“Why’d you do it, Sonny? Why did you kill your poor old ma?”
“Mom? No, you’re dead. You’re dead! I watched you die.”
“You had to have one more beer. Always one more beer. Didn’t I say you were too drunk to drive? Didn’t I warn you? Why listen to me? Sonny always knows best! But you didn’t, did you? Not this time! You killed me, Sonny. Wrecked the car and let me bleed out on the seat next to you.”
“No mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s too late for sorry, stupid boy. I’ve come back to take you with me.”
“No! I won’t go. You can’t make me!”
He felt his mother’s cold, slimy hands wrap around his throat and squeeze. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t pry her fingers from around his windpipe. Sonny dug his nails into his skin, scraping and digging, tearing off thin ribbons of flesh. He collapsed to the ground, eyes bulging, lips turning purple. He looked up just as his dead mother walked through the trees and disappeared.
“You’re going to like it here, Sonny.”
Thunder followed him into oblivion.
***
Bobby Allison sat up in bed and looked around his darkened bedroom. His digital clock had gone dark, as well as the Snoopy night light next to the closet. He cautiously stepped to the floor, wrapped himself in a sheet, and crept into the living room where his mother was lighting candles. She gasped, startled as the boy crossed the room.
“You look like a ghost, Bobby. What are you doing up?”
“Mom, where’s Scoot-Scoot?”
“Bobby, he’s your dog, you were supposed to let him in before you went to bed. Now he’s gonna be soaked, the poor thing. If he tracks mud all over the kitchen floor, you’re in trouble, mister.”
“He wasn’t outside, mommy, I checked before I went to sleep.”
“Well, you’d better check again. Get him and bring him inside and we’ll have a glass of chocolate milk before you get your little butt back to bed.”
Satisfied, Bobby removed the sheet, put on his rain boots, and went into the yard. It was pouring. Mommy was right, Scooter would be a soggy, muddy mess.
“Come on Scoot-Scoot, it’s cold out here.” Generally, the scrappy Yorkie would come running at the sound of his voice, jumping up on his legs, nipping at his fingers. This time, nothing. “Come on, you stupid dog.” Still nothing. “I bet he’s under the bed again. I’m coming to find you, Scooter!”
Bobby went inside, toweled off, and received his promised chocolate milk. He wasn’t about to go looking for that silly mutt in the dark. He’d come out when he was good and ready.
Three blocks away on Flood Row, Scooter’s head dipped beneath the surface of the muddy water. When it rained, the empty foundations filled with water, turning them into swimming pools. Scooter had made the mistake of sneaking out of the backyard to chase a bunny… that little dog loved chasing bunnies. This one had gotten the better of him, forcing him too close to the edge where he lost his footing and tumbled over the wall into the cold water below.
There was no way out. His little legs paddled frantically, but he couldn’t keep his head above water. His nose dipped beneath the surface more frequently as his energy waned. It wasn’t like the pool at all… Scooter loved the water, but Bobby had always been there to pull him out, wrap him in a towel, scratch his neck and give him those bacon treats he loved so much.
Where was Bobby now? Why wasn’t he there to save him?
Scooter heard Bobby’s voice, and he called out to him the best he could, but it wasn’t enough.
His legs slowed as he dipped beneath the surface, his tail wagging one last time as he imagined Bobby wrapping him in a warm towel and covering his face with kisses.
Good boy, that’s my good little Scoot-Scoot.
That’s my good little boy…
***
The next morning, Paul Armbruster, one of Elmview’s oldest residents, sat in his favorite porch chair holding that day’s copy of the Elmview Eagle. It was thicker than usual, packed with photos and accounts of the previous night’s storm.
“Christ, you’d think we were storming the beaches at Normandy. Haven’t these people ever seen a little rain before?”
Bart Sigfried sat to his right, absently picking at a hangnail while waiting for his friend to read the newspaper. God knows he couldn’t do it himself these days. Bernie May sat to his left, staring at the flypaper dangling from the porch ceiling.
Paul pulled the paper close to his face and began reading in a deep, scratchy voice. “Last night, Elmview was visited by one of the worst storms in its history, leaving several dead, and over one million dollars in property damage.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Bart scoffed. “The storm in ‘55 made this look like a spring shower.”
“How would you know?” Bernie asked. “You can’t remember what happened last week.”
“The hell I can’t. My mind is a well-oiled machine and don’t you forget it.”
