Long After Dark Page 18

  His throat tightened and he began to cough. “She’s away on business,” he gagged. “You have to hurry. Please Rose, for Christ’s sake, they’re all around us.”

  “Who is?” She looked around restlessly. “What are you talking about? You’re freaking me out.”

  He swiped sweat from his forehead as chills fired through him. “I—I know, I’m sorry but—there was someone on your roof earlier, OK? We need to get off the street it’s not safe.”

  She stared at him, baffled.

  “Goddamn it, I’m not playing fucking games! We have to get out of here!”

  Rose hugged herself. “I think you better go home now, Harry.”

  “All right, look, it…” He paced about madly, knowing it was only a matter of time before the night came alive and took them. “A man, a—there are these men all over the neighborhood and—they wrote these strange symbols in the closet and—I know it seems crazy but—Rose—I don’t think they’re human and they—I know how it sounds but please listen to me.”

  She looked as if she were waiting for a punch line.

  “They’re watching us right now,” he told her. “We have to get inside.”

  “You look like you’ve been up for days. Go home and get some sleep.”

  He watched the slope of her roof. Had something just moved across the periphery of his vision? “Don’t turn around,” he whispered. “They’re on the roof.”

  “You’re hallucinating.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  Run. Just run. Get back to the house where it’s safe. Leave her.

  Rose combed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and tried on a smile equal parts apprehension and compassion. “Harry, did you know it’s believed hallucinations and unexplained visions originate in the same part of the brain that produces dreams?”

  “What?” He shook his head as if to dislodge something. “You want to chat? Have you heard a word I’ve said? We can’t stay out here!”

  Rose’s uneasiness turned to something more composed and elusive. “Truth is doctors and scientists have no idea what dreams or hallucinations really are. They’re reality, but also a mystery. Maybe it’s all in who does the dreaming, huh?”

  “I’m not dreaming.”

  “Are you sure?” A quiet shuffling sound drifted from the far side of the roof. “Strange things are happening, or at least it appears that way, right? That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

  Harry nodded, tightening his sweaty palms around the bat.

  “How do you know for sure it’s real or not?” she pressed. “Normally aren’t you asleep by now? How do you know what really goes on after dark? How do you know what happens just outside your windows or just beyond your doors? You don’t. Could be someone standing in your yard, in your driveway, looking in or at your house every night. You’d never know. They could be all around you—in the trees, on the roof, in the yard, in the street—and you’d have no idea.”

  Behind her, something rustled about in the trunk.

  Harry craned his neck in an attempt to look beyond her. “What’ve you got in there?”

  “You just haven’t been able to see them until now.” Rose made a subtle lateral move, effectively blocking the still open car trunk. Any compassion or sense of humanity she’d projected previously had left her, and there was something different about her face. Something wrong. It had changed. Slightly…barely perceptibly…but it had changed. Had she been quite that pale before? And weren’t her eyes noticeably wider and suddenly animated with a look of cruelty? “There are patterns of sleep, of thought, sense, sound and sight; patterns in the universe only clear to you when you haven’t slept in a very long time and begin to experience the agony of wakefulness. But like all pain, it eventually reveals truth.”

  This time it was Harry who took a step back. “What’s in the trunk, Rose?”

  “You should’ve slept while you still could.”

  “These…things…do you know what they are?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

  Harry’s head spun and his legs nearly gave way, but he stood his ground. “The symbols everywhere—the glyphs—what are they? What do they mean? Are they a warning?”

  “They’re not for you.”

  “Who then?”

  “It’s their mark. It’s how they find their way.”

  “To what?”

  She smiled in a way he had never seen Rose smile before, her lips curling back into a vicious grin. “To you.”

  Whatever was in the trunk bucked again, and Harry caught a glimpse of something wrapped in a bloodstained sheet writhing about violently, as if trying to escape. An inhuman groan escaped it, and it struggled again to free itself. Unable to look away, Harry watched as the thing jerked up into a sitting position and the sheet fell away to reveal the bandaged face beneath, it’s oddly familiar eyes desperate and filled with terror.

  “Did you think it would last forever, this life of yours?” Rose asked. Above and behind her, dozens of figures in black crawled over the roof, scurrying across the shingles like an endless wave of swarming insects barely visible against the backdrop of night. “Didn’t you know it would end? Didn’t you know one day there’d be a price to pay? Did you think you were special, entitled, blessed?”

  Grimacing, he looked behind him. The street between the houses was clear. In the trunk the bandaged freak twisted and turned its way farther out of the sheet, moaning like a wounded animal as it tried to squirm over the edge and onto the driveway, hideously savaged stumps for legs trailing behind it.

  From somewhere farther down the cul-de-sac the sound of a large pipe scraping pavement cut the darkness. The bandaged thing screeched and struggled along the ground for purchase, flopping about like a giant worm.

  Rose released a hideous laugh as the skin on her face and neck blistered like it was being burned—branded—by some unseen device. The scarred flesh began to form intricate patterns, becoming rows of glyphs seared into every inch of visible flesh.

