Too much work.
Sam smiled to himself. That was the problem with growing old: everything seemed to be too much work. It was much easier to think about building a sweat lodge that to actually do it. The pain medicine he took also didn't help, because it made him sleepy. Tired old Indians did not build sweat lodges in their backyards; they built castles in their dreams.
He was about to take another sip of beer, when three young men entered the bar. Sam recognized them as local contractors, but he did not know their names. The three men took seats at the bar, a few stools over from where he sat. No sooner had the three men sat down, then one of them spotted Sam.
"Hey, old man. What are you doing in here? I thought you would be on the side of the road somewhere telling your stories.
Sam took a sip of beer and shook his head. "No one listens to the old stories anymore. They would rather play Nintendo."
The three men laughed. Having place their orders with the bartender, one of the men turned back to Sam. "Maybe you could tell some of your stories to that writer fellow who moved into town. I bet he would listen. Hell, he might even pay you. Or buy you a beer."
Sam set his bottle down. "Why would he listen to an old man like me?"
The contractor grinned. "Because that guy is crazy as his fucking grandmother. That's why. We just had to tear up a perfectly good kitchen floor because he decided to paint a few faces on it."
"Faces?" asked Sam.
The contractor nodded. "That's right. Faces. Real scary ones. The boss says they're the same kind the old woman used to draw. I guess her grandson plans to carry on the family tradition. Not that I care one way or the other, because I'm getting paid by the hour. He can paint faces all over that house for all I care."
"How many faces were on the floor?" Sam asked.
The contractor took a sip of his beer and scratched his head. "Six, I think. Maybe seven."
Same felt a feeling of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. It was starting again. That explained the bad feeling he was having. The feeling was a warning of things to come. "What about the Indian statues? Are they still in the house?"
The contractor nodded. "they threw everything else away, but they kept the statues. I heard that writer likes them. I can't see why, those damn things give me the creeps."
Sam smiled, feeling somewhat relieved. The statues were still in place at Vivian's old house, so maybe things were not so bad after all. Maybe he was just an old man, worrying over nothing. The kachinas were guardians. The would warn their owners if danger was present.
The old Indian's smile faded. The kachinas were guardians, but what if their new owners did not know this? Maybe Vivian had not told her grandson about the magic of the statues. Maybe he and his family did not know about the house they now lived in, or about the property upon which that house stood. No knowing such things would be bad. Very bad indeed.
* * * * *
Megan had gone to bed at eleven, but she was unable to sleep. She kept thinking about her friends and all of the wonderful things she had left behind in New York City. She missed the city terribly. Why on earth did her parents want to move to Missouri of all places, to a house in the country? Her father had money, plenty of money. It wasn't like they had to move. They could have stayed where they were. Instead she had been forced to move into a house she didn't want to live in and attend a school she didn't like.
"It's just not fair," she whispered, a feeling of desperation coming over her. At the very least her parents could have allowed her to stay behind in New York City. She could have attended boarding school, or maybe even moved in with one of her friends. But they would hear of it, refused to even talk about such options. They said she was far too young to live on her own and that family should stay together, even if it meant giving up all the things she loved just so her father would be happy.
I wish Vivian Martin wasn't my dad's grandmother. I wish she had never died and left this stupid house to him. If it wasn't for her we would still be in New York. I hat her; I hate this house.
Frustrated at being unable to sleep, angry that she had been taken away from everything she loved, Megan tossed her covers off and climbed out of bed. The floor squeaked softly beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room. Flipping on the light, she slipped on her robe and opened the door.
The house was quiet; her parents had gone to bed hours ago. She stood outside her bedroom, listening to the soft sound of her father's snoring that came from the next room. Normally the sound didn't bother her, but tonight even the sound of his nocturnal breathing irritated her. How could he sleep so peacefully? Didn't he know that he had ruined her life? Didn't he understand the crime he had committed against her?
Turning, she saw an amber glow coming from beneath the door across the hall. The glow came from the small bulb of Tommy's Daffy Duck nightlight. Megan smiled, despite her angry mood. Tommy was still young enough not to trust the dark entirely. He wasn't scared of it like a lot of kids his age, didn't scream his head off if you turned out all the lights. He hadn't even used the nightlight much the last year in New York. Tommy used one now, however, because the house they lived in was different, strange, and that strangeness could be frightening to an eight-year-old late at night in the dark. He would probably give up the nightlight in another month or so, but for now its pale illumination was comforting.
Megan followed the hallway to the stairs and slowly climbed down to the lower floor. She stepped over the squeaky fifth stair to avoid waking her parents. A little squeaking probably wouldn't disturb their slumber in the least bit, but she didn't want to wake them and then have to explain why she was still up.
Starting down the hallway to the kitchen, she began to realize just how creepy the old house was at night. The darkness seemed to close in around her, shadows stretching forth to grab at her with hungry claws. In that darkness something moved.
"Pinky?" She stopped, her heart beating faster. "Is that you, boy?"
