A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  Dannelle rose from her chair and gave Ricky one last hard glare. She set a compassionate hand on Melanie’s shoulder and then left the room. Ricky watched her departure and then stared at the open doorway until he felt Melanie’s stare. Ricky looked at her but said nothing. Finally, Melanie spoke.

  “I don’t know, Ricky. I can forgive you for pretty much anything… and I have. But this…” her words tapered off into nothingness.

  With her silence, her disappointment roared in Ricky’s ears. She was miles away from him now, which was a sensation he was not used to. It was clear that he had become content with a nearness that was Melanie’s creation and upkeep… he had done little to maintain it, but its undoing was all on his shoulders.

  “Anyway, my forgiveness isn’t what matters here. Unfortunately, the two people whose forgiveness you need aren’t alive anymore. And now look at you.”

  She lifted her purse from the floor and searched through it until she found her keys. She stood and looked at him with profound sadness.

  “God damn you, Ricky,” she said, and then left.

  Ricky watched her go, saying nothing, as he had promised.

  Sunday

  The itching along his spine was at an all-time high. For the most part he had become accustomed to it, but this bout was extreme enough to wake him from a deep sleep. He jammed his hand beneath his back and wriggled on the bed until the burning began to subside. The full appreciation of what had just occurred didn’t hit him until he started dozing off. Ricky sat up quickly, the movement at once foreign, painful, numb, but glorious.

  “Well, look who finally grew a backbone,” said Mac from within the darkness.

  Ricky rotated his arms. They felt weak, but he kept at it. He gingerly moved to the edge of the bed and let his legs drop over the side. The weight of them felt like it might pull the rest of him along for the ride. A sharp pain lit the top of his ass crack, but he reveled in it.

  “Did you do this? Gave me my spine back?” Ricky asked.

  “May have had something to do with it, but don’t sing praises to my generosity before you look at the gift,” Mac said. He stood and took a few steps in Ricky’s direction and into the light. “There’s going to be a lot of raised eyebrows about this one.”

  Ricky lowered his feet to the floor and started to transfer his body weight to them. He pushed himself upright, precariously balancing on his unstable legs. Another jolt of pain traveled from his ass, up his spine, and into his neck.

  “Hell,” Ricky said. “If they can handle a spine disappearing, they can surely handle it coming back.”

  Mac said nothing, but a shrewd smile spread across his face. Ricky didn’t like it at all. He took a hesitant step forward and pain jolted the base of his spine again. He stumbled, but managed to maintain his balance, and as his weight shifted, he felt a pulling sensation where he kept experiencing the jolts of pain. He reached behind himself and rubbed from the base of his spine and down to the crack of his ass, and he felt what wasn’t right.

  “What the fuck?” Ricky said in disbelief. Mac only smiled.

  Ricky felt the odd appendage, running his hand to the end of it before its shape took meaning. “A tail? You gave me a fucking tail?”

  “And a very sensitive one, at that,” said Mac. “Let’s say it’s there as a reminder. Although your confession the other night was mostly sincere, there was a part of you seeking sympathy.”

  “No… I was…”

  “Are you going to deny it?” Mac asked. His voice was heavy under the weight of his challenge. “That tail is there to remind you of what you were, what you still are, and what you could become again… a cowering, spineless dog.”

  As if in affirmation, Ricky’s thick, fleshy tail whipped around his side and struck the over-bed table. He grimaced as a searing flash of pain shot up his spine.

  “This tail will always be, if you’ll excuse the pun, a pain in your ass… a reminder of how it is to be truly spineless, and of how easily you can go back if you forget. And brother? You don’t want to forget. It’s time to become a new man… a man of honor… a man of your word.”

  Mac watched Ricky take a couple more steps and then try to see his tail behind him.

  “If you’re thinking surgery, it won’t work,” Mac said. “That tail is special. It’s different from most dogs. Its design is unique for you. Besides being jam-packed with nerve endings, your spinal cord runs to the tip and then doubles back… kind of like a hairpin. Any attempt at surgery will cripple you… again. It’s yours for the long run, Briggsy.”

