GARDENS OF NIGHT Read online

  GARDENS

  OF

  NIGHT

  Greg F. Gifune

  UNINVITED BOOKS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Greg F. Gifune

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  For information contact [email protected]

  or visit www.UninvitedBooks.com.

  Cover artwork by Chas Hendricksen

  First Uninvited Books paperback edition November 2010

  ISBN: 978-0-9830457-1-7

  Also by Greg F. Gifune

  The Living and the Dead

  Long After Dark

  Kingdom of Shadows

  Catching Hell

  Children of Chaos

  Judas Goat

  Saying Uncle

  Dominion

  A View from the Lake

  Blood in Electric Blue

  Deep Night

  The Bleeding Season

  Heretics

  Down to Sleep

  Drago Descending

  Night Work

  For LeShelle Woodard

  “The world of men is dreaming, it has gone mad in its sleep,

  and a snake is strangling it, but it can’t wake up.”

  – D. H. Lawrence

  PROLOGUE

  It moves through the tall grass like a shadow, glimpses of its bushy tail the only indication the creature is actual rather than a trick of light and imagination. At the edge of the field, the fox hesitates, cocks his head and smells the air. A cold late October breeze drifts down from the summit of a distant hill, across the open field then filters through the tall grass beyond, causing the stalks to sway back and forth like countless summoning fingers. Though dusk has only just arrived, the dense forest on the far side has already fallen dark. Most of the leaves have turned a brilliant yellow, brown and orange, but soon – very soon – they will fall dead and winter will set in. For now, only night comes. And that’s enough. It sneaks about like the wind, stirring all that resides within it, but despite the shift of light and dark, time seems to have ground to a stop here, and it is eerily quiet.

  The fox senses this peculiar change in the air but remains still, his eyes trained on an enormous tree atop the hill. Ancient, with a thick trunk and long gnarled branches that reach toward the ashen sky like tendrils, the tree, barren and blackened as if horribly burned years ago, stands alone on the horizon, a sentry watching over all that lies beyond it.

  The wells… the farmhouse… the sisters…

  The past… the present… the future…

  Bounding with as much power as grace, the fox darts across the field, stealthily ascends the hill then pulls up just short of the massive tree.

  Four deer watch the fox from the base of the tree, their heads raised and turned. His presence is enough to startle them, and the deer sprint away across the opposite field to the rear of the farmhouse below. A rush of wind stirs in their wake as they instinctively cut a wide swath around the old barn before disappearing into the woods.

  The fox’s eyes shift to the three quaint wooden wells with draw buckets not far from the tree.

  But something else distracts him.

  Below, a dull yellow light fills one of the farmhouse windows.

  They’re awake.

  Night falls harder, faster.

  A large gray serpent slithers through the tree above and silently coils around a nearby branch. Its forked tongue flickers, black liquid eyes lifeless yet mocking.

  The front door to the aged farmhouse opens with a noisy creak, and the sound echoes up along the hillside. A shadow figure emerges, its body covered from head to toe in what appears to be a dark shroud of some kind. Two more follow in single file, each holding a burning candle as they move across the farm toward the hill. The shrouds brush the ground and conceal their feet, but the three figures hold such upright postures and rigid strides that the fox cannot be sure if they’re walking or gliding, floating just above the earth.

  Suddenly, the fox smells something.

  Danger.

  He turns and runs back in the direction from which he came, not stopping or even slowing until he reaches the forest. Once within the boundary of trees he comes to a gradual halt and looks back.

  In the distance, three women stand watching from the top of the hill.

  But surely they can’t see him from such a distance. Can they?

  As he slips away beneath the cover of darkness, all the fox knows for sure is that on this strange and cold October night he is no longer the predator here.

  They are.

  “In the dreamer’s dream, the dreamed one awoke.”

  – Jorge Luis Borges

  One

  Shine…

  He must remember that he sees things differently now, even when he’s asleep. Dreams, his sanctuary, come easily. They are all that remains to protect him from the darkness, the emptiness. His dreams have always been vivid, though of late they’ve become more so, since the pills, the tiny tablets designed to relax and center him, to make him feel less anxious and depressed. They work, but who knows what they’re doing to him long-term? The doctors claim they’re perfectly safe, but safety is a myth.

  Sounds of sleep, of magic, drift away, leaving him in uncertain silence. From his slumped position on the edge of the bed, Marcus Banyon peers down at the small plastic bottle in his hand, the childproof cap and prescription sticker. More shackles, more chains. But exactly what are they shackling him to? He cannot be certain. Not yet.

  Marc twists free the cap, drops a pill into his palm then grabs a bottle of water from the nightstand. Before he can further analyze the situation, he pops the tablet into his mouth and washes it down.

  “Are you all right?”

