The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  Rick’s mind raced. Was it possible Wells was telling the truth? Could the seeds of the character have been planted without his knowing it?

  It didn’t seem likely. “Mr. Wells, there are too many similarities…I don’t see how—”

  “I do,” Wells said and reached inside his robe.

  Wells was gripping a sheaf of pages.

  Rick eyed them. “That what I think it is?”

  “Garden of Snakes.”

  Rick’s jaws tightened. “How did you get them?”

  “While you were out, my wife made copies of your new manuscripts.”

  “How.…” Rick started. “That’s a violation.”

  “Of what?” Wells said, laughing. “Your privacy? You agreed to put yourselves in my hands.”

  Rick reached for the pages.

  Wells snatched them away. “Don’t, Mr. Forrester, or you’ll be the next to go.”

  Rick dropped his hand, but a new thought arose. “If your wife made copies…you already read Marek’s sample.”

  Wells didn’t reply, but his self-satisfied smile was answer enough.

  “If you didn’t like it,” Rick asked, “why have him read in front of us?”

  Wells spread his hands as if it were self-evident. “To demonstrate there are consequences for bad writing.” Wells stepped closer, his head bumping the low-hanging bulb, so that it began to swing, the light swimming up and down the cinderblock walls. “Think of how much better the world would be if every inept writer were muzzled.”

  Rick was sweating, the swirling yellow light making him dizzy. “You could have just said, ‘Here’s where you’re going wrong, here’s how you make it better.’”

  “Don’t you see? You’re softening the blow for him.”

  The room performed a slow sideways roll. Rick extended his arms to steady himself.

  “Would you like to lie down, Mr. Forrester?”

  The bulb continued to pendulum.

  He’s hypnotizing you.

  Ridiculous.

  Fight it!

  Rick brought a hand to his brow, massaged it, as if he could manually stimulate his sluggish brain.

  “Anderson,” Rick muttered. “In my book he’s a killer.”

  “He does have a penchant for bloodshed. What’s your point?”

  “I want to see Marek.”

  “Marek is gone.”

  “Did Anderson hurt him?”

  Wells’s muddy eyes widened. “Do you realize what you’re saying, Mr. Forrester? The preposterousness of it?”

  The bulb continued to swing. One moment Wells was bright yellow and glitter-eyed, the next he was a shadow.

  “It’s worse than I thought,” Wells whispered.

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “I knew you had issues with reality, but I never guessed they were this severe. You truly believe you’re living in a fairy tale.”

  In the strobing light, Wells seemed to be growing. Rick took a backward step. “I don’t feel so good.…”

  The tarry eyes gleamed. “You’re reverting, Mr. Forrester, becoming infantile. I expected much of you, yet you’re afraid…”

  Rick couldn’t feel his legs.

  “…like a child huddled beneath the covers, quailing at monsters.”

  Rick took another backward step, cast a glance behind him. He needed to lean against a wall to keep from falling, but the walls were nowhere in sight, as if the basement were expanding. The smell of dirt filled his nostrils. A dull, distant roaring battered his ears. Wells was encroaching, but Rick had nowhere to retreat to.

  “Please,” Rick murmured, staggering.

  “Good night, child,” Wells said.

  The concrete rushed to meet him.

  Chapter Two

  The atmosphere in Lucy’s room was smothering. The unused laptop stared back at her in reproach.

  “To hell with it,” she muttered. She stalked to the door, opened it, and gasped at the faces staring back at her.

  Will and Sherilyn.

  “We didn’t mean to startle you,” Sherilyn said.

  Lucy clutched her pounding chest. “Did you time that for maximum terror?”

  Will ventured a smile. “Sherilyn thinks we’ve all gotten off on the wrong foot. She thinks—”

  “—our energy is bad,” Sherilyn finished. “Come upstairs with us.”