  “Come on, Mac. Is there any way I can… try again?”

  “Let’s not get greedy. You fared a lot better than a few others who were involved. You blew your chance… which reminds me. How’s it going with that pretty woman of yours?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” Ricky said without animosity. “She hasn’t called.”

  “Well, Melanie doesn’t seem the type who can hold a grudge for long. If you ask me, she’s way too good for the likes of you.” Mac looked at Ricky and smiled. “Maybe if you crawl back with your tail between your legs?”

  Ricky said nothing.

  “But maybe not,” Mac said. He backed into the shadows and paused. “Hey, Ricky?”

  “What?”

  “Remember,” Mac said. “I gotcha back.”

  EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

  than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  -- William Shakespeare - Hamlet

  Senator Brandon O’Rourke stopped outside the door to his son’s bedroom and listened to the barely decipherable conversation coming from within. It sounded like a one-sided phone conversation, but Cooper didn’t have a phone, and Brandon had heard his son’s odd, solitary ramblings so many times they had become familiar. There was no denying it: his son was odd and a social outsider in school and at church, but he was a sweet kid and undeserving of the loneliness he suffered. Being small for his age and the son of a pastor certainly didn’t help. Brandon would probably be more surprised if he didn’t have imaginary friends, or whoever it was Cooper had his chats with.

  Brandon nudged the door open and regarded his son’s little pajama-clad form sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly ahead.

  “Hey, Bub,” Brandon said, getting no response, which wasn’t unusual. He has no clue that I’m here, Brandon thought.

  He set a hand on his son’s shoulder. He found it disconcerting that Cooper never started, but seemed only to return to himself as the empty look gradually faded from his eyes.

  “Hi, Dad!” Cooper said brightly.

  “Hi. Chatting with your friends?” Brandon asked, trying to keep it light.

  “Nah, I was just…someplace,” Cooper said.

  “Apparently,” Brandon agreed. “Anyhow, it’s bedtime.”

  As always, Cooper obliged without a fuss and slipped between the sheets. Brandon tucked him in, kissed him on the forehead, and pushed an obstinate wing of the boy’s blond hair out of his face.

  “The light,” Cooper reminded him.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Yeah. I’ve thought about it a long time,” Cooper said earnestly. “I can’t be afraid of the dark forever.”

  “True enough,” Brandon said, hiding a smile while trying to match his son’s gravity. “But sleeping without a nightlight is a big step in a man’s life.”

  Cooper nodded his agreement. His normally light blue eyes looked huge and dark in the dim bedroom.

  “Six years old today. You’re growing up so fast,” Brandon said, shaking his head. He looked at his son, and then widened his eyes in a comical show of surprise. “Wait a minute! What was that?”

  “What?” asked Cooper, a hint of concern in his voice.

  Brandon leaned closer. “You just sprouted a chest hair…right here.” He poked his finger against Cooper’s ribs. “Whoa! Another one here…and here…and here!” he said, prodding pla
yfully.

  Cooper giggled and twisted deeper into the blankets, trying to avoid his father’s barrage of jabs, yet wanting it to continue.

  “My God, you’re practically a sasquatch.”

  “What’s a sashcrotch?” Cooper asked, catching his breath.

  “Bigfoot.”

  “But I don’t have big feet!”

  “Okay, Bub, you win,” Brandon said. He straightened the sheets and kissed Cooper again.

  “Why does mommy always have to go away?” he asked dolefully.

  “It’s her job, Bub. You should be proud of her. There aren’t a lot of female pilots, especially ones who fly the big jets.”

  “I know, but I wish she could have been here for my birthday.”

  “I know what you mean. I miss her, too. But she did call and promise we’d do something extra special when she got back on Saturday. In six days,” Brandon said brightly, but Cooper didn’t look very encouraged. He was such a solemn child.

  “Tony Hammond says mommy has humongous boobs.”