  Rather than turn toward the voice, he stares at the floor. “If I never hear that question again it’ll be too soon.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Don’t be.”

  “How are you? Is that better?”

  Marc gives a listless nod.

  She remains in the doorway. Something prevents her from crossing fully into the room. The shades in the bedroom are drawn, but the light behind her leaves her in silhouette and hints at either dusk or dawn. It hardly matters which. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Brooke asks. “We don’t have to go.”

  “Spaulding went to a lot of trouble to set this up, we can’t disappoint him.”

  “It’s not about disappointing Spaulding. It’s about what’s best for you.”

  “And you.”

  “I think it might be good for everyone.”

  He wishes she sounded more convincing.

  “Sometimes a change of scenery can be a really positive thing. Even the doctor said it might be good to get away somewhere quiet and –”

  “It’s all right,” he assures her. “It’s fine.”

  “I’m just saying if you’d rather stay home and rest here – or if you think that’s best – it’s not a big deal.”

  “Brooke,” he says, hoping the sound of her name will quiet her, “we’ve already had this conversation. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’ll go and it’ll be great.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He never answers.

  “I checked on you earlier,” she eventually says. “You were dreaming. It looked like you were concentrating on something.”

  He doesn’t reply for a long while. “Have you ever heard whale songs?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “That’s what
I hear when I dream now. Sometimes I even hear traces of them in that moment when I first come awake, these beautiful ethereal sounds.”

  She fidgets about uncomfortably. “I thought maybe you were dreaming about, you know, what happened.”

  “I only dream about that when I’m awake.” He runs a hand through his thinning hair. It’s neither cold nor warm in the bedroom, but his scalp is damp with perspiration. “When I sleep, I dream of other things. I hear the whales.”

  “Are the whales talking to you, Marc?”

  “They must be. Why else would I hear them?”

  “What do they say?”

  “I think they’re asking for deliverance.”

  “From what?”

  “Sadness. Pain.”

  Brooke clears her throat awkwardly. “They’re in pain?”

  “Everything alive is in pain.”

  “And they think you can help them?”

  He knows she’s only pretending, playing along with what she perceives as his inadequacies and impairment, but he explains as best he can anyway. These are new thoughts in his head, fresh mysteries he’s still sifting through himself. “We have the power but we hide instead. We hide in the pain until we can’t take another second of it.”

  She hugs herself as if overtaken by a sudden chill. “And then?”

  “We use it like a mallet to smash each other to pieces.”

  “Why?” Brooke angles her head to the side in an attempt to see beyond him to the shadows nesting in the far corner. “Why whale songs?”

  “I think it might be because they’re so hard to ignore once you’ve heard them. If someone or something wanted to communicate, to tell us something important, wouldn’t they use something universally compelling? There’s something about them, something spiritually primal that speaks to us even if we’re not listening or don’t understand. You can feel it, there’s something more there, something deeper, something haunting and frightening, yet beautiful, peaceful. Sometimes their cries sound almost human. And once we hear those songs they’re always with us. We never forget them.” He finally raises his head and looks at her. He wishes he could see her face, but it remains cloaked in shadow. “How do you forget the voice of God?” Though he smiles, there are tears in his eyes. “How do you forget when it’s so helpless?”

  * * * *

  Colorful foliage decorates the trees on either side of the highway. Marc watches it rush past the car window in a smeared blur, varied shades of gold and red, yellow and brown. He wonders how – and why – such beauty can precede death. It’s a troubling realization, and yet strangely soothing to know that even at the end, there is splendor.

  He sits alone in the backseat. Brooke and Spaulding are up front. Spaulding drives, it’s his car after all – a rental actually, a midsize sedan he had waiting for him at Logan Airport when he flew in from Chicago – but Marc can’t help thinking he and Brooke are the couple, they should be sitting together, not apart. And if they’re to be apart, shouldn’t Marc be the one in the front seat with Spaulding? These thoughts puzzle him; leave him confused as to why they’re even coursing through his head. They’re petty and childish, but for some reason he cannot ignore them. It reminds him of early on in their relationship, when Spaulding and Brooke were the couple and he was the third wheel, the clumsy friend along for the ride. He’d felt awkward then, but that was years ago, they’d still been teenagers. Now he feels something else. The more he thinks about it, focuses on it, and watches them chatting and interacting, these two people he has known longer than anyone else – his wife and his oldest friend – the foolish thoughts subside and are replaced with ones more benign. No, it’s not semantics that bother him, nor the often complicated history they share, nor the knowledge that before Brooke was his wife she was Spaulding’s girlfriend. Those are things familiar and known to them all, things that have evolved and grown with them as people, as friends, as a trio over the course of many years. Rather, the true source of his agitation is the conversation he overheard prior to leaving the house. He knows in his heart they meant well, but the conspiratorial tone of their discussion stays with him, gnaws at him even now, an hour or more later.

