The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rick had never been a womanizer, but neither had he always been as considerate as he should have, particularly in his early twenties. After a one-night stand, the woman would want to sleep over, and though he’d been okay with that, it was occasionally a chore concealing his impatience for her to leave in the morning.

  So when Lucy left to begin resurrecting her novel, he was surprised, and on a level he didn’t like to think about, disappointed. The prospect of spending the night with her, bodies close, had been a comforting one. Though he was proud of her for reviving her story, the bed felt particularly empty without her.

  He lay there remembering their lovemaking. He considered writing but knew his focus would be scattered. Same with reading.

  He was finally nodding off when a voice said, “Pretty goddamned proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Rick opened his eyes in the darkness.

  “You like to pretend you’ve got these ideals, morals.” A soft chuckle. “Shit. You just wanted to screw her.”

  Terror clutched him with icy fingers, moored him to the bed.

  “Was it worth it?” the voice asked. “I hope to hell it was. Because you know what you’ve sicced on her. Know what’s gonna hunt her down.”

  Rick tried to swallow, couldn’t. He was scared for Lucy, but though he despised himself for it, he was even more frightened of the individual – he dared not call it a man – in the room with him.

  “What do you want?” Rick asked.

  “What kind of a dumbass question’s that?” the police chief asked.

  “You’re not real,” he said, but his voice came out shaky.

  The rustle of clothes, the groan of a floorboard.

  Rick smelled the cop’s perspiration. Gamey, stale, laced with madness. Like an abandoned kennel where a feral dog ate the others to survive.

  Rick stared at the hulking figure in the dark and thought, This is the feral dog.

  “You’ve been entertaining some wicked thoughts, Forrester.”

  No point pretending he didn’t know what Anderson was talking about. “I go where the story goes—”

  “You’ve been thinkin’ about killing me off.”

  Rick’s mouth had gone dry. “Readers want a happy ending.”

  “I don’t give a fat fuck about your excuses, boy. I wanna live.”

  A dozen responses auditioned in Rick’s head, but he uttered none of them.

  “Get your lazy ass outta bed.”

  Rick stood, moved as far away from the cop as he could. He kept his back to Anderson, acutely aware of his own nudity. After sleeping with Lucy, he hadn’t bothered getting dressed. He’d been happy. Hopeful even.

  What a fool he’d been.

  He couldn’t locate his clothes. He screwed up his eyes, peered at the foot of the bed—

  “Jesus H. Christ, son, turn on the fucking lights! You think I want to stand here waiting for you to find your tighty-whities?”

  Rick twisted on the desk lamp. And though he could now see just fine, he wished it were still dark in the bedroom.

  The chief looked bigger – and scarier – than he had before.

  Rick couldn’t study the man for any length of time. But the glimpses he did steal as he scurried around the bed retrieving his clothes revealed a disturbing portrait:

  A frame huge and muscled.

  A head that swiveled wherever Rick went, the reflective sunglasses like the eyes of some mutant insect preparing to feed.

  Dark stains on the beige uniform.

  “Move it, soldier!”

  Rick hopped into his shorts and tried not to overbalance. He couldn’t corral his spinning thoughts. He felt exactly as he had when his stepfather used to bark at him.

  “Downstairs,” the cop ordered.

  Rick started to cast about for his shoes, but the cop said, “Leave ’em.”

  Anderson opened the door. Rick moved through.

  “The black lady thinks you’re everyone’s savior,” Anderson said. They started down the steps. “From where I stand, you’re the most deluded one of all.”

  Rick felt ten years old. Vulnerable in his stockinged feet. Half a foot shorter than Anderson, a hundred pounds lighter.

  Anderson went on. “You knew who I was. But you let Sokolov leave with me anyway.”

  Rick’s chest squeezed tight. They rounded the landing.