  Lucy followed them to the third floor, where they entered a massive room that reminded her of a church. The floor was rough-hewn stone, the walls comprised of the same. There were a dozen pews flanking a broad central aisle. On the far side, perhaps forty feet distant, was a raised area, not unlike a stage. Beyond that, the outer wall was composed almost entirely of stained glass.

  “What the hell is this place?” Lucy asked.

  Sherilyn looked at her. “A chapel.”

  “Why would Wells have a chapel?”

  Sherilyn’s tone was thoughtful. “His books do have a metaphysical vibe.”

  “An indignant one,” Lucy said. “Characters denouncing God, attacking organized religion.…”

  “Martin’s Oath,” Will said, and they both looked at him.

  He shrugged as if it were obvious. “The scene where Martin desecrates the cathedral? Tell me you guys remember that.”

  “Sorry,” Lucy said.

  “How can you not remember that? The shouting and the knocking things over and the—” he gestured, “—the urinating.…”

  “Glad I never read it,” Sherilyn said and made her way down the center aisle.

  “You’re religious?” Lucy asked after her.

  Sherilyn eased down onto her side. “Let’s eat.”

  As Lucy neared the front of the chapel, she discovered the two had laid out a picnic. Atop several cloth napkins she found crackers, a cheese wheel, a foot-long cylinder of salami, and several bottles of water.

  Will sat opposite Sherilyn, gestured to the food. “We raided the pantry. Go crazy.”

  Lucy realized she’d skipped supper. Her mouth flooded with saliva. “I didn’t think about it until now, but.…”

  “You’re ravenous,” Will finished. “We were too. I get hungry when I travel anyway – something about it drains me, you know? – and add to it that fucking driver—”

  Sherilyn gave him a look.

  “Sorry. That prick of a driver—”

  Lucy laughed.

  “—when you put it all together…I guess I was too stressed to eat.”

  Lucy sawed a hunk of cheese from the wheel, inclined her head. The vaulted ceiling was populated by multiple painted images, but the sconces’ illumination didn’t reach far enough to reveal what they portrayed. Screwing up her eyes, Lucy made out what might have been a capering demon chasing a small child through the forest. Or maybe it was an amorphous blotch and she was just wound up too tight.

  “You asked me if I was religious,” Sherilyn said.

  Lucy stopped mid-chew. “I retract the question.”

  “Good,” Will said. “Nothing makes me less comfortable than God talk. Well, that and cancer.”

  Sherilyn squinted at him. “You won’t talk about cancer?”

  “What can I say? It freaks me out.”

  “Did someone you know die of it?” Lucy asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because it scares me, okay? You’re fine one day, going along with your life, and then you find a lump. You tell yourself it’s no big deal, but deep down alarms are going off and this creepy organ music is playing in your head, because you know – I mean deep down in your gut – you know that if it’s malignant, you might be well and truly fucked.”

  “Could we abstain from the f-word while we’re in here?” Sherilyn asked.

  Lucy glanced at her. “Wh
y are we in here?”

  “Communion,” Sherilyn said.

  “You mean, ‘This is my blood,’ and, ‘Do this in remembrance of me’?”

  “Communion with other people. The three of us are forming a positive bond. Not one of Wells’s twisted dynamics.”

  Will grunted. “Like making sure I arrived last?”

  “That was unkind,” Lucy said.

  “It was,” Sherilyn agreed. “And having you enter with Tommy and Bryan. What ‘dynamic’ was he trying to create there?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it.”

  Lucy took in the woman’s intensity. “Evidently you have a theory.”

  “I do.”

  “I’d like to hear it,” Will said, standing and stretching. The bottom of his belly showed below his gray Cubs shirt, his paunch hairy and white.

  Sherilyn went on. “Grouping you with two dudes – two attractive dudes – spawned a rivalry between them. It also—” Sherilyn broke off, gazed up at Will. “You mind not looming over me like that? I feel like I’m about to be paddled by the principal.”

  “Sorry,” Will said and sat down.

