  They did move. Toward the door. I tried to lock my knees, to stop, but I took step after step toward the door. The cold melted away and soon I was sweating in the heat radiating from the door. The lamp guttered and went out, but the orange blaze filled the room. At some point, I realized I was screaming, long shrill cries that ripped from my throat. My hand reached out, and I could feel something through the door, shifting, eager. As my fingers reached into the hollow, heat like fire raced up my arm, like my bones were hot coals. I gripped the stone and pulled, and the door swung open.

  Immediately, the heat and light were gone. I stood in complete darkness. My arm throbbed, like it had been held under scalding water, but the intense flame of pain dissipated. I reached out. The door hung open, just an inch or two of space between it and the wall. I jerked my hand back, afraid the stone would snap shut on my fingers.

  A breeze whispered past my face, bitter cold. The hairs in my nose froze. My breath came in sharp, small gasps. I could feel frozen breaths on my neck. Then it stepped into me and the cold went deep into my marrow and my bones cracked and splintered like icicles. My breath caught in my lungs.

  come with me Jake. we will do the most wonderful things

  THE END.

  LIFE CYCLE by Adam Phillips

  Mica wedged himself through the huddle of children, stepping on feet and shoving, craning to see what everyone else was looking at. At the center of the throng was a leaf, and undulating on the leaf was a turgid, shiny brown caterpillar. Mica pushed to the front of the group, bending closer, squinting.

  On the caterpillar’s rear end, waving in the air, was a cluster of vivid markings creating a perfectly rendered clown’s face, replete with blue eyes, bright red nose, and an arc of pink lips. The face bobbed and swayed as if greeting them to a party.

  “I bet nobody’s ever seen one like that,” said a girl, ogling in wonder.

  “No one ever has,” said a boy. “I’ve got a bug book, at home? And that thing’s sure as hell not in there.”

  An argument broke out as to who was going to trap it, in what, to whom they would take it to verify their discovery, and who had seen it first thus earning the right to name it-

  The children flinched as Mica lunged forward, skewering the evanescent creature on his pocket knife. A few of the kids, groaning, crying out, began to say something, but stopped themselves. They moved away as the boy produced a lighter from his pocket and, holding the knife to his face began to burn the writhing insect, deeply inhaling the smoke.

  From the end of the long dirt driveway, Mica saw his dad sitting just inside the open doorway, slouched in a kitchen chair. The boy stopped uneasily, struck with the disconcerting impression that the house and the man were deteriorating commensurately. The moldy shingles slid off the roof leaving wet rotten-looking spots and clusters of ruptured blood vessels appeared in his father's cheeks. The foundation cracked and the old man limped back and forth between his chair and the refrigerator.

  Things hadn't always been like this. They'd moved to Priest River for a fresh start. His father had found work painting houses, and Mica...much to his incredulity, the other kids had liked him. He was the novelty, the new game in town, the only city kid in the entire school. And if he seemed to be a little different, well then it was only because they did things a little differently in Seattle.

  He remembered, that first spring, watching a butterfly in the backyard squirm its way, wet and awkward, out of its chrysalis and thinking that’s us. Me and dad.

  But, within a year, all of that erumpent opportunity had been squandered.

  Both father and son had fallen back upon their customary antisocial habits. The old man had started fighting in bars, following women home, spending nights in jail, and the boy...

  The boy had been unable to keep his true nature swallowed up, and before long his new classmates had recognized something far more unsavory than the eccentricities of the urbanite.

  Sweating onto the dusty driveway, watching the house and the slumping man, the boy encountered another unpleasant thought. In many ways, Mica was just like his father. Everyone said so. The same big ears and high forehead. The same short arms and large hands. The same tendency to grit his teeth and clench his fists when he got frustrated. The same lack of self-control...

  And there sits my future, thought the boy, watching the mashed shape in the doorway.

  Against his will, Mica incorporated himself into the vision of the decaying, collapsing house. He felt his body coming apart as beams and slabs of sheetrock crashed down all around him, the parts of the boy and the house and the parts of the father contracting into one vast festering heap.

  Shaking the image from his mind, Mica stepped off the driveway into the woods, creeping around the side of the house.

  Phil kept sneaking glances at his wife as she sat looking out the car window wanly, until Katy, without turning towards him, said “I see you looking at me. Stop it. I'm fine. Just watch the road.”

  “Sorry, I just...” He leaned forward, concentrating on the endless strip of wet blacktop.

