by Michael Bray
One by one, they begin to die, too broken and weak to fight. The last of them, a boy of fourteen, desperately fights the coming death, fights the voices that even now try to corrupt and convince him to go into the dark. He resists, his shallow breathing becoming labored. He can’t fight anymore. He inhales.
Silence.
Death brings serenity to the chamber. Soon, the eight who went into the dark emerge. They are no longer afraid. They have become one with the thing below, and have earned their right to live. Silently, they begin to remove the bodies, taking them to feed their new master. When it is done, they return to the chamber, pausing at the tribute. They understand its purpose now. Sometimes, one of the chosen attempts to flee, refusing to give themselves completely. This is what they become. This is what no boy wants to become. They file back toward the entrance, squinting as the first sunlight they have seen for five days touches them. Eto is waiting; watching. He lowers the ropes and they climb, no longer boys, but men.
Eto says nothing to them as they ascend, weak and exhausted, but alive. Later, the villagers will host a feast in their honor. The last of them clambers onto the surface and begins the short walk back to the village. Eto hesitates for a second, then follows, knowing that for now, their master is satisfied and peace will exist until it demands sacrifice once more.
Petrov inhaled, staggering back from the painting, dropping both weapon and torch. The glass lens of the torch smashed on the ground, plunging them into darkness for a second before the light flickered back on.
“What was that? What the hell just happened to you?”
“I know what this place is. I know what happened here,” Petrov gasped, senses reeling. Now that he knew what the purpose of the place was, the voices swirling around in his head took on a whole new meaning.
Kimmel grabbed him by the arm. “What is it? What’s got you so spooked?”
Petrov tried to explain, to give Kimmel some kind of answer, but his throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come out.
“The room with the bodies,” he managed at last. “None of them were suitable, Kimmel. None of them fitted the bill. That’s why it made them attack their own. That’s why the village burned. That’s why they were cursed.”
“What people? What the hell are you talking about?”
Petrov ignored him. The voices in his head filled in the blanks and missing spaces that making contact with the painting had missed.
“They tried to make amends. That’s why they raided the neighboring villages. That’s why they took the children, so they could feed it. So they could satisfy it and stop it torturing their minds.”
Kimmel backed away, cautious of the wild look in Petrov’s eyes.
“It was never enough. Never enough to make them stop. In the end, Eto burned them all. Every last one of them, then threw himself into the flames. But it still wasn’t enough.” He laughed; a short bark, which had no place in such a hostile environment. “It demanded more. Always more. Always more. That’s why that animal was down there when I first came here. The cat with the wings. Donovan and Annie Briggs… They tried to please it. Tried to make it an offering.”
He laughed again. “It was never going to be enough. Not some cobbled together animal. Not for its needs. Not by a long shot.”
“Goddamn it, pull yourself together!” Kimmel shouted, shaking Petrov by the shoulder, but his words came without conviction. There was no denying it. Here in the dim, flickering light of the torch beam, he was as afraid of Petrov as he was of the environment they were in.
“They built the house in the wrong place. Too close to this thing. Too close,” Petrov muttered, glancing back at the painting. “Jones knew. He thought filling the hole in would be enough.”
“Jones? Are you talking about Michael Jones?”
Petrov nodded. “He never told anyone what he’d found. He wanted this place. Had already committed to building here.”
A noise came out of Petrov then, a pained whine. “If he’d just let the forest take this place back, it could all have been avoided. All of it. Why did you have to build here?”
He glared at Kimmel and shoved him. “Why did you have to build it here!” he screamed.
Kimmel backed away, holding his hands up. “Just relax, take it easy. This place is doing something to you. You’re not used to it.”
“Even when it was sealed it could still get to them… in here.” He tapped his temple. “It was only when Donovan dug it out and opened the tunnels that it was able to reach out. That it could further its influence away from the clearing.”
“Detective, I think we need to get out of here.”
“You started this,” Petrov said, eyes glazed as he turned toward Kimmel, seeing what the voices told him to see. “This is all your fault, Michael.”
“I’m Kimmel, goddamn it, pull yourself together.”
Petrov grinned and picked up his weapon, firing off three shots at Kimmel.
CHAPTER 39
Isaac was first to reach the clearing. He stood at its edge, unsurprised by what awaited him. The others caught up and stared in fear, while Isaac simply waited, completely calm.
Henry Marshall stood in the center, lit by a pale moon. Melody stood in front of him, his filthy hand on her shoulder. Isaac began to walk toward him, but Emma pulled him back, throwing a protective arm around him. Henry showed them the nearest thing to a smile his broken mouth would allow.
“I knew you would find me,” he said, staring at Isaac before letting his eyes drift to those behind. The grin slid off his face. “I don’t know why you brought these people with you.”
Dane stepped forward, but wasn’t quite brave enough to venture into the clearing.
“I’ve come to help you, Henry. To take you out of here. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
“I don’t need your help. For once, I’m doing something on my own. Something you can’t do better, or quicker. Something for me. Something that’s mine.”
“Henry, you can’t escape. The police are on their way. If you don’t want them to shoot you, then you need me.”
