Dark Matter: Short Stories & Poems

by Rose Perez

  The tears threatened to start again. How could someone I’d known for five years turn into a complete stranger in one day?

  “It just happened.” Jason shrugged as if what he had said was insignificant. He could very well had swatted a mosquito.

  “What do you mean, it just happened?” I felt hysteria clawing up my throat and had to remind myself to breathe. “We’re supposed to get married tomorrow, and you tell me this?”

  “Was I supposed to wait until we got married?” He sighed impatiently. Was the motherfucker expecting a pat on the back?!

  “With my sister?” My voice was rising, and I gagged; trying not to projectile vomit all over his face. “You fucked my sister?!”

  After that, I lost it. Hurling glass, vase, plates, books at him until he raced out of our apartment with a bloody nose and a huge knot on his forehead.

  God, I hated him.

  My stomach growled, a galling reminder that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and it was now 11:30 the next morning. The phone was on the spacious nightstand. Surprisingly, the room was quite lovely with updated décor. This definitely wasn’t your run of the mill motel. Oh, damn, did I pay for this? Close to the phone, there was a letter addressed to me, and it was handwritten on the hotel’s letterhead in a bold, masculine penmanship:

  Dear Allie,

  I must thank you for quite a night I shall always remember. You certainly have satisfied every fiber of my being. Hopefully, you’ve woken up feeling the same way. Stay in the hotel for as long as you desire. They have my payment information, and the hotel staff has been notified to allow you to stay for any amount of time you wish. You may need a few days to acclimate yourself. I’ve also instructed them to bring you a special blend of tea in the morning and evening. This beverage will help you adjust.

  My deepest gratitude,

  Adam

  Acclimate and adjust to what? My back started to ache, and I was about to lie back down, when there was a knock at the door.

  It was a tall, gaunt man grasping a silver metal tray with a cup of tea. He nodded politely, entered my room, placed the beverage on the nightstand and walked out; gently closing the door behind him.

  The hot tea smelled potent, and my stomach growled. Surely, I needed more sustenance than this! About to dial the front desk to request more food, I stopped and placed the phone back on its cradle. The tea’s aroma was unusually strong and beckoning. Taking a sip, I nearly choked and didn’t expect the beverage’s consistency to be of a thick concoction, however, the initial gag reflex immediately dissipated once the liquid coated my tongue. The tea slid down my throat and its warmth settled my stomach almost instantly. I finished the cup; even greedily licking my lips afterwards.

  It was difficult keeping my eyes open, and feeling drowsy, I laid down. My sleep was dreamless and heavy. When I awoke, it was twilight and only the last few rays of the sun drifted through the curtains. There was a faint scratching noise. I sat up; my ears trying to discern the location of the sound. Under the door, against the hall lights, there was a tiny shadow.

  Unbeknownst to me, a mouse was on the other side of the door. His tiny, sensitive nose had picked up an aroma of tantalizing scents that made his mouth water. Whatever was giving off the delicious smells, was most certainly behind this barrier. He pushed it with the top of his head and tried scratching his way into the small space underneath.

  When I opened the door, a little white mouse ran inside and bolted under the bed. All my life, I’d been scared of mice and rats, but for some inexplicable reason, there was no fright in me at all.

  There was a feeling of slight annoyance and something else which couldn’t be defined at that moment. As I sat on the bed, trying to determine what was happening to me, the white mouse appeared near my right ankle. It was sniffing my skin and tentatively bit me. Bending down, I easily grasped it in my hand. It squeaked and wiggled; attempting to escape. For a few seconds, we contemplated each other. My nose picked up a most irresistible scent which smelled like roasted marshmallows. For a split second, I thought the tall man who had brought my tea earlier, had come back with some hot cocoa.

  Then it hit me, and my eyes widened with astonishment.

  The mouse was what smelled so appetizing. It produced one last squeak before I decapitated its head with my teeth. A small rivulet of blood trailed down my chin as I ate the rest of the mouse.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  Sleep dropped my head on the pillow once more, and I woke up later that night to the potent scent of tea on the nightstand. My stomach churned, and the steamy beverage was rapidly swilled. My eyes, once again, grew heavy as I slumbered for many hours. What’s going on with this unending exhaustion? No answers readily came to me, and I drifted off. In my dreams, Adam was sitting on the edge of my bed watching me with those hypnotic eyes.

