Darker Than Night

by Goingback, Owl

  "Mike. Mike. Come in here, quick!" She heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Her husband entered the kitchen.

  "What is it? What's wrong?" He froze, seeing the faces scattered across the kitchen. "Dear God. There's twice as many as before."

  Holly turned and pushed past him, fleeing into the library. But the faces weren't just confined to the kitchen. Not anymore. They were in the hallway, library, living room, and in Mike's office. Dozens of them, on the walls, ceilings and floors — even on the carpeting — staring out from their world, seeking entrance into a world they wished to claim as their own.

  "They're trying to come through," Holly said, fear choking her voice to little more than a whisper.

  "Well, they're not through yet," Mike replied, looking around him. "And they aren't going to get through either, not as long as we keep the lights on."

  He turned to Holly. "See if you can find some more candles, anything that will cast extra light. I'm going to go upstairs and turn on all the lights up there. Have the children stay in the living room. The lighting is good in there: they should be safe."

  * * * * *

  The house was lit as brightly as they could make it, but it did little to dispel the fear clenching Mike's heart in an icy grasp. Holly had found an extra case of candles; lighting them, she had positioned the candles throughout the rooms on the first floor of the house, with most of them forming a large circle in the living room. In the middle of that circle of tiny glowing flames the family now gathered, huddle together on the larger of the two sofas. They waited for night to fall fully upon their home, hoping they would survive it.

  As the hours slowly passed, Mike and Holly both became aware of a feeling of being watched. There was also an uncanny calm that fell over the room, every bit as electric as the calm before an August thunderstorm. Taking his shotgun with him, Mike stood up and slowly crossed the living room. Stepping outside of the circle of candles, he paused to offer his wife and children a smile of reassurance. None of them returned his smile, their eyes bright and shiny with fear and nervous anticipation.

  Leaving the living room, he stepped into the hallway and stopped. He stood listening for sounds that might alert him that danger was present, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary. Other than the quiet hum of the refrigerator's motor, there was only silence. He had just stepped into the kitchen when the lights went out.

  "Mike!" Holly screamed from the living room. "What happened to the lights?"

  "We must have blown a fuse," he yelled back, knowing in his heart that what he said was not true. The fuses were all new; he had replaced them when they first moved in. "The fuse box is in the basement; I'll go down and take a look."

  Setting his shotgun on the kitchen table, he picked up one of the candles and started toward the basement door. He had only taken a few steps, however, when he became aware of movement around him.

  Turning, he watched in horror as the faces on the floor, ceiling, and walls began to move. With blinking eyes, and mouths screaming silent cries, they glided across the tile floor and up the walls, circling him like sharks. The floor seemed to rise up with their passing; the walls bowed toward him.

  They're trying to push through. The candlelight isn't bright enough to keep them out.

  He grabbed the shotgun and ran back into the hallway. Holly had left the living room and now stood just outside the library door, pointing into the room. The walls in the library were also bowing inward, as though invisible hands were pushing against them from the other side.

  A sharp popping sound echoed through the room as the cracks lining the opposite wall lengthened and grew wider. From the cracks blew an icy wind that stirred the flames of the candles on the tables, threatening to blow them out. If those candles blew out, the room would be cast into total darkness, and the boogers would enter by the hundreds.

  A child's scream rent the night. Mike and Holly raced back into the living room. Megan and Tommy stood on the sofa in the middle of the room, staring in wide-eyed terror at what was going on around them. As in the library and kitchen, the walls in the living room were rippling and bowing inward. Demonic faces appeared in the white walls, staring at the children, mocking their heads. Plaster rained down like tiny hailstones as the cracks spread from one corner of the ceiling to the other.

  Mike watched as a shadowy shape wriggled free from one of the cracks. It fell to the floor and quickly slithered beneath the hutch. A second shadow appeared in the same crack. Frustrated, not knowing what else to do, he raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired at the shadow. The wall exploded but the shadow was still there. It too fell to the floor and scurried beneath the hutch.