“I don’t care if they shoot me,” Henry snapped.
“Henry, please—”
“This doesn’t concern you. This is about the boy and me.”
“You’re alone here, Henry. You can’t stop us all.”
Henry looked at Melody, head down and crying, and then at the group by the clearing. “What makes you think I’m alone?”
Sounds came from behind them; chattering, heavy whispers and grunts. The group stared down the path as gravel crunched, branches broke, and the echo of disembodied footsteps lurched toward them. It was an involuntary action. The weight and hostility of the atmosphere forced them into the clearing. The instant they were within its perimeter, the sounds stopped, plunging them into an absolute silence which was somehow even worse. They huddled together, frightened and unsure of which was worse: Henry, or the things that surrounded them.
“What do you want?” Emma said, breath fogging in the cold air.
“He wants me,” Isaac muttered, pulling free of Emma’s hand.
Emma and Mrs. Alma glanced at each other, the older woman giving a barely perceptible shake of the head.
“No,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not happening.”
“How about an exchange?” Henry said, enjoying the unfolding events. “One Samson for another. Mother for son.”
“No,” Emma said more firmly. The trees around them hissed in defiance, pushing them closer together.
“You know what they’ll do to you if you refuse?” Henry said, looking at each of them in turn. “Did you really think you would be able to stop them? A confused lesbian slut, an old spiritualist whore and the descendant of a nigger slave. What a joke.” Henry leaned over Melody’s shoulder, bringing his other hand up toward her throat. “She came here thinking she could stop them until I showed her. Look at her now.”
Melody flinched away from him, head down, tremb
ling.
“You might think it’s me she fears, but it’s not.” He looked to the trees, enjoying the theatrics. “It’s them.”
Dane reached back, going for the gun tucked into his jeans. Mrs. Alma touched his arm, stopping him. Dane let his hand fall back to his side as his brother went on.
“None of you will be allowed to leave here alive unless you hand over the boy.”
“That isn’t happening, Henry,” Dane said, taking a cautious step forward. “I know you better than anyone. You don’t want to do this.”
Henry grinned, a monstrous image which caused his brother to flinch. “You knew the man I was. You don’t know the monster I am now.”
“So what do we do? The boy stays with us, Henry. Nothing is going to change that.”
Henry considered it for a moment, licking his tongue against his broken teeth. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I misjudged you all. Maybe, if an exchange is off the cards, I don’t need the boy’s mother. Maybe I’ll tear out her throat right here in front of him. How would that be? Both parents killed by the same hand.”
“No!” Isaac screamed, pulling free of Emma and running toward the center of the clearing. Emma tried to follow but was pulled back. At first, she thought it was Truman, or maybe even Mrs. Alma, but as she was thrown to the floor, she realized whoever had grabbed her had no earthly presence. She sat in the dirt, still able to feel the pinch of the invisible fingers gripping her, holding her fast. The rest looked on as Isaac sprinted forward, standing just ten feet from his mother and her demonic captor.
“Please… don’t hurt her,” he pleaded as he stared at the man who’d plagued his dreams for so long. He tried to look at his mother, but she had her head down, silently sobbing and shaking as she dealt with the trauma of whatever Henry had shown her.
“They don’t want her. They want you,” Henry said, leaning his chin on Melody’s shoulder. “Walk to me and I’ll send her toward you. An exchange.” He whispered.
“You promise you won’t hurt her?” Isaac said, forcing himself to look Henry in the eye.
“Oh I promise,” Henry said, stifling a smile. “I won’t hurt her at all.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Isaac said, glancing back to the others at the edge of the clearing. Their mouths moved as they gesticulated and shouted, yet he could hear nothing. He turned back toward Henry. “I’m coming over,” he said, taking a step toward him. He wanted to run, of course, but felt like he had no choice but to comply. The probing things in his head were in a frenzy now, screeching and wailing as they urged him on, warning him that those he was with would suffer slow, painful deaths unless he did as they said. He walked closer, his feet acting independently. Henry shoved Melody toward him, barking at her to walk. She flinched at the sound of his voice, but did as he asked. Mother and son crossed, and for a second locked eyes. Isaac took a sharp breath. Something in his mother had broken. He could see it even in the pale light of the moon. Her eyes were unfocused, indifferent. Her face pale, mouth slightly agape. He wasn’t even sure she recognized him as she moved past, trudging toward the opposite end of the clearing as Isaac took the last few steps toward whatever awaited him.
He reached Henry, standing in front of him, a bloody, filthy, living nightmare that towered over his slight frame. Henry grinned, and with the moon at his back, Isaac finally felt absolute deep-seated fear. His stomach rolled violently, and he turned to run, snapping out of whatever spell had entranced him, but it was too late. Henry clamped a hand on his shoulder, pulling him close.
The clearing exploded in noise.
The sounds, which to him had been muted, thundered back: The screams of Emma and the others pleading with him not to go, the incessant howl of the wind as it shook the trees with a violence that was terrifying in its own right, and finally, Henry. Henry laughing.