  “Look at what’s happened since. Tommy, Evan, Elaine, that luscious bitch Anna. All gone. And what did you do to help them? You lift a finger?” They reached the first floor. “You let ’em go. Saving yourself, Forrester. That’s the only talent you have.”

  They entered the back hallway. Rick glanced over his shoulder, toward the kitchen, where he might arm himself. A knife or a cleaver. A corkscrew, for God’s sakes.

  “You run, boy,” Anderson said, his tone conversational, “and I’ll not only kill you, I’ll chop your girlfriend’s tits off.”

  Rick’s shoulders slumped. If he really had made Anderson – he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the thought – he certainly couldn’t physically vanquish him. In fact, it was a major problem with his manuscript. He hadn’t found a plausible way for the protagonist to defeat Anderson. Sure, someone could get lucky, aim a well-placed bullet at the chief’s heart, but that was cheap. A sloppy, unsatisfying conclusion. But that’s what you got when you tipped the scales too far in the antagonist’s favor. He became insurmountable.

  “Go,” the chief ordered when they reached the basement door.

  “What am I gonna find?”

  “The gateway to Hades. Who gives a shit? Get your stupid ass down there.”

  The sensation of descending to his death was overwhelming. Anderson followed on his heels, so there was no question of attempting to escape.

  Bottom of the steps. The shadows surrounded him.

  “Light,” Anderson said.

  “I could stop writing.”

  A chuckle. “You think you’re the one in charge, boy?”

  “I made you. You can only—”

  “I’m not talkin’ about myself, you jackhole. I’m talking about the big man.”

  He was shoved headlong into the murk. Rick spun, sure Anderson would be disappearing up the stairs.

  A single pallid filament dangled from the ceiling.

  “Light,” Anderson ordered.

  Rick tugged the string. Illumination the color of overripe lemons spilled over them.

  And gazing upon the giant cop, something shifted in Rick.

  “How do you exist?” Rick asked.

  Anderson grinned. “Why you think I brought you down here?”

  “You mean this place—” Rick gestured toward the steel doors, “—has something to do with it?”

  “Stop stalling, Forrester. You and me, we’re closer than you and that Lucy chick. And you had your tongue halfway up her snatch.”

  Controlling his temper, Rick said, “Tell me.”

  The chief pointed. “That one.”

  Rick followed the chief’s finger to a door. “What am I gonna find in there?”

  “Move, Forrester.”

  “If I end my novel—”

  “You’re not gonna end a goddamned thing. Open the fucking door.”

  Rick didn’t see any way around it. He stepped toward the steel door. He sensed Anderson following him, and maybe without the chief blocking the stairs Rick could scurry around him and make it out. Or maybe Anderson would shoot him in the back.

  Rick stopped before the door, breath thinning.

  At his ear, the chief said, “Open it.”

  Rick reached for the knob, the hackles on the back of his neck rising.

  “What is it?” Rick asked.

  “You’ll never be man enough to take it. Might as well get it
over with.”

  Rick twisted the knob, opened the door.

  “Oh my Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his legs buckling.

  He closed his eyes as his knees hit the floor, but the afterimage of what he’d glimpsed remained, as vivid as sight:

  Elaine Kovalchyk fixed diagonally in the wall of dirt, as if she’d been hurled there by a giant. Elaine was nude, but Rick hardly noted this.

  Because though she was obviously dead, the wall around her was alive.

  Encased in moist dirt, Elaine’s corpse hung like an astronaut floating in zero gravity. Purple-brown ridges undulated against her limbs, her torso. Rick noted with horror the livid red marks where the soil probed her skin. He heard noises, the constant pulsing hum and – he clapped his hands over his ears to blot it out – the wet slurping sounds, as if a hundred newborn pigs were suckling a sow’s teats.

  “You’re all just fuel,” Anderson said.

  Rick scarcely heard him above the sucking noises. Jesus, the soil was feeding on her. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes to rid them of the sight. He forced himself to stand. He turned his back on Elaine, stared with bleary eyes into the chief’s sunglasses.