  Holly yelled, "Damnit, Mike. Don't shoot. You might hit one of the children."

  "I'm not aiming in their direction," Mike yelled back, angry that the shotgun had had no effect on the shadows.

  Suddenly there was a loud crash from the front of the house, and the sound of something large coming down the hallway. Mike spun around and chambered another round into the shotgun. He brought the weapon to his shoulder just as a large shadow fell across the threshold into the room. He started to squeeze the trigger, but paused when he realized there was something familiar about the shape of the approaching shadow.

  Sheriff Jody Douglas stepped into the doorway, freezing when he spotted the shotgun in Mike's hand. "I heard a gunshot. What the hell is going on in here?"

  Mike quickly lowered the shotgun. "There's no time to explain. We have to get out of here. The station received a call from Sam Tochi about an hour ago; he said I needed to get out here ASAP. Now, what the hell is going on?"

  "They're coming through," Mike said, pointing at the far wall.

  "Who's coming through?" Sheriff Douglas asked, mesmerized by the images floating across the walls and ceiling.

  "The boogers," Mike said, nearly screaming. "They're coming through from the other side. You wouldn’t believe my grandmother, but maybe you'll believe your own eyes. Look for yourself, but do it quickly because we're leaving."

  Mike grabbed the children and herded them across the room. He was almost to the door when Holly stopped him.

  "Mike, it's dark outside," she said. "We'll never make it to his car."

  Mike stopped and pointed at Jody Douglas. "If he can get into the house, then we can get out. Let's go."

  Holly didn't move. "They stopped us from leaving before."

  "So what do you suggest we do? Stay here forever?"

  She turned and pointed at the empty shelf on the far wall. "What about the kachinas? Sam Tochi was right. He said the statues kept the boogers from coming through the opening. We have to put them back. If we don't millions of those things might come into this world. They'll destroy everything.

  "Please, Mike. It might be our only chance to safely get away. Think of the children."

  Mike stopped, his shoulders slumping. "All right, I'll get the fucking statues." He handed Holly the shotgun. "I can't carry the boxes and this too."

  "I'll give you a hand," Jody Douglas said. He tore his gaze away from the animated faces on the opposite wall and looked at Mike. "I don't know what's going on here. Sure as hell don't know what those things are. But if the old Indian knows how to fight them, then I think maybe we had better listen to him."

  Mike started to tell the sheriff to stay there and protect Holly and the children, but he knew the sheriff's pistol would have little, if any, effect on the boogers. Besides, the sheriff had a flashlight.

  "All right. Mike nodded. Let's go."

  Hurrying through the kitchen, they opened the door leading to the basement and started down the stairs. Mike went first, the sheriff right behind him. Even with the flashlight, the basement was much too dark for comfort. Crossing the room, they reached the spot where Holly had put the statues. Five of the boxes were sealed, but the sixth box had been opened. Several statues had been taken from the box and scattered about on the floor.

  Mike wondered for a moment why the statues
had been taken out of the box, but only for a moment. Grabbing two full boxes of statues each, the two men hurried to get back upstairs. Nether of them wanted to stay in the basement any longer than necessary, for the darkness surrounding them seemed to be moving as if alive. From that darkness came an evil wind and strange hissing sound.

  They had just started up the stairs when the basement floor rose up beneath their feet like a giant bubble. It rose and fell, the concrete slabs breaking apart and giving way beneath them. The pieces of concrete disappeared, as if by magic, falling into a large circular shaft that had suddenly opened up in the middle of the room. The shaft appeared to lead straight down into the very bowels of the earth. The Sipapuni was opening.

  Mike was in the lead. Feeling the floor giving way under his feet he threw himself forward and rolled. Sheriff Jody Douglas wasn't so lucky. As the floor gave way, he fell into the shaft.

  "Help me!"