Had the big tomcat finally returned from exploring the surrounding countryside? If so, how had he gotten into the house? Her father always locked the doors at night, and made sure all the windows were fastened tight. There was no way for the cat to hat inside once everything was locked up — at least she didn't think there was.
"Pinky?" she called again, her voice no more than a whisper. She didn't know why, but suddenly she was very afraid to make any noise that would call attention to herself. The darkness surrounding her seemed menacing, as if it hid some terrible secret.
No answer came from the darkness. Had it been the cat, he would have answered with a meow, especially when it was one of the children who called. If it wasn’t' Pinky, then what was it she had seen move?
Megan had started to take a step backward when she saw it again. A dark shape, blacker than the darkness around it, moving rapidly along the baseboard of the wall. Definitely not Pinky.
Alarmed that there might be some kind of animal inside the house, she turned and hurried along the hallway. She entered the library and switched on the lamp, only to find that the light didn't work. Confused, she took a step forward and felt something crunch beneath her feet. Pain flashed through her right foot. Glass. She tried to pull it out, but the piece of glass was slippery with blood. Her blood.
"Ow," she said, trying to balance on her other foot. "Ow. Ow. Ow."
Limping forward, she grabbed the table to steady herself. Once steadied, she gripped the piece of glass with a thumb and index finger and carefully worked it out of her foot. She pulled on the piece slowly, fearful the glass would break if she snatched at it too fast. A few careful tugs later the embedded object was removed.
She had just pulled the piece of glass from her foot when something entered the library. Megan paused, motionless, holding her breath.
Even though the room was cloaked in darkness, she saw a patch of blackness move from the hallway into the library. It was small, no bigger than a medium-sized dog, but there was something about it that filled
her with dread.
The dark shape seemed to change as it entered the library. One second it was long and thin, while the next it was short and stocky. It moved as if it were liquid mercury, flowing into the room, pooling from one patch of darkness to the next. If it was an animal, then it was like none she had ever seen before.
Whatever the mysterious creature might be it had followed her down the hall, and that was reason enough for Megan to be scared. It stopped just inside the door of the library.
It's looking for me. It knows I'm here. Maybe it can't see me in the darkness. Maybe if I stand real still it won't find me.
But she knew most animals could see better in the dark than people. And even if it couldn't see her, it could probably smell her. Either way, standing still was not going to do her any good.
Keeping the unknown creature in sight, she slowly backed across the room. She had almost reached the opposite wall when she bumped against her father's chess table, causing pieces to topple over with a clatter.
Alerted by the noise, the shadow moved in her direction. Megan retreated until her back was flush against the wall. As she bumped against the wall, a strange coldness seemed to envelope her. Startled, she turned to find the source of the chill, and was shocked by what she saw.
She stood in front of the crack that ran the length of the wall, from floor to ceiling. Though it was very dark in the library, she could clearly see the crack, for it appeared much darker than everything else. An eerie cold spilled out of it. With the cold came whispering sounds, as though someone — or something — spoke deep within the wall.
She spun around, searching for the unknown creature she had momentarily forgotten. She couldn't see it, but knew the thing following her was close. Very close. Things in the wall, something in the room with her. She was trapped between the two.
Trapped. The thought terrorized her. If only she could turn on the light and see what was in the room with her. But she couldn't, because the light didn't work.
Why? Why didn't the light work? It had worked earlier in the evening, but now it didn't. Why?
Megan felt the pain shoot up her right leg and knew why the light didn't work. It didn't work because the bulb was broken. Someone had taken it out of the lamp and shattered it on the floor. That's what she had stepped on. Someone had broken the bulb; that's why the light didn't work.
But why?
To keep me from turning on the light.
Someone, or something, had removed the light bulb to keep her in the dark. And now that shadowy something was between her and the only exit from the room, hiding somewhere in the darkness.
She might have stood there all night, her back against the wall, too afraid to move. Instead, she pushed herself away from the wall and ran toward the doorway. Something lunged at her from beneath a coffee table, tried to stop her, but missed.
Reaching the doorway, she turned right and raced down the hall. She took the stairs two at a time, too frightened to slow down or look behind her. As she reached the top of the stairs, a scream escaped her lips.
"Daddy!"
Megan screamed again, even louder. The door to her parents' bedroom opened. The hallway light came on. In that instant the darkness was pushed away, she glanced down and saw something just behind her left ankle. A shadow as black as old motor oil raced to catch her. Only there was no creature from which this shadow sprang. The shadow was the creature, visible but see-through at the same time. Dark as the night, with eyes the color of smoke.
She saw the shadowy creature for only an instant, for the light caused it to vanish as though it had never been there at all. But Megan was positive that what she had seen was real, and she continued her flight until she was safely in her father's arms.
17
The screams shattered the stillness of the night, waking Mike from a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, disoriented, thinking what he had heard might be the nocturnal cry of an animal. An owl perhaps. The bedroom windows were open, so the sound could have come from the forest. But then he heard it again: a sharp piercing cry, the scream of a young woman. Definitely human, and definitely belonging to his daughter.