  “You won’t hurt me,” Rick said.

  The chief grinned, seized Rick by the shirt front, hauled him closer so the cop’s rancid breath washed over him, garlic and flyblown pork. “The better question is why the hell would I let you live?” The chief lifted him off his feet, began to walk with him. “Bleeding heart. Believin’ you’re better. You know the real man in this thing? It’s the Clayton kid. At least he’s got the stones to do something.”

  “You’re done,” Rick said into the chief’s face. “I’m not writing another word, and you’re just going to fade away.”

  “You think I need you?” One of the chief’s hands went away, but Rick still hung suspended by a clutching fist. “I’m ready to take on the world.”

  The chief reached up, removed his sunglasses.

  Revealing eye sockets that teemed with maggots and centipedes.

  Gagging, Rick looked away in time to see another door blowing open, the wall of soil rippling restlessly within.

  “They’re hungry,” Anderson said into his ear. “And I refuse to die.”

  Anderson hurled him through the doorway. Rick crashed into the moving wall of soil, jerked away, and dove for the door just as it slammed shut.

  He heard the chief tug the pull string, and what scant light had been filtering under the door went away. In total darkness, Rick pummeled the steel door, scrabbled for the knob.

  But there wasn’t one.

  Rick bellowed for help. Then he heard it.

  Behind him. The sound of someone breathing.

  He turned slowly, stared into the murk.

  The voice that spoke in the darkness was a deep, rumbling growl.

  “Murderer,” it said.

  Part Five

  The Magic King

  Chapter One

  Will had to tell somebody.

  Wells called it a place of magic, and it was. But the magic was of the darkest, most demented sort.

  Moving toward the dining room, Will began to perspire. When he stepped through the doorway, he found Bryan, Sherilyn, and Lucy waiting, orange juice and coffee sitting before them but no food yet. It didn’t matter. Will didn’t think he could swallow a bite. He noted without surprise how brilliantly the overhead chandelier shone, how unscuffed and polished the floor appeared. The crimson-and-gold wallpaper looked like it had been hung yesterday.

  Like new, he thought. The whole mansion looks new.

  He eased down beside Lucy and Sherilyn. Bryan reclined across the table from them, his smirk cranked up to maximum shitheadedness.

  Ignore him. Focus on the others. Lucy will listen. Sherilyn too.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking—”

  “There’s a surprise,” Bryan said.

  Will shot him a look. “Last night I took a walk.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been slacking on your word count,” Sherilyn said.

  “Where’d you go?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ll get to that. But first, I read for a while in the library.”

  “Goody,” Bryan said, sipped his coffee. “A book report.”

  “A collection of Wells’s short works, Darkness and Other Dreams?”

  “I love that one,” Lucy said.

  “Me too,” Will responded. Frowned. “There’s a story that spoke to me.” He shrugged. “I’m sort of a romantic.”

  “There are other words for that,” Bryan said.

  Lucy turned. “I’ve got a few words for you.”

  Will went on. “The tale is called ‘Incident on a Paris Rooftop’, and—”

  “Is that the one – sorry for interrupting,” Lucy said, putting a hand on his arm, “– but is that the one where the guy falls in love with the woman who jumps to her death?”

  Sherilyn arched an eyebrow. “Spoiler alert.”

  “That’s the one,” Will said. “Ever since I came here, it’s been on my mind, and last night, I figured out why.”

  “Women want to kill themselves when you talk to them?” Bryan asked.

  Will regarded him evenly. “The woman is Amanda Wells.”

  There was a silence.

  Sherilyn watched him. “What do you mean, ‘The woman is Amanda Wells’?”

  Sweat dampened his armpits. “I mean what I said.”

  Lucy moved in her chair. “Maybe the character was inspired by Amanda.”

  Sherilyn stared at Will. “When was the story written?”

  “Nineteen sixty-two.”