  She turned to Lucy. “Wells made you an object.”

  “I hardly qualify as an object.”

  “Did the guys compete for your attention?”

  Lucy made a face. “I wouldn’t say they competed. They…you know.…”

  “Got into a fight?” Will supplied.

  “Of course they competed,” Sherilyn said. “You’re young and pretty—”

  “Debatable.”

  “—and they went all Alpha male on each other, and Bryan showed what an utter twat he is, and Tommy tried to get in your pants.”

  Lucy took a bite of salami, chewed. “Sounds like you were there with us.”

  “I didn’t have to be, dear. I know men.”

  “Now hold on,” Will said. “If you want us to commune, stereotyping is a lousy way to do it.”

  Sherilyn raised her eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”

  “About Bryan and Tommy?” Will asked. “Probably not. About all men.…”

  Lucy sipped her water. “What does being together accomplish? We’re still fighting for the same thing.”

  Will’s face clouded. “You don’t think Wells is really like that, do you? He’s just setting a tone.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Sherilyn said.

  “I have to believe it. Did you feel the tension in there? It was worse than the company I work for.”

  Lucy carved off a chunk of salami. “So this is like a support group?”

  Sherilyn got to her feet. “Stop being so cynical.” She moved toward the stained-glass windows. “We all know what’s at stake. Anyone who claims three million dollars isn’t a serious incentive is lying.”

  Lucy chewed. “Why didn’t you invite Rick?”

  “We tried,” Will said. “He wasn’t in his room.”

  “Sturdy guy like him, he’s out in the forest chopping wood or something,” Sherilyn said.

  Lucy laughed but couldn’t help imagining him with an axe. Shirtless.

  Sherilyn turned to face them. “There’s something none of us have mentioned. Someone.”

  “Marek,” Lucy said.

  Sherilyn gave a curt nod. “Marek.” She leaned on a lectern, which featured numerous unfamiliar runes. “Marek was exiled before our eyes, and none of us lifted a finger to save him.”

  “He broke the rules,” Will said.

  “Then why not just tell him to leave?” Sherilyn challenged. “Why put him through the charade of reading his work and having Wells trash it in front of the group?”

  “Power,” Lucy said. When they both looked at her, she said, “That’s what it comes down to, right? Power? Control?” She glanced at Will. “I’m sorry, but the Wells we’ve seen isn’t a show. This is how he really is.”

  “Agreed,” Sherilyn said.

  “The way he dealt with Marek proves it,” Lucy went on. “He not only wanted Marek humiliated, he wanted the rest of us to witness it.”

  Will gestured vaguely. “If Marek broke the rules.…”

  “He didn’t deserve that,” Sherilyn said. “He didn’t deserve to be bullied by that mountain of a cop.”

  Lucy remembered what Rick had said about the policeman and fled from the thought.

  Will was frowning at his knees. “I suppose you’re right. It was out of bounds, heartless, all that. But if I think too much about it, I get neurotic.”

  “You’re already neurotic,” Sherilyn pointed out.

  “No, really,” Will said. “And seeing how Marek was dispatched—”

  “Could we use a different word?” Lucy said.

  “—shown the door, I can’t help thinking that’s going to be me soon.”

  “Maybe it is,” Sherilyn said.

  Will glared at her. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Maybe it’ll be you,” she said to Lucy. “Or me.”

  Will’s expression was strained. “Your point?”

  Sherilyn smiled. “What I’m proposing is simple. The three of us – and anybody else who chooses to join our little cabal – make a pledge to retain our humanity, in spite of the incentives to do otherwise.”

  Lucy got to her feet, stretched. “But it’s so much more fun to destroy each other.”

  Sherilyn’s face went grave. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of that, dear. Rest assured.”

  “Especially with Bryan around,” Will muttered.

  Lucy said, “I think it’s worse than you realize.”

  Sherilyn frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling,” Lucy said, moving over to gaze at the stained glass. “When he gets angry—”

  “Which is often,” Will said.