  Harry stumbled back, managing to hold the bat aloft despite the violent convulsive trembling throttling him from head to toe. “You’re not Rose.”

  With the same demonic grin, she bowed her head forward, glasses falling away as her eyes slowly slid up and locked on him. Unearthly growls and the excruciating cries of imprisoned souls shrieking in agony emanated from some black pit deep inside her, and when she spoke, her voice was raw and gurgling, dripping with evil. “And you’re not Harry.”

  * * *

  He slammed the door behind him, threw the lock and pressed his back flat against it, chest heaving and rattling as sweat poured across his face. Visions of dark corridors blinked in his head, the ceilings lined with panels of mostly extinguished fluorescent lights, the floors an industrial tile, worn but shiny, the walls a dull white. A hospital, he was certain now, it was definitely a hospital. And at the far end of the dimly lit hallway stood a man in a white coat, a doctor whose features remained concealed in shadow.

  The hideous sound of Rose’s voice echoed in his head.

  “And you’re not Harry.”

  I know who I am, I—I’m Harry Fremont, I—she’s one of them, they’re trying to drive me crazy, I—

  An unnerving clatter drew his attention to the darkness at the top of the stairs. Someone was trying to force open a locked door.

  They’re trying to get in through the closet again.

  Stifling a cough, he pushed away from the door, sank into a crouch to avoid being seen through the bay window and hurried to the kitchen.

  The mudroom was empty. The coyote had bolted.

  They’re in the house.

  Bat in hand, Harry spun back toward the den, trying to figure out what to do next, his mind a jumble of thoughts and memories and nightmare images he still couldn’t quite make sense of.

  The only light on in the kitchen was on the stove. Had he left that on? He staggered over to it, flicked it off…waited…listened…tried to breathe th
rough his mouth. The night and the house again fell silent.

  An itch tickled his eyebrow, crawled in a jagged line down toward his cheek. His eyelid twitched. With a sweaty palm he pawed at his face but the feeling remained, sweeping over him, down over the top and sides of his head, along his forehead and onto his nose, mouth, chin, throat and neck.

  No. Wait. Not an itch. A sensation of touch.

  But not human touch, something far more subtle barely making contact with his flesh in a strange rhythm, like a bevy of invisible silk scarves had been thrown into the air all around him and were delicately, gradually descending, brushing against him one after the next as they fell.

  Harry whirled, holding the bat with one hand and waving the other around in horror as if to clear the area of spider webs. “Get away from me, get—get away, get off, get off!”

  As he stumbled into the den the feeling left him, the phantom scarves vanishing like smoke. Breathlessly, he ran his hands over his body to make certain whatever touched him had left nothing more in its wake than perspiration and fear.

  A now familiar scraping sound crept up through the floorboards.

  He looked down, listened.

  Something was in the cellar, dragging that same strange piping he’d seen before along the concrete floor.

  They’re in the basement.

  Harry slid over to the front door, stepping lightly so as not to alert those below of his movement. The frantic urge to flee was overwhelming, but he knew running was no longer an option. Perhaps it never had been. They’d found their way into the house but were outside too, countless numbers of them lying in wait just outside that door. Even if he made it to his car and his head and vision miraculously became clear enough for him to drive, where would he go? There was nowhere to escape to. There was no help. Not the police, his friends or family, a neighbor or even a stranger on the street could help him. He was alone. He knew that now, understood it as fact. His only choice was to follow the noises down into the cellar and investigate them. Clearly whatever was making them wanted him to do just that, and there was little point in continuing to avoid the inevitable.

  The wind rustled the trees and gently shook the house, but there was something more. There, just beneath the surface, another sound, a second sound bleeding through from somewhere very far away. Scratchy and hollow, it was barely audible above the erotic whispers of the wind, faint but unmistakably human, a male voice emerging as if from the needle of an old phonograph. Was it in his head or just outside the windows? Harry couldn’t be sure.

  “We found some very strange things in the house…”

  He stood perfectly still and breathed through his mouth, trying desperately to figure out where the otherworldly voice was coming from.

  “Things that indicate he was deeply disturbed…”

  The television blinked, the light from the screen puncturing the otherwise dark room. The satellite signal was back but there was still no audio. Hadn’t he switched it off earlier? How had it come on by itself? A rerun of an old sitcom bent rays of light across his face and along the walls but offered no clues.

  “Audio recordings, bizarre writings on the walls and in the closets…”

  The voice wasn’t coming from the television, he was sure of it.

  “Odd photographs…”

  His eyes searched the framed photographs scattered about the room. He squinted but was barely able to make out the various faces on display, as if they were slowly fading into oblivion, memories once real advancing toward myth. They’re all dead, he thought. Everyone in those photographs is dead.

  The voice faded, swallowed again by a scratching sound reminiscent of a phonograph needle stuck in a groove.

  Just as it too faded away, the phone began to ring. He traced it to the floor where he’d dropped it earlier. He crouched, picked it up, hit the TALK button and brought the phone to his ear. Through the crackle of distortion, a woman’s voice came to him, spoken in a soft and dreamy whisper, as if from a great distance.