  “You’re changing, Allie. Don’t be scared.” He touched the back of my neck, and I grimaced.

  “That hurts!” I tried pushing his hand away, but his grip tightened.

  “Don’t fight me.” A deep guttural growl was heard. My eyes grew large with surprise, and he chuckled softly. The snarl had escaped my lips and not his.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  “When you wake up, look at the back of your neck. You’ll understand.”

  “Why?” I choked back tears.

  “Keep drinking your tea. It brings you the nourishment you need.”

  He smiled, brushing my tears away.

  “That mouse had no idea who he was messing with, did he? I have another surprise I’ll leave at your door very soon.”

  His lips met mine, and my tongue ran across the edge of his teeth and rested at the sharp tip of his fang. He gently bit down, and I gasped; arching my back and straining against the acute pain. My heart pounded wildly as he pressed harder against me.

  “This time, you’ll remember everything,” he promised.

  I looked into his green eyes, and my body grew limp. I wrapped my arms around his neck and succumbed to the irresistible pull he had over me.

  When I awoke, I found a hand mirror on the nightstand and looked at the back of my neck as Adam had instructed. There were two small, round puncture marks. The mirror was placed back on the nightstand, and my hands shook as the true realization sunk in as to what I was becoming.

  A few days passed where I drifted in and out of a dream-like state. I remembered learning about caterpillars in grade school and how they would form cocoons to morph into butterflies. The rapid beating of my heart at the thought of my own metamorphosis caused me much anxiety, but there was an excitement, as well, which I couldn’t deny.

  One night, there was a knock at my door, and standing there was Jason. I was dumbstruck, and my mouth hung open in disbelief. He dropped his phone when he saw me, and it landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

  “Thank God, Allie, I found you.” He hugged me, and I rapidly pulled away in disgust.

  “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “I don’t know. I just had this weird feeling come over me, and that song we were gonna play at our wedding came on. It was blasting from here; so fucking loud. I just followed the music. Didn’t you hear it?”

  He stopped talking and covered his mouth.

  “God, I must sound like a complete moron.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” I resisted the urge to slam the door in his face when the smell of rosemary and lavender drifted into the room and disarmed any negative thoughts I was having.

  He nodded with a wry expression. “Yeah, I deserved that.” He stroked his chin; embarrassed and a little hopeful.

  “You want to come in?”

  As if afraid I’d revoke my invitation, he leapt into the room, and unable to catch himself, his forehead smashed against the wall. While rubbing his bruised head, he sat on a chair with his back rigid and his hands nervously clasped in front of him.

  He started talking about how he’d missed me. I s
tared at his neck the entire time and felt my upper lip bead with sweat at the sight of his pulse rapidly beating.

  I lost track of what he was jabbering about and approached him as if in a trance; my eyes fixated on his throat. He reached for me like a man drowning and hanging onto anything he could. His arms were like vices around my waist, and I was rendered immovable.

  Tremors rippled across his pale neck while a purple artery engorged and ripened. My tongue was bathed in saliva and slid against the edge of a tapered tooth. My new fangs sank into his skin, and his blood spewed into my hungry mouth. Screaming, he tried to pry me from his throat, but the blood expelling from his wound made my skin slick, and it was impossible to get a firm grip.

  His shrieks hurt my ears, and I grasped his vocal cords and tore into them. Unable to scream any longer, he made gurgling noises and sank to the floor. Red sprayed everywhere --- dousing my hair and my face. Dripping with sanguine fluid, I ripped his neck open with my teeth and nails. It gaped like a yawning second mouth.

  Sucking the life out of him, I found my piece of happiness again.

  THE END

  The Accusations of Vincent J. Coldheart

  (Story by FlyTrapMan)

  Snow glitters under the light of a last quarter moon.

  “…That bastard done it again...did you hear about Old Roberts?"