  What to say…what to say…

  “Well, you can tell Tony Hammond it’s because mom’s heart is so big. You’re a lucky young man,” Brandon said, thinking of Sylvia. And so am I.

  “Tony’s mom never has to go away.”

  “I know,” was all Brandon could say. He, as usual, had run out of encouraging words. He reached for the SpongeBob nightlight on the bedside table and paused. “You’re sure?” he asked again.

  Cooper nodded and turned to his side, clutching his pillow. In his recent battle for independence over fear, he had retired his favorite toy—a plush Minion doll—to a seat of honor atop his bookshelf. Brandon spun the light toggle.

  “Goodnight, my man. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Daddy.”

  “Door opened or closed?”

  “Open a bit.”

  Brandon pulled at the doorknob, leaving a five-inch gap.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yeah, sweetie?” Brandon asked, opening the door a little wider.

  “Can you leave the hallway light on?”

  Brandon smiled. “You got it.”

  Brandon walked down the hallway to the top of the stairs, and then looked back toward his son’s bedroom. The house was a late eighteenth-century Victorian with enough gothic aesthetic and dark vertical lines to be intimidating to him, let alone his six-year-old child. It was by no means a mansion, but it was larger than average, pushing five thousand square feet, and probably seemed immense to Cooper, especially when it was just the two of them. Sylvia was a mere five-three, as sweet as honey-dipped sugar cookies, and perpetually soft-spoken, but she presented a sense of stability and security for the two men in her life that was beyond palpable in her absence. Brandon felt a hollowness about the place when she was away, as if the house regarded her temporary absence as more of an abandonment… or maybe it was Brandon who did.

  At first, her flights had been mostly short jaunts, the overnights limited to an infrequent two, maybe three, days every two months, but as she built experience and seniority, it turned into five, ten, and then fifteen days a month. It made for a handsome income, but it also had its negative aspects. Through all his encouragements to Cooper, Brandon kept a noble façade, but he wasn’t without his concerns, too. Foremost was the fear that with all of Sylvia’s travels, her heart might do the same. She must get lonely, too, he figured, but what else could a pastor do other than leave it in God’s hands?

  In the kitchen, he poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, carried it into his office, and set it on his desk beside his laptop. He needed to write sermons for the next two Sundays and update his notes for Wednesday evening’s Bible study. He tried to stay a month ahead, but it was approaching campaign time, a time when he needed to shift the weight of his focus from his piety to his party. A time Cooper would spend more time with a nanny than with his parents, Brandon guiltily amended.

  He had been an ordained minister long before his first stint in government, and he liked to think it was his charitable actions and his contributions to the humanities that had secured his position in both The Senate House and God’s House. In a world where corruption and greed presided over ethics, he prided himself for making it as far as he had without bending under the weight of corporate persuasion or the insistence of party leaders. In politics, it was difficult to maintain a clean image, especially if you were a member of the clergy, because someone, somewhere, for whatever reason, was aiming to take you down. Smile at a pretty supporter, some opportunistic photographer would turn it into something more. Tip a valet, you’re buying votes. So far, no one had been able to soil Brandon O’Rourke, and there was a good reason: he was clean, moral, and honorable—attributes that were becoming rarer in both his professions. Several certificates and awards hung on his office wall for his humanitarian work. Sylvia had insisted he hang them, arguing that he needed to differentiate honor from pride.

  Being a Christian, his leaning was naturally toward the conservative. He was registered as a Republican, although he’d have been happier if there were no party associations. He had a similar attitude with religion. Brandon saw many similarities in the modern ethics of both religion and politics, and as far as he was concerned, both were wrought with corruption. Both expected their associates to adhere exclusively to their philosophies, many with which he didn’t agree, and others that he could appreciate viewing from either side of the fence. And then there was money, which had so much influence in both—in everything, it seemed.

  He pulled out his chair, sat, and sidled back to the desk. He switched on his desk lamp, an antique banker’s lamp that did little to illuminate the room with its dark mahogany walls and volume-laden bookshelves, but which did create a comfortable subdued sphere in which he could work. It also made the reflection of the window behind him visible in his wine glass, which would have gone unnoticed if not for the movement of something outside.

