A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  (Trigger)

  Light spears into the darkness. Blinded, we recoil as the scarred arm reaches in, grabs onto Paul’s hair, and drags him toward the light. There is something different this time. Paul fights. He is savage. He kicks and latches onto the arm with his teeth. A man roars in pain. Paul is torn from the space and thrown against a wall. He screams in protest as two sets of feet slam and scrape up the stairway above our heads.

  The hatch is still open, forgotten in the struggle. I grab Kenny’s arm and drag him out the opening, away from the stairway and toward a door on the far side of the basement. The door opens easily and we push our way up through the bulkhead, which slams a loud betrayal that echoes across the yard and garners another scream of rage from within the house.

  In our panic, I dash for the woods. Kenny dives for the crawlspace under the porch, but the fat shadow-giant bursts onto the porch and sees Kenny’s wriggling legs.

  I hide behind a large oak, the same oak I would hide behind twenty-five years later. The fat shadow-giant lunges toward the shed and I retreat farther from the house, stopping behind another large oak. The fat shadow-giant returns carrying a long spade.

  Kenny’s pale face peers from beneath the porch and then retreats into darkness as the fat shadow-giant kneels and stabs the shovel into the blackness beneath. I avert my eyes as Kenny’s anguished shrieks cut the night, and I cower in the darkness when, minutes later, the fat shadow-giant walks past me toward the wetlands, Kenny’s lifeless body draped over his shoulder. When he returns and enters the house, I run as fast as I can, away from there.

  I am numbed by the memories, so anesthetized that I don’t hear Tom approach from behind until the lights come to life and I feel cold metal behind my ear.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Sparky?” Tom asks, confused and guarded.

  I look at Tom, the fat shadow-giant, the monster in my nightmares, and all I can say is “My name is Raymond.” I feel weak, helpless, and totally defeated.

  Tom lifts his right hand and shines a flashlight in my eyes. “Was that you following me tonight? What are you up to, Sparky?” he asks.

  “You killed him,” I say. “You…”

  A light fills his eyes—recognition. “Son of a bitch, that was you?” he says, sounding almost reverential, but there is no sign of fear or remorse, and I knew there wasn’t just Kenny.

  “You killed Glen and Paul, too.”

  “Oh, they had names? I don’t name my toys. Never did, never will,” he says, and it occurs to me that there were more, possibly many. I glance toward the house. “Two more in there,” he says. “Want to play, too?”

  The rage in me builds and I yell, “We were just kids, you sick fuck!”

  A sharp pain lights up my jaw as he whacks me with the flashlight and then puts the barrel of a handgun against my ribs.

  “Oh, you never complained,” he says. “Give me your car keys.”

  It dawns on me that I won’t be leaving here alive. My legs loosen beneath me, blackness fills my head, and I struggle against passing out. I tell him they’re still in the car. The fat shadow-giant looks at me, a blend of anger and humor fighting in his expression. He chuckles.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he says. He pushes at my back trying to steer me toward the water. I resist and he shoots me in the hamstring. The pain is brutal, fiery glass shards that override all thought and bring me fully to the present. I fall to the ground grasping at the wound.

  “The next one hits your kneecap. I don’t want to carry you, but I will if I have to. Now get up and move. Let’s be reasonable.”

  I struggle to my feet and he directs me. I hop about two hundred feet into the woods that skirt the wetlands. When we stop, my leg is throbbing and blood-soaked. He aims his flashlight at a large pile of rocks and I’m sure he’s going to tell me this is where he buried his victims, but it is worse. He redirects the light to a pool of blackness in the rocks and the light disappears into its depths.

  “Pit cave,” he tells me straightforwardly. “Natural shaft. It goes straight down, but I don’t know how deep. Never heard a body hit bottom.”

  Sweat pours from my face, my body is shaking, and I feel myself fading, waning into shock. I reach to a tree for support and close my eyes, fighting to remain conscious.

  “You’re next. Going where you should have all those years ago. Kind of ironic, really, like it’s karma or something,” he says.

  He remains oddly silent for a while. When I open my eyes the fat shadow-giant is staring transfixed at the shaft.