  “That’s impossible,” Sherilyn said. “Mrs. Wells wasn’t born yet.”

  Lucy sat forward. “It’s a wonderful tale…maybe Wells saw something in Amanda that reminded him of the woman in ‘Incident’ and married her because of it.”

  Will shook his head. “I know you’re trying to help, but that’s not what I mean.”

  “Spell it out for us,” Sherilyn said.

  “You remember Lust and Deceit in Jacmel?”

  “My favorite Corrina Bowen novel,” she said. “What’s your point?”

  “Have you ever thought about the maid in that story?”

  “I’m not in a patient mood,” Sherilyn said.

  He glanced at Lucy, whose eyes were as skeptical as Sherilyn’s.

  He took a steadying breath. “I know how it sounds. Just hear me out.”

  No give from Sherilyn. “I can’t think of any earthly explanation.”

  “Take a step back,” he said. “Really think about Bowen’s novel.”

  “I have.”

  “Think about the maid…how quiet she was. All through the novel, she stayed in the background, never featured in a scene, but always around.”

  “I have no appetite for horseshit.”

  “I’m not getting it either,” Lucy admitted. “Will, are you really saying—”

  “He is,” Sherilyn said. “And I’m getting pissed off.”

  He expected Bryan to join the chorus of disbelief, but he’d turned away.

  “Just consider the possibility,” Will said. “The other night I went to the island.”

  “In the dark?” Lucy asked.

  “I can’t get past the fictional-characters-made-flesh stuff,” Sherilyn said.

  “Think about Lust and Deceit in Jacmel. How was that character described?”

  Miss Lafitte walked in.

  Sherilyn nodded. “Why not ask her?”

  Will blushed.

  Sherilyn kept going. “If you think she’s some sort of phantom—”

  “That’s not what he said,” Bryan muttered.

  “What’s up your butt all of a sudden?” Sherilyn asked hi
m.

  Will watched Miss Lafitte set down a platter domed by a silver lid. She removed the lid, revealing a sizable ham, a carving knife, and a large fork. Miss Lafitte bustled out.

  “Never mind,” Bryan said.

  “Don’t ‘never mind’ me,” Sherilyn said. “You’ve been shitty since the moment we got here, and the first time you agree with anyone, it’s about something outrageous.”

  Lucy was watching Will. “What happened on the island?”

  His nerves drew tighter, the hair of his forearms tingling. “Maybe we should let it go.”

  “Might as well get it off your chest now,” Sherilyn said. “I wanna hear what you found on that island. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs? Pennywise the Clown?”

  Miss Lafitte reentered, a tray of bagels and cream cheese braced on one arm, a colorful platter of sliced fruit on the other. She set about arranging them on the serving table.

  Will said, “A Siren.”

  Sherilyn blinked at him. “Like, a mythological Siren? The character from your book?”

  Lucy was looking more and more uncomfortable. “Let’s just eat.”

  But Sherilyn was not to be put off. “If there was a Siren there, why didn’t she eat you?”

  “She wasn’t formed yet,” he answered. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

  “So by your logic,” Sherilyn said, “there should be an evil king running around the property and a peasant who’s going to overthrow him.”

  “There is,” Bryan said, finally facing them. “There are.”

  Sherilyn grunted laughter. “Hell, half the reason I wrote that was to piss Wells off.”

  “I liked The Magic King,” Lucy said.

  “Oh, I do too. Make no mistake. Whether I win this competition or not, I plan on getting it published.”

  Bryan chuckled. “Never happen.”

  “Oh no? Why not?”

  “Only one of us is leaving here alive.”

  “That a threat?”

  Bryan’s smirk grew nastier. “Have you ever read The Seer, Sherilyn?”

  “Everyone’s read The Seer.”

  “Doesn’t he sound familiar?”

  Sherilyn’s eyebrows went up. “Who? The character?”

  “It’s Wilson,” Bryan said.