  “I know you're just trying to help, and I'm being difficult, but I sort of just need to let myself feel however I'm going to feel. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She gave him a strained smile, and returned to the window.

  This three thousand mile pilgrimage, Boston to northern Idaho, had been conceived a year earlier, after Phil had proposed, and Katy, shockingly, had said no. During the aftermath, the fallout, Katy had come to realize, after counseling and much self-reflection that she'd refused out of a reluctance to move into adulthood. Because, in her experience of the world, adults failed at everything they attempted. Adults lied, and beat each other up, and abused drugs. Adults allowed their children to live in squalor until the state interceded, taking those children, shipping them hundreds of miles away to live in one negligent foster home after another...

  As soon as she had recognized the source of this anxiety, she'd begun to appreciate the pernicious toll it had exacted on her life. Over the years she had refused promotions, continued cohabitating with shitty roommates, and most recently, nearly driven away the man she loved, all out of a subconscious fear of adulthood.

  So she and her therapist had devised a plan. In order to confront and conquer the demons of her childhood, the specifics of which she had suppressed and could recall only vaguely, she would spend the summer revisiting all the places she'd lived.

  The trip would culminate with the house in the woods outside Priest River, Idaho, where she had spent the longest, and most difficult, period of her childhood. Then, with her catharsis complete, she could return to Boston and marry Phil, begin her new job, buy a house...

  So far, the plan had been a success. They'd visited the Minneapolis neighborhood where she'd last lived with her parents, as a six-year-old. Stepping out of the car, facing the dilapidated apartment building, all the memories had come flooding back: the neglect, the terror of living amongst erratic strangers, the filth and darkness...After a night spent cursing her parents and crying, she'd awoken purged, and returned to the freeway, traveling west.

  On to a well-meaning but abusive-for-Christ aunt and uncle in Mason City, from whom she'd been taken after the school nurse had pulled up her shirt to hear a cough and gasped at the purple and yellow thatching created by her aunt's belt. On to a drunken grandmother in Norman, Oklahoma, who had burned down the house cooking, a foster family in Denver who, called to change the world, had taken in a half-dozen kids all at once and given them all back two weeks later...

  At every stop, Katy had broken down, vented anger, and left lighter, relieved of another burden.

  Now, with no further stops before Priest River, no lesser emotional hurdles to focus on, she was beginning to wish they had never come.

  Standing in the backyard, with the events of the afternoon spreading out before him, Mica felt better. Grass twitched with the movements of insects and s
mall animals, and the air crackled with the warm buzzing of tiny wings. After he had memorized each detail, a living picture in his brain, he went quietly into the house, retrieving a sack of sugar from the kitchen cupboard. His father yelled something as Mica slipped back outside.

  He dumped the sugar into a bucket and filled the bucket with water. Slowly, carefully, he poured the sugar water in an arc around the back of the house, and returned to the stoop.

  It didn't take them long to come.

  Mica watched the vanguard of scouts tentatively tapping at the wet grass with their antennae, freezing in disbelief before scrabbling back to their hills bearing word of the miraculous manna. As the ants accumulated, Mica rose from the stoop, carefully hopping over the living stripe, en route to the shed.

  He returned with a red plastic gas can and leaning close to the ground delicately poured a thin stream just inside the crawling parabola. Then he retraced his steps, trailing gas on the other side of the roiling ants. With the same lighter he'd used to fire up the rare caterpillar an hour earlier, he lit the twin trails. Flames sprung, clashing and mingling like saw teeth. He heard the small bodies popping and smelled the peppery smoke and saw the minute beads of liquid boiling up through the exoskeletons and he thought he sensed, on some sub-audible level, a chorus of high-pitched keening shrieks.

  Tracking the frantic survivors to their hill, he widened the arterial tunnel with a stick, filled it with gas, and lit it. Flame regurgitated in a hissing blue-white jet, singeing his eyebrows and eyelashes and bangs, chapping the skin of his face. Looking over the scorched earth, Mica felt the poisonous cloud of anxiety that had plagued him all day at school abating, replaced by a blossom of demulcent calm blooming within his chest, radiating outward. Returning to the shed, he traded the gas for a pair of aerosol cans he kept stashed behind his father’s painting tarps, and set off into the forest.

  Creeping to the wasps' nest, he fired the hair spray over the lighter's flame to produce a blow torch, then as the crepe paper of the nest caught flame, he dropped the hair spray, switching cans to shoot pesticide at the fleeing insects so that they dropped, convulsing, their wings aflame and nervous systems burnt out, shutting down...