Throwing back the covers, he jumped up and hurried across the room. It took a few panicked moments of fumbling in the dark before he could locate the light switch. Turning on the light, he opened the door just as Megan came racing into his arms.
"Daddy..."
The girl crashed into him and nearly knocked him over. He staggered back, feeling a twinge of pain shoot up the muscles of his back.
"Megan, what is it? What's wrong?"
Holly appeared at his side, slipping a robe over her nightgown. She looked down and saw her daughter's injured foot. "Oh, my God. What happened? You're bleeding."
Mike looked down and saw the blood on his daughter's foot. Bloody footprints lined the hallway behind her. "Oh, Jesus." He turned to Holly. "Quick, get the first aid kit out of the bathroom."
"I'm okay, Daddy," Megan said, trying to calm her voice. It's only a cut. A small one."
"How did this happen?" Mike asked, trying to control the anger in his voice. His daughter shouldn't be bleeding, there was no reason for it, especially when she was supposed to be safely asleep in her bed. What on earth had she been doing to earn such an injury?
He squatted down to take a look at the wound, hoping it wasn't serious. He also hoped the blood would come out of the newly installed carpeting. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. He shouldn’t be worrying about the carpeting. It wasn't important. What mattered was whether or not his daughter was seriously hurt.
"I stepped on a broken light bulb in the library," Megan explained as Mike turned her around to get a better look at her injured foot. "Someone must have broken the lamp."
It took a moment for what Megan was saying to sink in. "The lamp in the library is broken? How did that happen?"
Megan shook her head. "I don't know. I tried to turn on the lamp, but it wouldn't work. That's when I cut my foot. Someone must have taken the bulb out and dropped it on the floor."
Alarm bells sounded in the back of Mike's head. "Someone took the bulb out of the lamp?" he asked, repeating what his daughter had just said.
She nodded. "Someone must have broken it. I went in there to get away from the thing in the hallway, but the light wouldn't come on."
Again the bells sounded. "Megan, darling, what thing? What are you talking about?"
Holly returned with the first aid kit. Mike helped his daughter hobble across the room, and sat her on the edge of the bed so Holly could take a look at the injured foot. Hurrying into the bathroom, he wet a clean washcloth to wipe away the blood from around the cut. There didn't appear to be any more glass in the wound, but it was hard to tell because the cut was still bleeding.
Folding the washcloth over, he applied pressure against the cut for a minute or two to slow the flow of blood. Once the bleeding stopped, he reexamined Megan's injury. Luckily, the cut was only about an inch long, and not deep enough to require stitches.
"That's not so bad," he said, putting on his best happy face. The cut looked far worse than it actually was, and he was quite sure the sight of so much blood had badly frightened his daughter. "No need to even go to a doctor. We'll patch it up and you should be good as new in the morning."
Relieved the cut was not a serious one, he turned over the rest of the doctoring to Holly. Opening the first aid kit, she removed several gauze squares, a roll of white medical tape, and a bottle of antibiotic spray.
"Now this may sting a bit," Holly said, turning Megan's foot so she could get a better look at the cut.
"Ow," Megan yelped as her mother sprayed the cut several times with the antibiotic spray. She tried not to move, but flinched each time the cut was sprayed.
As Holly bandaged the cut, Mike pulled his jeans on over his pajama pants. He then slipped on his shoes and turned back to his daughter. "Megan, what exactly did you see downstairs?"
Megan looked up and shook her head
. "I don't know. I couldn't sleep so I went downstairs to get a drink. Something followed me down the hallway. At first I thought it was Pinky, but it wasn't him."
"What was it?" Holly asked.
"A shadow," Megan answered, her eyes watering at the memory of what she had seen downstairs.
"You saw a shadow?" Mike asked, suddenly wondering if his daughter had been spooked by her own imagination. "What was it a shadow of?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see what it was, because it was too dark. All I saw was its shadow."
"But, honey, how could you see a shadow in the dark?" Holly asked, putting the final touches on the bandage.
"Because it was darker than the darkness. Real black. Like a night without stars. That's it. What I saw was darker than night. But it was only a shadow." Megan looked from one parent to the other, looking for reassurance that what she said was being believed. "I swear, I'm not making this up. That's what I saw."
"Was it a big shadow, or a little one?" Mike asked.
"Small, like a dog."
Mike let out a sigh of relief. He had been worried someone had broken into the house while they were sleeping. Before going to bed, he made sure all of the downstairs windows were locked and the deadbolts engaged on both the front and back doors. Still, with everything that had been happening lately, he was beginning to believe the house was unsafe. From what Megan had just told him, however, it was probably just a raccoon that had gotten into the house. Or maybe a possum.
Leaving Megan with Holly, he left the room and slipped down the hallway. Flipping on the lights at the top of the stairs, he could see a trail of blood drops leading down to the lower level.
Darker Than Night Page 13
