When Night Falls

by Kayla Krantz

  I was too perplexed—too desperate for answers. Why was my sister so maliciously slaughtered? I wanted to put away the monster who had stolen her from me. I came here every single night, and left the way I came: unsatisfied.

  Tonight was like any other, except for the pouring rain. My hood was up over my face, but the rain soaked through all the way to my scalp. I was nearly frozen, but my mind was preoccupied as I wandered on the edge of the sidewalk. Lights filled the alley. I turned only to see a car pass by, splashing me with water from head to toe. Stunned, I gasped at the cold. Part of me felt like it was time to go home.

  I headed back the way I had come, turning into another alley. It was enclosed, and the darkness surrounded me. I didn’t mind—at least the rain was off of me for a little while. I knew this one was probably the most dangerous to walk alone at night, but I didn’t let that thought settle in. I focused on the light at the very end. It was a short walk regardless.

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor behind me. I tensed, realizing that they weren’t my own. Picking up my pace, I was convinced that the sound was just in my imagination. But then, they sounded again. Chills ran down my spine. Intuition told me that the sound was real. I was halfway through the tunnel, close to the night beyond, but still too deep within it to get help if I needed it. The footsteps were too loud now; the sound pounded in my ears.

  Finally, I had enough. I spun around, my eyes widening when I caught sight of the shadowy figure behind me. The light glinted off of the intricate knife it held. My intuition was right.

  Fight or flight? My senses were quick to kick into action. In the darkness, it was hard to gauge his size, or the strength that his form held. I decided to run, making it out to the light beyond the alley. The rain poured even harder as he joined me outside.

  In the moonlight, I could see the details of his face. Shaggy blonde hair stuck to the sides of his ivory face. He sneered at me through dark eyes that focused on me like a hawk.

  Obviously, he thought the battle was over. I had stopping running for a reason. The knife in his hands looked so familiar. A specialized dagger—with a blade hooked like an eagle’s talon. It left special marks—something like ritualistic markings, the police had said.

  I knew who he was. This monster, in the guise of a man, killed my sister. My fear left me, replaced with disbelief and a vengeance that could only be satisfied with blood. I stood my ground as he approached me, carefully noting his every movement as I planned how to take him down.

  I exposed my teeth, my lips twisting into a smile. I lunged at him, grabbing the wrist that clutched the knife as I thrust my knee into his stomach. The look of surprise on his face gave me extra motivation. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him, but he wasn’t deterred.

  He slashed at me with the knife, but I dodged it, stepping backwards. My heel hit the curb at an awkward angle, and I lost my balance, tumbling backwards into the gutter. The water soaked me right through, as I watched him approach me again.

  He took advantage of my fall and crouched above me, the curved dagger ready to plunge into my throat. Lifting my hand, I hit him first—in the throat. He gasped at the pain, but again, the knife didn’t waver. I growled, part of me beginning to worry that, perhaps, I couldn’t win.

  Recovering from the blow, he looked even angrier than he had at the start of the attack. I stared back, searching for another weakness. His throat and nose were my primary targets. He took a moment to recover from the first hit. With a little bit more force, I could crush his windpipe. He knew nothing of my thoughts—he merely assumed that he had won as he drew back the knife to sink it in my skin.

  I pulled my fist back and punched him harder in the throat. He coughed, losing his grip on the knife as he staggered backwards. It clanged to the rain-soaked ground beside us. With my leg, I kicked him in the stomach, and rushed for the handle.

  I picked it up and towered over him, stabbing the knife through his flesh over and over again. The sound of the blade squelching through his flesh was horrible. I heard every vein, ligament, and muscle tear, as it plunged through to the bone. I didn’t stop even once, though, remembering all the things he had done to many innocent girls. He deserved all of the pain that I inflicted.

  Gasping in pain, blood oozed from his wounds. He twitched and groaned in agony, but I showed no mercy as I finished him off. One last stab in the heart, and he went still forever.

  Panting, I stood to my feet and watched the rain wash his blood away into the darkness from where he had come.

  If it is spoken in whispers now, that’s because the world has worn out its voice screaming about it in the past.

  Mercy

  UNKNOWN TO HUMANS, there was once a land that homed the highest of the Gods. Athena, Zeus, Poseidon, and Persephone were among the most well-known of them all. The land was beautiful, studded with a perfection the human realm would never know. The water was always the clearest shade of blue, and the foliage was always crisp and green, never destroyed by changing seasons. None of those things affected the land of the Gods—also known as Paradise.

  Paradise was perfect—for some of the Gods.

  What went unknown was the fact that Gods didn’t only rule over the humans. They ruled over each other as well. Their worshippers on Earth were unaware that even their mighty Gods had slaves—other powerful beings who they deemed not as worthy as themselves eons before.

  Eye contact between these slaves and the Gods was strictly forbidden, punishable by death.

  Every God who was declared a slave was born into it. Rules for their lowly lives were beat into them from their moment of creation. One of these unfortunate beings was a nymph by the name of Mercy. She was quiet, a slave under the control of Poseidon. She groveled at the feet of the mighty Gods, doing every task thrown her way. Aware of the eye contact rule, she made it her life’s mission to never expose her face to those who ruled above her.