  Finally, the tangle of thoughts in his mind congeal into something decipherable, and he remembers lying awake, the bedroom door ajar as he listened to them talk in the nearby kitchen.

  “How’s he been?”

  “About the same, he has good days and bad.”

  “And his doctor’s OK with us going away for a while?”

  “As long as Marc’s comfortable with the idea she thinks it has the potential to be very cathartic.”

  “Well, he’s obviously come a long way. At least he’s home.”

  “Yeah, it’s just…”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s like at times he’s someone else. He has these disjointed thoughts when he’s awake, and he hears strange things in his sleep.”

  “Like what?”

  “Animals and spirits – the universe – communicating with him through his dreams or – I don’t know – I don’t understand any of it. It’s like his senses have heightened or sharpened or something. He seems much more susceptible to everything around him.”

  “So are we talking delusions or some sort of avoidance?”

  “I don’t know. Even the doctors aren’t sure. But Marc believes it.”

  “That may be all that matters.”

  “That night changed him, Spaulding. It changed us both.”

  “How could it not? You guys have been through hell. It’s going to take time.”

  “But much as Marc seems to want to, he hasn’t been able to dig his way out. I’ve managed to but he can’t.”

  “Have you? Have you, really? Can you be sure?”

  “I can function.”

  “He can too. Maybe not as well as you, not yet, but look how far you’ve both come already. I’ll bet this time away will make things even better.”

  “It’s so nice of you to do this.”

  “Come on, we’re family.”

  “Awfully incestuous, aren’t we?”

  “Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  “Some days it’s all I have.”

  “It’ll be OK, Brooke. I know it. You’ll see. A little quiet time will do you both a world of good. It never hurts to get away for a bit.”

  “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. You’re a good friend.”

  “Not really.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Marc’s been a better friend to me over the years than I’ve been to him. So have you. I’m not proud of that, it’s just the way it is. Maybe I feel guilty. Maybe that’s why I suggested this little getaway in the first place, so I could feel better about myself.”

  “That may be one reason, but we both know it’s not the only one, so cut yourself some slack already.”

  “That’s good advice. You should take it yourself.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Marc is too, he just needs time. He’s a tough guy, always has been – you know that as well as I do – but he’s sensitive too. Too much sometimes, leaves him vulnerable. He’s been like that since he was a kid.”

  “None of us can help who we are, I guess.”

  “Sometimes it’s nice to pretend we can though, isn’t it?”

  “He’s broken, Spaulding. He’s damaged.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Extent, that’s the point.”

  “But you said the doctors told you there’s nothing neurologically wrong.”

  “He had a severe concussion, but they’ve found no evidence of permanent neurological damage. The psychiatrist said the break Marc’s suffering from is definitely emotional.”

  “What about you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m getting there, but I’m more concerned with him. I want my husband back. I need him.”

  “He’ll make it through this. No matter what, that’s still him in
there.”

  “But how much is left?”

  The pills help to quell general anxiety and the majority of his obsessive thoughts, but this one lingers a while, fighting the chemical armies marching through his blood and transforming into the beginnings of anger before finally dissipating and leaving him. Though he’s glad to see it go, Marc knows the anger will return in some other form, using some other means. It’s only a matter of time. It won’t stay gone. Not forever. Not without more pills. Not without more sleep. Not without more distance and time and alleged healing and everything else everyone assures him is just around the next bend in the road.

  Brooke’s found peace in some sense, or at least something approaching it. Why can’t he? She’s stronger than he is, always has been.

  Maybe it’s that simple.

  Ironically, it is Spaulding who found Brooke. He dated her in high school first, albeit briefly, and it is Spaulding who first introduced her to Marc. For that alone Marc feels he owes him his life, friendship and undying loyalty. Even after all this time, as they close in on their fortieth birthdays, he can never repay that, and he knows it.

  They both do.

  Marc has always wondered how Brooke could’ve been attracted to both he and Spaulding, as even physically they’re markedly different. Marc is shorter and more compact, with a subtly powerful build and Mediterranean features that reflect his Italian ancestry. On the rare occasions he’s broached the subject over the years Brooke has always laughed it off. “The two relationships aren’t even remotely comparable,” she chuckles. “You and I fell in love quickly. I knew you were the one within days of meeting you. I’ve always loved Spaulding, but as boyfriend and girlfriend we were never good as you and me. As long as there is you, Spaulding and I make better friends than anything else.”

  “I’ve always thought Brooke was great,” Spaulding has told him many times, “and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her. She’s smart and pretty and one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Of course I love her – always have and always will – but she’s in love with you, Marc, not me. It’s always been you.”