  “I have a secret.”

  Gloria? Or just something mimicking her?

  “Gloria?” he said, his voice weak. “Is that you?”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  He remembered the blood running from behind her scarf, a sudden trickle from her temple down across her cheek. “Gloria, have you done something?”

  Static…

  “What have you done? Answer me, what have you done!”

  “I’m afraid,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t know where I am anymore.”

  The line went dead, then just as quickly began to ring again.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Harry!” Another female voice. “Harry what’s going on?”

  “Jasmine?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me! I’m done with bullshit niceties. Where is she you bastard?”

  “What do you mean? I—”

  “Answer me! Where is Kelly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know something’s happened! I know it! I tried to call her like you said but her cell keeps going to voicemail. I left her two messages and she didn’t return either of them, even one I sent as urgent. I called a few coworkers and they have no knowledge of her going on any business trip to San Diego. Since then I’ve called every friend and family member of hers I know and not one of them has seen or heard from her in three days. Three days, Harry!”

  “I…I’ve spoken to her. I spoke to her earlier today.”

  “Liar! I swear to God, if you’ve hurt one hair on her head you’ll—”

  “No, I…” He could barely breathe. “You know I would never...”

  “No one’s seen or heard from Aaron Searcy in days either.”

  He swallowed, hard. “So?”

  “Cut the crap, Harry. I know you knew what was going on. Kelly told me she knew you were becoming suspicious and she was worried about how you’d react if you found out. She was planning to cut it off after this weekend—you—tell me you didn’t do anything stupid!”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “14 Beach Street. How about now? Know what I’m talking about now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. 14 Beach Street, Sippican Shores, on the Cape.”

  “I’ve never been to Sippican Shores.”

  “You’re lying. 14 Beach Street.”

  A sharp pain slashed across his temple. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I tried Aaron’s cell and I even tried the house phone there. No answer. It’s like they just fell off the face of the Earth three days ago.”

  I haven’t slept in three days.

  “Something’s wrong, you sonofabitch, I can feel it. You’re lying.”

  “I’m lying?” he said. “You knew about this all along and let it go on, let the two of them make a fucking fool of me and pretended all was right with the world. You came into my home, my fucking home, knowing what was happening and acted like everything was fine and you’ve got the balls to call me a liar?”

  “I’ll drive out there and check on them if I have to, don’t think I won’t.”

  “Fuck you, Jasmine. You’re the liar and a phony and a piece of shit.”

  “I’m calling the cops, asshole.”

  “Do whatever you have to do.”

  “Fucking bastard, you’ll burn for this.”

  The television died and the room returned to darkness. Harry stood trembling, the phone pressed to his ear. But there was no longer anyone there.

  He disconnected. Something told him he needed to retrieve the card Officer Guy had given him, and though he wasn’t entirely sure why, he very calmly found the card, got a dial tone, then punched in the number.

  “Donna Guy.”

  “This is Harry Fremont.”

  “Hello Mr. Fremont,” she said through a sigh. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I think there’s been a murder.”


  Something shuffled about in the cellar below.

  “A murder?”

  “Yes, possibly more than one.”

  “Where?”

  “Fourteen Beach Street, Sippican Shores.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I don’t.”

  He dropped the phone, and as if in a trance, walked back into the kitchen. He reached for the door next to the pantry, a nondescript, rarely used, easily overlooked door on which Kelly had hung a calendar featuring baby animals. An adorable puppy stared back at him, the dog posed in a field of daises and brilliantly green grass.

  He reached out, touched it. The little dog looked so real.

  Happiness often did.

  Warm snot dribbled down the back of Harry’s otherwise dry throat. Stifling a cough, he pulled open the door. A dank and musty smell wafted up along the open wooden stairs, lingered a moment and then dissipated. Harry watched the deeper darkness awhile then flicked the switch just inside the door. The fixture above the stairs remained off; a dark smudge along the top of the bulb suggesting it had burned out at some previous point. There was another light on a pull-string mounted to one of the beams in the center of the basement, but there was no way to activate it remotely. In order to illuminate the area he’d have to descend the stairs in total darkness, negotiate his way to the center of the cellar in pitch-black, then locate the hanging string.

  Gripping the bat, he took a step down. The staircase shook a bit beneath his weight. Another step and then another. Harry looked back as if to be certain the open doorway to the kitchen was still there. Satisfied, he took another step closer to the bottom of the stairs but in his mind he saw that door slamming shut behind him, locking and trapping him in the blackness, sealing him in a horrific tomb of cement and dirt and cobwebs from which he could never escape.

  Something moved in the darkness below. Quietly… subtly…a shifting of weight perhaps, the slow slide of a foot, an exhale of breath…

  Harry froze, straining to see. “Who’s there?”

  It’s all the thoughts in your head, the horrible thoughts and possibilities and scenarios that won’t leave you alone, that won’t die no matter how hard you try to kill them…fear…joy… torment…ecstasy…misery…