  The grayish form of a boy in tattered rags climbs from the mouth of the pit cave. Another follows, and then another, until at least a dozen boys surround the fat shadow-giant. I recognize the ashen faces of Kenny, Paul, and Glen among them, their eyes all locked on their tormentor, their murderer. They step toward him, their circle tightening, and then, as if choreographed, every head turns my way and every eye meets mine. My head is suddenly alive with their voices, and in unison, they give a single nod and say a single word. One command and I obey.

  As the fat shadow-giant lifts his gun toward one of the children, I push from the tree with everything I’ve got left, driving my shoulder into his huge belly. Pain explodes from my leg as I tumble to the ground, and as I let go of my final strand of consciousness, I hear his descent.

  I hold the door for Henry and Erica as we enter the restaurant. It’s been three weeks since that night at Tom Bossey’s house. My leg is mostly healed, although I still limp. The stream of questions has seemed endless since I phoned 911 at three that morning when I came to, lying a few feet from the pit cave. Some people don’t believe me, but most do. Certain parts I left out, as you can imagine, but the numbers add up, from my age when I appeared on Broadway in Salem, to the testimony of the two boys they rescued from Tom Bossey’s basement.

  There were teary reunions. For two families at least, I am a hero.

  Today we are celebrating Henry Kinney’s retirement and my advancement to president of Kinney Electric. Steve, Becky, Emily, and Cassandra are here, too.

  Some things are the same. I still pop a Paxil a day and I’m back to seeing my shrink on Thursday evenings, but there has been a lot of closure. There are still a lot of triggers.

  As we all take our seats, I smile at Emily. She leans to me and says, “I love you.”

  It’s been easier to accept this.

  I realize I am worth it…most of the time.

  AFTERWORD

  by Izzy Lee

  Everyone okay after reading that last story? No? Yes? Welcome to 2020.

  I’ve known John M. McIlveen (known as “Mac” within our circle) for a few years, and I can’t recall a time when I haven't seen him smiling or at least generally cheerful. Although... there was that one time when we were talking about book covers and I pulled out my phone to show him some pretty terribly illustrated covers which had flabbergasted me, and the look he threw me was are you fucking kidding me?? That was the correct reaction, I promise you.

  Anyway, because of that one moment, that flickering of movement behind the happiness curtain, I can see where these stories come from. And no, he’s not a lunatic, but a full-fledged human being (as well as a father and husband) who happens to have another side to him. After all, there is no light without darkness, no lotus without at least a little bit of mud.

  Let’s be honest, people; we all think about getting revenge on someone who’s wronged us (or worse) from time to time. For those of you who don’t ingest horror on a regular basis (and no, I’m not talking about the last four years of living in the U.S.), create it, or hang out with people who do --- I can tell you that horror people are the best people. We’re the kindest, most empathetic people on the planet.

  Why? There are theories. One is that we’ve been through a lot/insert trauma here, and that we tend to treat others kinder, because we can only guess that they, also being human beings, have likely been through a lot as well.

  Then there’s the cath
arsis horror offers, the psychological bootcamp we put ourselves through to get a sense of relief from this world. A heightened reality can offer a strange sense of relief from the everyday boredom, stress, and conundrums that this uber fast-paced reality has beset upon us. Those offering an escape consisting of heightened reality can sometimes make a lot of money if they possess talent and a good amount of luck.

  Another theory is that creating horror is our therapy, that we get our demons out by expressing them, because we either cannot or will not suppress ourselves. Those that do tend to have issues. All you have to do is look at those that are repressed in any sense. Those unfortunate individuals tend to become villains despite their best intentions, whether they know it or not --- everyone is a hero in their own story.

  Mac’s stories have an assortment of villains (or heroes, depending how they’d look at it) who may or may not escape comeuppance --- but if they don’t, it just may be that we don’t get to read that part of their own personal story. Things could (and should) end badly for them. But mostly, the evil ones doing harm to others usually get what they deserve.

  Here’s the thing --- horror writers and creators see injustice in the world and how so many times that injustice goes unpunished --- and we right that wrong the only way we know how. Otherwise, we may end up in jail alongside those perpetrators due to vigilantism. Likewise for our readers and audiences, consuming horror is a safe way to explore otherwise uncomfortable themes and situations.

  If you’ve never attempted to explore the deepest, darkest depths of horror yourself, I hope you find yourself inspired by reading Mac’s stories, which are some very fine examples of the genre indeed.

  Izzy Lee

  Boston

  September 2020