  “Roberts? What about him?” Daphne asks.

  “He was accused of spell casting and forging demonic alliances.”

  Why can’t anyone see through the mist of deceit? Hopefully if I remain steadfast, I’ll become a lighthouse for those seeking the shore of reason.

  A terrible scream shatters my slumber and douses me under the cold current of reality. I rise out of bed and pull aside a curtain.

  Near the church, a gathering of people stand -- torches held high. The light radiates an amber glow, enveloping the group inside a bubble of orange luminance.

  Someone stands in the center of the mob…hands in the air…begging…or accepting manufactured guilt. I don’t bother waking Daphne from her slumber as I venture outside.

  Icy air glides across the dark night while the orange aurora reveals someone begging for their life.

  “…What do we do with it?...how can a demon be killed?” Asks Ms. Haily.

  “Do not worry, my dear lady -- you see -- killing a demon is not possible. A ravaged spirit can only be cleansed. We break the vessel; we break the urn of life and condemn the purged soul.” Says Vincent J. Coldheart.

  “Break it! Let's break it!” A voice shouts.

  “Wait -- hold on -- what could this…man have possibly done…to warrant such an extraction of justice?” I say.

  The mob mumbles:

  “That son of a bitch wilted my crops!”

  “He sneezed in the same room that my mom was in. She died a day later.”

  “I never seen him eat! Never!”

  "He never been with a woman!...never!"

  The mob is now just a barbaric horde -- Instead of battle axes -- they wield illuminated sticks.

  “If what you say is true, why not exile him? Tell him to leave! It’s a long way to the next town! We all know how cold these nights can become.” I say.

  The barbarians won't listen.

  “But…my crops! They’re gone! Evil destroys crops! They don't need to eat!” Farmer Terry says.

  “Exactly! You see? These folk are well educated. After all, don’t you have to eat?” Asks Coldheart -- head twisted like an inquisitive pigeon.

  The demon is pushed to the ground; a snowy haze erupts into the air as it shimmers upon the barbarians.

  Farmer Terry kicks the demon; red stuff splatters the snow, while tears freeze to the demon's face. Dr. Sullivan rolls up his sleeves, and then hands his glasses to Ms. Haily.

  The spectators cheer.

  "Yeah! Yeah! Kill it! Kill it! Send that demon back to Hell!"

  Dr. Sullivan cracks his knuckles and jabs the demon's eye while a right hook collides into his temple.

  It’s pitiful to see someone breathe and cry at the same time. Snorting like a newborn hog…whining an incoherent song.

  Reason can never save a demon -- sometimes people just want to kill.

  The demon crawls away from the spectators.

  "Please. I have a family. Don't do this." He says.

  “Hey! The demon is getting away! Don’t let that bastard get away!” Farmer Terry says.

  He turns the demon over and stabs a knee into his chest -- the blows strip the skin from his knuckles. The spectators cheers:

  "Kill it! Kill it! Yeah! Yeah! Kill that hell-born monster!"

  Farmer Terry wipes his forehead and rises to his feet.

  “You see, demonic souls don’t belong here. If you can’t kill it, well, you do the next best thing: convert it with agony.” Coldheart says.

  He snatches a torch from Ms. Haily while the demon digs fingernails into the snow. Coldheart steps on an ankle.

  “Baptism by fire.”

  He lowers his arm -- the torch's flame twitches to the chaotic rhythm of wintry wind -- and embraces the demon's leg.

  Flames eat the demon's body, scouring flesh, and disintegrating bone. Vengeful fire can never be satiated -- it razes the demon's spine while a numbing gale battles with the fiery beast, halting further incineration. The demon cranks his neck and howls as if asking the sky for salvation.

  The gale disperses and the fire pillages the rest of the demon.

  In the morning, I don’t bother to mention what occurred last night. From our bedroom, the charred demon can be seen near the church.

  I follow shallow footprints pressed into the snow and discover Daphne standing next to the demon's remains.

  All I see is the consequence of collective insanity.

  Snowflakes will soon blanket this burned scar -- hopefully the dust of time will be laid thick -- so the demon can be laid to rest.