  Getting to his knees, Mike turned and saw the opening that had appeared in the middle of the basement floor. The darkness within the opening appeared to be vibrating, throbbing, as if it were filled with millions of scurrying cockroaches. But it was boogers and not bugs that filled the shaft, jostling each other as they clawed their way out of the darkness in an attempt to enter this world.

  Sweet Jesus. It's too late. They're coming. Millions of them.

  Mike was paralyzed with fear, unable to look away or flee to safety. Something else was in that opening. Holding on by little more than his fingertips, Sheriff Jody Douglas clutched the broken edge of the basement floor in an effort to keep from falling into the shaft.

  "Help me! Please!" the sheriff cried. There was fear in his eyes. Real fear. For maybe the fist time in his life Jody Douglas had become the victim.

  Please? Did he say please?

  Looking at the sheriff, Mike suddenly felt his heart grow cold. Was the sheriff begging for his help? Did he actually say “please”? Wasn't that what Vivian Martin had said when she begged Jody Douglas and his friends to leave her alone and quit tormenting her? Had he listened to her? Had he shown compassion, or mercy? No. He had continued to torment her, making her life a living hell.

  Nor had the sheriff shown much compassion toward Mike and his family. The had asked for his help on several occasions, but instead of help they had gotten sarcasm and ridicule.

  "Please?" Mike said the word aloud, letting it roll slowly off his tongue and lips. Why should he help the sheriff after the nasty things he had done to him and his family? Let him fall. He deserved whatever hideous fate awaited him at the other end of that shaft. Why should he help him?

  Because it's the right thing to do.

  Mike felt the anger slowly leaving his body, and knew he had no other choice than to help the sheriff. It wouldn't be right to leave him. Not right at all. And he had always done the right thing in life, something taught to him by his parents and his grandmother.

  Still on his hands and knees, Mike hurried across the basement. Reaching the edge of the pit, he threw himself on his stomach and stretched his hand out toward the sheriff. "Give me your hand."

  The sheriff wriggled and squirmed, trying to pull himself farther out of the shaft. "I can't. I'm slipping."

  "Give me your hand," Mike repeated. "Hurry, before the whole floor caves in."

  Jody Douglas tried again. Pulling himself up with little more than his fingertips, he thrust his right hand forward for Mike to grab.

  Mike grabbed the sheriff's hand and started to pull him from the shaft. But it was too late. The swirling mass of darkness in the shaft surged and rose upward as thousands of boogers spilled through the opening from their world. They swarmed over the sheriff like ants, attacking him, dragging him down. Mike tried to hold on, but he couldn’t and the sheriff was torn from his grasp. A scream echoed through the basement as Jody Douglas was dragged down by the boogers, a scream that spoke of terrors unimaginable.

  Pushing away from the opening, Mike got quickly to his feet. The sheriff's flashlight lay on the floor where it had fallen. Next to the flashlight was a set of keys. He grabbed both and then raced across the room, pausing only long enough to pick up two boxes of kachinas. He had just reached the top of the stairs when the rest of the basement's floor disappeared into the pit.

  Racing back into the living room, he opened one of the boxes and hurried to put the kachinas back on the shelves. Holly grabbed the other box to help.

  "Where's the sheriff?" she asked, pulling a handful of statues out of the box.

  "He didn't make it," Mike answered. "The boogers got him."

  She looked at him in horror for a moment, then redoubled her efforts at getting the kachinas back on the shelves.

  "It's too late!" Mike cried, feeling the floor tremble beneath his feet.

  The others felt the trembling too. His eyes wide with fear, Tommy backed away from the center of the room, bumping into the wall. Instantly dozens of shadows poured out of the cracks, swarming over the boy. Tommy screamed and tried to get away from the wall, but the boogers had him.

  "Tommy!" Holly yelled.

  Mike dropped his box of kachinas and raced to help his son. He had only taken three steps, however, when Tommy was lifted off the floor by the boogers and dragged to the top of the wall. He hung suspended in the air, legs kicking, head pressed tightly against the ceiling, as the boogers attempted to drag him through the crack into their world.