  “—I feel this…psychic chill. Like he wants to maim people.”

  “I know what you mean,” Sherilyn said. “When Wells contradicted him, his expression was scary.”

  “He’s all bluster,” Will said. “There’re tons of guys like him in my office. They have to establish their dominance over you, show you what badasses they are. It’s why I stopped going to the gym. All that posturing.”

  Sherilyn gave him a look.

  He shrugged. “Okay, that and the fact that I hate working out.”

  Lucy started to laugh but stopped when she saw the look on Sherilyn’s face. “What is it?”

  Will followed Sherilyn’s gaze to the stained-glass window. “What’s that man doing?”

  But there was no need to explain. It was perfectly clear to Lucy, and judging from their silence, it was clear to the others as well. The figure depicted in the stained glass appeared to be a medieval knight bedecked in full battle regalia: red-plated armor, a cruciform sword forged of antique gold, silver helmet with the visor open.

  Lucy wished the visor had been left shut.

  Because the face resembled a younger Roderick Wells, Wells as he must have looked in his forties, a bit careworn, yet stunningly attractive. His rugged features were a mask of determination as he wielded his sword in the company of numerous serpents and human onlookers.

  “Jesus Christ,” Will breathed.

  The serpents were baring their fangs, but rather than fending them off with his sword, the medieval Wells was exhorting them to attack the onlookers, who were garbed in peasants’ clothes.

  Clothes soaked in blood.

  The vipers teemed over the shrieking stained-glass figures, their fangs either buried in the rent flesh of their victims or moments from killing them. A nightmarish inversion of the St. Patrick legend, the knightly Wells showed his teeth and brandished his sword at a helpless young woman, who could only wail as mad-eyed snakes swarmed over her.

  “Now why,” Sherilyn said, “do you
suppose Wells would commission an image like that?”

  Will ventured a smile. “Maybe he posed for it.”

  Sherilyn looked at him flatly. “Now there’s a cheerful thought.”

  Chapter Three

  At the first milky light of dawn, Rick shivered and thought, I’m dying.

  Then, Wells knows. Somehow, impossibly, he knows the truth about me.

  His teeth chattered, his bed soaked with icy perspiration. He scarcely remembered how he crawled out of that godforsaken dungeon, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered were the shadows he spied in the basement. What mattered was what happened when he was twelve.

  The undertow sucked him lower, plunged him into the maelstrom of nightmarish memories:

  His stepfather, Phil, getting worse, and Rick taking the brunt of it. His mom mistreated too, Rick blanching at Phil’s cutting words, his relentless bitching.

  Linda, why don’t you make yourself more attractive?

  Despite Phil’s sloppy untucked shirt and tousled hair.

  Linda, stop letting the bugs in. Shut the door, for God’s sakes!

  When Phil went out twice as often and never closed the door behind him.

  To Rick: You’re not going to play video games all summer.

  Rick at twelve, already mowing lawns, doing the dishes, lugging out the trash, a slew of other menial tasks. Indentured servitude and he hardly ever complained.

  You don’t finish what you start! Phil would roar. When Phil would start a dozen tasks and leave them unfinished. Tools all over the house. Electric drill on the kitchen floor. Hammer and nails on the dining room table. The garage a riot of sawhorses and neglect.

  Phil getting worse:

  Linda, haven’t you heard about the break-ins? Who’s going to pay for our things if they get stolen?

  Rick’s mom meekly suggesting they get their valuables insured.

  So violent was Phil’s reaction you’d have thought she’d piled their money in the yard and made a bonfire out of it.

  One night, Rick awakens to voices.

  What do you mean you forgot? Jesus Christ, we have three fucking doors. Three! And you forgot to lock one? And what about Rick? I told him to double-check.

  It’s my fault, Phil. I’ll have everything replaced.

  Rick comes out of his room not the slightest bit drowsy. Terror does that to you.