  Brandon turned in his chair and peered into the night, where, beyond the porch railing, soft lighting exposed a fine cobblestone path that led to a driveway of the same construct. He wheeled forward to get a closer look out at his property just in time to catch the shaking of the shrubs to the left of his window.

  Likely a cat or a skunk, he figured, yet he rose and secured the door locks throughout the house to lessen the unease he was feeling. He returned to his office and sat back down, his attention returning to the window’s reflection on his wine glass. Thankfully, nothing moved outside the window. He tapped the touchpad to wake the computer and then typed his password, bringing up the Word file with the sermon on which he was currently working. He read his words and was pleased to fall quickly back into the rhythm of his teaching, adding a few paragraphs he hoped were eloquent enough to inspire, and that held truths profound enough to spark epiphanies.

  A little more than an hour later, feeling content with his work, he took the final swallow from the wine glass. Recalling the earlier movement, he casually glanced through the window. What he saw there was inexplicable, yet ignited a surge of fear so intense he could only sit and stare at first.

  A thick, yellowish substance coated most of the double-paned window. It appeared gelatinous and wet and the word that first came to Brandon’s mind was snot. Its edges quivered and appeared to fold into the central thickness of the matter, undulating with slurping sounds as it slowly moved upward on the window. As a whole, its movements were hypnotic. Standing slowly, Brandon moved a little closer and watched as wet pustules erupted where the gummy mass touched the glass, forming into gaping cavities that quivered and suctioned onto the surface as it climbed, causing the window to creak with stress. Moist popping noises accompanied the release of each orifice like the snap of quick kisses, moving with a liquid flux to wherever it was heading.

  Brandon leaned forward, peering into the curious depths of one of the grotesque maws when what looked like a black, metallic honeycomb emerged from the crater and pressed against the glass. About three inch
es in diameter, he had never witnessed anything even remotely like it before. He swore it was an eye of some sort, and felt it looking at him. Panic and revulsion drove an all-encompassing shudder throughout his body as he acknowledged the truth that the horrific object on his window was alive. That it was looking at him spoke of some type of intelligence, which made it all the more ghastly.

  There was a depth to its honeycomb eye that was oddly seductive and he felt as if it were trying to draw him in. He backed away slowly, trying to make sense of it. No creature that he knew of was even remotely similar, except maybe a jellyfish, but those didn’t bubble and boil—or survive out of salt water.

  How big is this one? It hadn’t covered the window entirely, but was that just a fraction or an iota of the whole…thing? Host?

  Are there more? he wondered.

  Had the human race finally become so corrupt that God had opened the gates of hell, releasing these hideous obscenities?

  Is Cooper safe? The thought came out of the blue and rattled him deeply.

  “Sweet Lord, I beg of you, keep Cooper safe,” he said aloud, but a voice inside of him replied, that’s your job.

  Brandon forced himself to look away from the revolting mass, rushed into the kitchen, and was relieved to see nothing obstructing those windows. He chanced a look outside to confirm that the yard wasn’t swarming with the things or that hordes weren’t falling from the inky, moonless skies.

  What he could use for a weapon? Could it be stabbed or sliced, or would it simply ooze around the blade, unharmed? Considering the amorphous consistency of the creature, it seemed knives would be useless. And even if he didn’t disagree with his conservative colleagues on the right to bear arms, he imagined a bullet would simply be absorbed into the gluey mass of the creature.

  He continued staring out the window and calmed himself. For his entire life he had believed in the supernatural qualities of a Christian God, and for that matter, Satan, but never had he considered anything beyond that. The irony was that despite his beliefs, he’d never witnessed anything miraculous or even slightly extraordinary of a supernatural bent. He’d heard plenty claim such things, but he’d sincerely thought most of them were whacks, quacks, or opportunists. If someone were to have relayed what Brandon had just witnessed, he’d have labelled them as well.