  Mike jumped up and grabbed his son's left ankle, trying to pull him down off the ceiling. But the boogers held Tommy tight, and all that came loose was the boy's tennis shoe. Dropping the shoe, Mike jumped and grabbed Tommy's ankle again.

  Tommy screamed as the top of his head banged against the ceiling. He screamed again as his father grabbed his ankle and pulled. They were long, high-pitched screams. Screams of fear. Screams of pain.

  "Help him, Mike. Help him!" Holly cried. "Don't let him go."

  Mike gripped Tommy's ankle and pulled, praying that he wouldn't dislocate his son's knee or tear the leg out of its socket. He knew he was hurting the boy, but he had no other choice. If he let go, the boogers might drag Tommy higher up the wall, breaking the boy's neck as his head pressed against the ceiling. Or they might somehow be able to drag him through the crack, carrying him down into their world as they had done to the sheriff.

  "The flashlight!" Mike yelled to Megan. "Get the flashlight and shine it at your brother. We have to get those things off of him!"

  Megan stood frozen with fear, looking at her father but making no move to obey his command.

  "Megan, for God's sake hurry!" Mike yelled.

  Megan blinked and shook her head. Sprinting across the room, she snatched up the flashlight and aimed it at her brother. As the bright beam of the flashlight swept across Tommy, several of the boogers released their grip and fled back into the wall.

  "That's it. That's it," Mike said, feeling his son slip down the wall a few inches. "Aim it right at him. Aim it at the wall around him. Get closer. They don't like the light."

  Holding the flashlight like a sword in front of her, Megan advanced across the room toward her brother. As she approached, several more boogers released their grip on the boy and fled into the cracks.

  Tommy slipped a couple more inches down the wall, enough that Mike could jump up and grab him by the waist. Knowing he might not get a second chance, he grabbed his son tight and jerked as hard as he could.

  There was a groan of pain from Tommy, followed by the sound of fabric ripping, and then he was free. Mike tore Tommy from the grasp of the boogers with enough force that he fell backward with his son landing on top of him.

  Rolling to his side, Mike quickly got back to his feet. He lifted Tommy off the floor, checking to make sure that his son was not hurt. Except for a torn shirt, the boy appeared to be uninjured.

  No sooner had he gotten Tommy off the wall than a terrible trembling rumbled through the house. With the trembling came the sound of whispering, growing louder with each passing second.
The whispering came from the basement below them. The doorway was fully open now and the boogers were entering by the thousands.

  Mike spun around, trying to think of what to do, looking for a weapon, or a way out for him and his family. But his mind was so filled with terror by the things he had witnessed that it would no longer work for him. He had no plan. No plan at all.

  "Burn it!"

  He turned toward the sound of the voice, not hearing what had been said. "What?"

  "Burn it!" Holly screamed. "Burn the house. The fire stopped the boogers at the sawmill. The workers set fire to it. burn it, Mike. They don't like the light. It's our only chance to seal the opening."

  Pulling his lighter from his pocket, he crossed the room and touched a flame to one of the curtains. The curtain began to burn, but slowly. Too slow. "This isn't going to work. I need gasoline, or something flammable."

  "Get the cleaning solvents in my studio," Holly shouted. "They're flammable."

  "Good idea." He dropped the lighter back in his pocket. "You wait here with the kids. Don't move."

  He grabbed the flashlight and ran out of the living room, trying to ignore the faces on the wall that seemed to race down the hallway with him. Entering Holly's studio, he grabbed several one-gallon cans of cleaning solvent off to the shelves. He didn't bother to read the labels, because just about everything she used was flammable.

  Opening one of the cans, he splashed the liquid around the studio, and then stepped back into the hallway. He poured the contents of the second can along the hallway, forming a liquid path from the hallway, to his office, and back to Holly's studio. Tossing the empty can aside, he pulled his lighter from his pocket.

  "This had better work." He flipped open the Zippo and struck the wheel, but nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing.

  "Come on. Come on. This is no time to be difficult. Work, you son of a bitch."