On the edge of the clearing, the same spell that bound Melody was also broken. She collapsed in front of Emma, letting out a scream of her own, trying to scramble back to Isaac. Truman and Dane held her back, letting her grieve, letting her screams feed the things in the trees, which increased their activity, sending a rain of leaves into the clearing.
“What do we do now?” Emma shouted to Mrs. Alma, who, of them all, seemed the calmest.
“Nothing,” the old woman said.
“What do you mean? What about the reason we came? What we talked about?”
Mrs. Alma turned to Emma, the defeat in her face clear. “Without the boy, we can’t cleanse this place.”
“Then we have to get him back,” Emma screamed. “We have to.”
“No,” Mrs. Alma said, shaking her head. “His fate is decided. Death is coming to him. And coming to him soon.”
“I can’t accept that. I won’t accept it!” Emma screamed, now struggling to be heard above the bluster.
“You have to,” Mrs. Alma replied coldly. “It’s over. They’ve won.”
CHAPTER 40
Kimmel moved down the tunnel in the pitch dark, the bullet wound in his shoulder burning with a fiery intensity. He stumbled and almost fell, pausing to listen. He could hear Petrov following him some distance behind, still talking, still rambling. Kimmel pushed on, unsure where he was going. Unlike before, there was no light to guide him, his torch left behind in the painting room when he’d run from Petrov. Instead, he had been forced to inch through a thick sea of claustrophobic black. Even those terrible voices that had plagued them since they’d arrived grew silent. Feeling his way across the wall, he was aware of the ground dropping away, taking him deeper underground. Time seemed to stop entirely. There was no sense of direction, no sense that he existed in the world as he knew it. The opacity of his surroundings made it easier to see those faceless entities as they flashed in and out of the ether. Mouthless elongated things with sunken holes for eyes. The torture went on, but still he went deeper, Petrov’s taunting forcing him to go where his instinct screamed at him not to.
The tunnel began to grow lighter, a soft glow ahead giving definition to the walls and enabling him to at least see where he was going. With sight came other senses. A stench beyond description, a putrid, rotten ammonia-like smell that burned his nostrils. The tunnel opened into a wider room, another chamber supported by ancient wooden beams. Kimmel could finally see the deep red staining on the arm of his jacket. Lights were placed intermittently down the length of the chamber, flickering and spluttering. Kimmel saw a wooden torch discarded in the middle of the room, its end black from recent use. He suspected Marshall had done this, showing them where he was. Kimmel was painfully aware that he was running away from one threat and straight into another. Something caught his eye, a flash of metal from down the hall.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, heading toward it.
The GT16 lay on its side where it had been left, devoid of power, a relic destined to remain there forever. Kimmel paused, not recognizing the particular model but knowing it was military hardware. No doubt some fancy new prototype brought in by Fisher to remotely explore the tunnels.
Petrov’s voice came to him, uncomfortably close, pushing him to move on. He hurried past the abandoned unit, hoping to put some distance between himself and the detective, then paused, staring at the floor. Bones littered the ground: skulls and ribcages, arms and legs. All broken and discarded. He tried to mentally guess how many there were, but the more he looked, the more he could see. As he gazed at them, the voices returned. They caught him unawares, assaulting his senses, clambering into his brain and filling it with vile imagery. Kimmel fought back, pushing them out and gritting his teeth as he pressed on, wading through the human boneyard, trying not to think about what he was stepping on or how strong the stench was. He hesitated; the torches ahead were unlit, the tunnel beyond opaque and oppressive. It was the fear of Petrov catching up to him that forced him on into the darkness. He stumbled on, bones displaced under his feet, hissing, chattering voices in his ears, unseen hands clawing at his clothes. All of it horrifying enough, but not as much as the thoughts b
eing placed into his mind; ideas and images he was no longer able to fight. Not here, not so close to the source. Familiar voices spoke to him like they always used to. The voices of the dead.
His sister – killed in a car crash back in the summer of eighty-six.
His mother – in her grave for almost twenty years.
His best friend, Joe Davies – killed by an IED in Baghdad years earlier.
All of them vying to advise him, their poisonous words clinging to his mind like intertwined, overgrown thorns. They alternated between soothing, friendly tones and sneering, barked commands and insults. Worse still were the images, fragmented pictures placed in his head by his tormentors.
Plunging his wife’s head into the flames of a roaring fire, holding her there as she kicked, thrashed and tried to scream through melting lips.
Dismembering his daughter. Hacking her body into a pulpy mess. Eating her flesh. The chew of sinew. The copper taste of blood.
Tearing his son’s stomach open, guts steaming in the cold night air.
Next he recalled the names of the men he’d lost under his command. Men with wives, girlfriends and families, who’d survived some of the most brutal and violent warzones on the planet only to lose their lives in the shithole of a town above his head. He recited their names in his mind as he continued to wrestle against those mental demons and stumble further toward whatever awaited him.
Reynolds.
Layfield.
Shaw.
Landro.
Levas.
Blanchard.
Drench.
Cook.
Williams.
Brook.
Frederick.
With each name, the black things in his brain showed him how each had died. How each had been tortured, and how, in the end, each had begged for death. Kimmel let out a low groan, one which seemed to delight the things in the dark.