  It was Mercy’s job to fetch the Gods their daily food. Their tastes would change every day, longing for exotic things that were increasingly hard to find. Mercy never complained about the ridiculous missions she was sent on, and she never voiced a single ill thought toward those who ruled above her. No matter what she was sent to do, she did it.

  Today, she was to care for Persephone. She knew from experience that she was one of the hardest gods to please. Mercy carefully combed her long, dark black hair over her face as she prepared to approach the goddess. The beautiful girl turned to her with a grunt.

  Mercy was nervous, but tried not to show it as she spoke. “What can I get for you today, madam?”

  “I’d like a silverheart fruit,” she said, extending her hand to study her nails.

  Mercy dipped her head and turned away without a word, to begin her mission. When she moved out of earshot, she vented her frustration. The silverheart was one of the rarest fruit that Paradise had to offer. Only one plant bore that fruit, located on a tiny island miles out into the ocean.

  Mercy prepared for the long journey and plunged into the water. By the time she reached the island, she was exhausted. Stumbling ashore, it took her the better part of an hour to finally locate the plant. When she did, she was glad to see that it had borne just one ripe, rounded fruit. Its silver skin glinted in the morning light.

  Mercy let out a sigh of relief as she plucked it from its cradle. Tucking it away into the folds of her dress, she set out on the long swim back to Persephone. She arrived back on the mainland around noon. Wiping her wet locks out of her face, she tried to calm her frantic breathing. She was on the verge of collapse, but still determined as ever to complete her mission.

  As she neared the area of the mighty gods, she swept her locks of dark hair back over her face once more. With cautious steps, she approached Persephone, falling to her knees as she offered the silverheart to the goddess. Persephone’s long fingers plucked it from her palm. She studied it for a long moment.

  “Is something wrong, madam?” Mercy whispered.

 
“You didn’t leave the stem on it,” she said tossing the silverheart to the ground without a second thought. “Go get me another one.”

  Mercy was speechless. She watched the goddess step on the fruit that had taken her countless hours to retrieve. Persephone had destroyed the object of her labors in less than a minute. Rage brewed within her; she knew that she wouldn’t be able to swallow it down this time. Pushing her hair from her eyes, she raised her eyes to stare Persephone down.

  “That was the last one!” she growled, glaring at the goddess. Persephone froze. At first, Mercy thought she was in shock. But then she realized that the goddess was no longer fleshy and human—she had been turned to stone and sent to Hades, who waited in the underworld.

  Mercy was shocked at what she had done, and aware—despite their silence—that the other Gods had witnessed what she had done. Finally, it was Poseidon’s voice that broke the silence.

  “No one told us she was the spawn of Medusa!” he bellowed.

  “She must be executed!” Zeus announced.

  Before Mercy could argue, her hair was thrown over her eyes, and she was dragged away from the stone goddess she had created. Zeus’ powerful thundering rang in her ears as he carried her away from the scene. She tried to plead with the mighty Gods, but not one of them would hear her out. Minutes later, she realized he had taken her to the same island that held the silverheart fruit. Her hands were bound above her head, her thick hair still matted over her eyes.

  Despite being unable to see, she knew that Zeus, Athena, and Poseidon surrounded her.

  “Clear her eyes,” Athena’s voice commanded.

  With her vision restored, Mercy stared right into the eyes of her mother’s head. She felt her body slowly being turned to stone as Poseidon summoned a massive storm to cover everything but her bound hands.

  Of course, history has a way of repeating itself.

  Rather than learning from the mistakes of people past, we find ourselves making the same decisions and hoping for a different outcome—true insanity.

  Piano Man

  MANY STORIES SURROUND the old Johnson house. It was abandoned years before anyone I knew moved into the houses around it. It was creepy—all two stories with shingles and roofing that had begun to rot away. Boards were nailed over all the windows. The lawn, which I imagine was well taken care of at one point, was now an overgrown mess. The wooden porch had a large hole in it. Perhaps whoever had lived there decided to set a trap to keep people from coming in—or going out.

  Some thought the former residents had been killed, though their bodies were never discovered. Others thought they simply moved away. No matter what ideas people had, they all agreed on one thing: the Johnson place was haunted.

  No one argued about that.

  Anyone who lived on the same block of Oak Street had seen the signs: the candle light flickering in the living room; the creaking noises late at night, as if people moved around inside. Some claimed to have heard someone playing a piano in the early hours of the morning.

  I believed every word that I heard about the old place. Not because I was gullible, though. My gut alerted me to something strange every time I passed that house. So even when the high school bully, Lance, dared me to go inside, I flatly refused.

  “Adria’s a chicken!” he laughed, a huge smile on his face.

  I shrugged. “I know better than to go in there. Haven’t you heard the stories?”

  “You believe all that crap?” he spat. “About the ghosts?”

  “Yeah, why not? The whole town does. Besides, I’ve seen the signs,” I argued, folding my arms over my chest.

  “Pfft, what signs?” he scoffed.