  The air is steady. Constellations shine between leafless branches of surrounding maples. The dying breath of summer is calm like a failing heartbeat…

  A window shatters. My eyes open.

  The damnable glow of torches ignites the memory of what happened not too long ago.

  “We want her! And we want her now!” A recognizable voice yells.

  It’s Farmer Terry.

  I tuck a blanket over Daphne and then put on my boots -- ignoring a coat or hat. I open the front door; a wall of heat scorches my face.

  “We don’t want you! Where’s that devil bitch? Huh? Where is she?" Farmer Terry says.

  “Are you deaf? Where is your devil bitch? We are not scared of you! We’ll go through you!”

  Farmer Terry places a hand on my shoulder.

  “She was witnessed last night, when the cold would have frozen any man, she stalked the forest, bare skinned, seducing forsaken creatures. Moonlight never lies.” Ms. Haily says.

  Words bang against my grinding teeth -- they can't escape.

  Daphne emerges out of the dark; a white nightgown hangs on her shoulders as snow covers her bare feet. Two acolytes seize hold of me. Farmer Terry licks his lips at Daphne…a grin betrays his thoughts.

  I spit in Farmer Terry's face

  The barrage of fists is quick, knocking me from my capture's grasp. Snowflakes and stars swirl across the sky.

  “Get her! Don't let that devil bitch escape!" Farmer Terry says.

  The mob constricts their circle. Anger and fear paralyze me. Daphne is tossed to the ground. Cheers roar while Farmer Terry lies on top of her.

  Maybe it was the wind…

  Maybe it was a fanatic who got too close…

  The torch flame reaches out with fiery fingers, igniting Farmer Terry's sleeve. In the midst of thrusting, the fire kisses and makes love to him.

  Flames ravage his body in an embrace of lust -- a hellish courtship that can't be denied.

  “Only a witch can instigate fire…” A familiar voice says.

  Vincent J. Coldheart strolls out o
f the frosted woods.

  “She did it! I saw her! She whispered to the flame!” Ms. Haily says.

  Coldheart orbits the burning courtship

  “This time of year is unpredictable. You can't trust the wind.”

  “…After all…why would a sweetheart want to make love to the evil beneath our feet? Now a man… that’s a different story…”

  The torches point in my direction.

  “When is the last time you ate?” Coldheart asks.

  The simplicity of the question leaves me speechless.

  “Can’t remember? I find it convenient that a farmer’s crops have been blighted. And now he’s dead.” Coldheart shakes his head.

  “That dumb bastard wilted his own crops! I told him a week ago to harvest before a cold snap kills them off!” I say.

  The pressure of judgment shames my will to stand.

  “Did you know there’s only one way to kill a witch?” Coldheart says.

  The mob shakes their torches.

  “Burn! You gotta burn ‘em!”

  Coldheart smiles.

  “That’s right. You must burn them.”

  What can I say? Maybe I should submit to their assumptions and fulfill their appetite for death. Daphne may live. How much it will hurt? How much will I experience before the threads of my life singe, allowing death to chill my soul. The more I think about it, the more I want the fire to devour me and shit my ashes upon this foul land.

  The mob's stomach growls.

  Three men hold me in place -- indiscriminant determination glows in their eyes. Coldheart's torch grows bright as my life dims. The torch slips from his fingers and then he covers his ears.

  Tree roots wiggle out of the snow and stab into my captor's feet and thread through their legs. A massive root penetrates through their abdomen, arching back, and sewing them into the ground.

  Vincent J. Coldheart flips through his book -- he will die before he understands some evil can never be bound in pages.

  The snow on my scalp feels like a hive of bees delivering their mortal sting. Even starlight blinds me. Coldheart winces with spastic screams, as if being stabbed by the prevailing shadows surrounding him. Something flirts with his mortality. The cracking of bone…compressing of ribcage…Daphne stands over him while a torch burns next to my feet.

  There’s only one way to kill a witch.

  I pick up the torch and let the flame reveal the truth. Daphne's white gown ignites while her face seethes in an ocean of incandescence. Daphne holds my hand.