  “I’ve seen the candlelight, heard the noises,” I explained.

  He clicked his tongue. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll bet all of my money that it’s just in your crazy head.”

  “You don’t have any money,” I sneered. “But if you did, you would lose it all on that bet.”

  “Is that so?” he raised an eyebrow.

  I lifted my chin as I met his gaze. “Yes, it is.”

  “How about we make good on this little bet?”

  “If that’s supposed to be a challenge, I’m not changing my mind. I’m not going in there,” I said.

  He shrugged. “That doesn’t stop me from doing it, if it’ll prove a point to you.”

  I looked at him, wide-eyed. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Serious as ever, love,” he said. “When I prove that this place isn’t haunted, I get to mock you to the rest of the school for this entire year.”

  “Go ahead, you would anyway. Most would agree that I made the right choice here,” I persisted.

  “Ugh.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m going in. I’ll show you how it’s done, princess,” he snarled. My eyes narrowed, but I said nothing more as he turned to head down the single strip of sidewalk that led to the porch of the Johnson’s house.

  “Wait! What if something happens?” I called after him.

  He laughed over his shoulder. “If something happens, call Ghostbusters.”

  I hated him.

  I really did. Part of me was tempted to leave him alone to face whatever horrors the old house had in store. I frowned. Even though I didn’t like him, I knew I couldn’t live with myself if something bad happened.

  I watched, feeling torn, as he stepped onto the porch. He eyed the hole in the boards warily before he set his hand on the doorknob. The old door pushed open with a creak. I gulped as he disappeared inside.

  “Oh, God! Adria! Help!” I heard him yelp. My heart thumped in my chest. Without a thought, I bounded down the strip of sidewalk and into the house.

  “Where are you?” I howled, looking around.

  The house was too dark to see anything. I searched the whole room before I realized that he was nowhere in sight.

  “Hello?” I squeaked, feeling my fear choking me.

  “Boo! I’m gonna eat you!” a voice cried, as a pair of hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me backwards into the shadows.

  The door slammed, submerging me in the blackness of the house. I screamed; my heart on the verge of exploding. Then I heard laughter. Heat rushed to my cheeks, along with a bitter mix of humiliation and terror. It was only Lance.

  “Oh. My. God,” he wheezed, between spurts of laughter. “The look on your face was to die for.”

  “Well, you might! That was not funny!”

  “You didn’t see it from my end,” he said, wiping at his eyes.

  I huffed and turned away from him, ready to head back out. That’s when I heard it—the notes of a piano coming from the depths of the house. His laughter stopped as he looked at me. I knew he heard it too.

  “What’s that sound?” he asked.

  “A piano,” I breathed, peering into the darkness.

  “Okay, how are you doing that?” he asked, looking unamused.

  “I’m standing right here, moron. How could I be doing that?” I hissed. “We should leave.”

  “Scared?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Just a bit.”

  “I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you’re good.” He shook his head. With that said, he began to wander into the darkness.

  “That’s not me!” I cried, left with no choice but to follow him.

  “It sounds like it’s coming from this way,” he spoke from the shadows up ahead.

  “Which way?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Which way?” I asked again.

  Still no reply.

  A frown crossed my face. “If you’re trying to play another prank on me… this really isn’t funny, you know.”

  I waited for movement, a response—anything to confirm his presence. Nothing.

  “This really isn’t funny!” I called out again.

  The soft sound of the piano spiraled in from the silence to greet me. I felt my heart quicken, like a jackhammer in my chest. I didn’t know where Lance had gone, but my gut told that i
t was time to get out. I turned to head back the way I had come, but blackness surrounded me on all sides. Horrified, I realized that I couldn’t tell which way I had come from. Panic filled me from head to toe.

  Stay calm, I told myself.

  It didn’t work. The sound of the piano only grew louder. I sped up, my fingers tracing the wall as I tried to find the door. My fingers brushed a door frame. Relieved, I was glad that I had found the way out. Then I rounded the corner.

  A tiny bit of light filtered into the room from between the cracks in the boards on the window. A piano sat there. It was beautiful—no cracks, dents, or cobwebs. Had I not known any better, I would’ve thought it was brand new.

  But, that wasn’t what caught my attention.

  The man sitting at it did.

  Cloaked in black from head to toe, he had slick black hair to match. His long, delicate, pale fingers curved to each key as he played his beautiful music. I heard him play as if he were playing my own life with melodies as sweet as memories.

  Then, he stopped.

  Very slowly, he turned to look at me.

  Then, I knew that the rumors about the old house were true.

  Never stick your nose where it doesn’t belong—it might get chopped off.

  Purple

  A SIMPLE WALK through the woods.

  That was how our adventure started, but the future is a tricky thing to plan for. Though in our hearts and minds we decided to go back home when we were finished, fate thought differently. The voice that lured us off of the trail should’ve aroused our suspicions, rather than curiosity.

  But, of course—we were young and stupid.

  I walked that trail literally hundreds of times in my life. I usually brought my sister, Violet, along with me for company. This time was no different. She followed behind me, her eyes wide with curiosity as she observed everything along the way.