“Well-oiled my ass…”
“You sound like a couple of grannies,” Paul barked. They exchanged a glance and Bernie stuck out his tongue as if he was still five and living in Maryland with his little sister. Bart looked away and waved his wrinkled hand dismissively. “The storm took the life of Miss Judith Monahan - long-time teacher with the Elmview School District - when her home was struck by lightning and burned to the ground sometime after midnight.”
“Oh, Judy,” Bart cooed. “She was a looker back in the day.”
“Scott ‘Sonny’ Waters was found dead in his yard of what appears to be a heart attack. It’s unclear if this incident is related to the storm, but the investigation into both unfortunate incidents is ongoing.”
Bernie chuckled and threw his hands in the air. “What’s there to investigate? Sonny Waters has been an alcoholic since he was in diapers. I’m surprised he lived this long.”
“Smoked too,” Bart added.
“That pretty wife of his ain’t gonna be on the market long.”
“Rumor has it she’s been laying with the mailman for years now. I doubt she’s going to be wearing black to the funeral.”
“Funeral? More like a celebration.”
“Okay,” Paul interrupted, “if all you have to offer are jokes and wisecracks, I’m going back inside. I have better things to do than listen to you squawk.” He stood, farted loudly, and shuffled inside, closing the door behind him.
“What the hell’s his problem?” Bart asked.
Bernie lifted his leg and answered with a resounding fart of his own. The two cackled as the clouds above scattered and the streets dried out beneath the glare of the afternoon sun.
***
Danny awoke much later than usual.
His bedroom was bathed in late morning sunlight. He hopped out of bed, feeling more rested then he had in days. He crept down to the kitchen to find his mother standing over the stove. The smell of bacon and eggs permeated the first floor.
“I heard you moving around up there,” his mother said. “I thought you’d like a late breakfast.”
“Thanks, mom, I’m starving.”
“You’re looking much better.”
“I feel better. Got a good night’s sleep.” Thank God!
“I’m surprised you slept through the storm last night,” she said. “I thought the roof was going to come off the house.”
“Really?” He crammed a piece of jelly-covered toast into his mouth. “I didn’t hear anything.” He barely listened to what his mother was saying, too busy sampling a little of everything on the table. He slathered a second piece of toast with strawberry jelly as his mother handed him a plate of steaming scrambled eggs. By the time he’d finished, his eggs were replaced with greasy breakfast sausages. Danny ate until his stomach felt tight and then ate a little more.
It wasn’t often he was treated to this kind of buffet, so he enjoyed it as much as possible. Now that the air had seemed to clear between him and his mother, he thought about b
ringing up Charlie again but decided against it. A few sausages didn’t erase what had happened over the past few days.
Nothing had changed.
Danny helped his mom with the dishes, showered, dressed, and left the house by noon. He immediately noticed the damage left in the wake of last night’s storm. The alley behind the house was covered with leaves and broken tree limbs. Garbage cans had been scattered across the road, spilling their soggy contents into the gutter.
Danny walked to Brent’s house without paying attention to where he was going; there was simply too much to take in. He thought about the thing from his bathroom and wondered if this was somehow connected. If so, the monster was growing stronger, and what could he do against such an undeniably evil presence?
What could anyone do?
Chapter 7
A massive oak tree had fallen across Arch Street, blocking most of the road and crushing a Honda Civic. The car’s owner stood nearby, inspecting the damage with hands on his hips, cursing the storm and wondering if his insurance premium would go up. Trees had fallen all along that stretch of road, making vehicle travel impossible. White picket fences had been reduced to kindling; lawns and gutters were blanketed by aluminum siding and cast-off shingles.
“How the hell did we sleep through this?” Eric asked.
“My mom always says I could sleep through a nuclear explosion. I guess she was right,” Brent said.
Several sections of town had been cordoned off with copious amounts of caution tape due to flooding, and the storefronts along Broad Street had taken a beating. Shop owners mopped brown muck from their floors or nailed plywood over broken display windows. The boys had never seen such devastation outside of televised news footage.
The sun was shining, and the streets were drying as people milled about, shouting back and forth cheerily, lending a hand to their neighbors, making light of a bad situation. Children played in debris-filled yards, climbing over fallen branches and excitedly pointing out every new discovery.
Danny wasn’t excited. The implications of this freak storm were too hard to deny.
There was something wrong… very wrong.
Something wrong with the light.
The sun glowed overhead, but still, there was too much shadow. Colors seemed faded, washed out. It was bright, but dim at the same time. Danny thought maybe it was just his imagination, that everything up to this point had taken a toll on him. He kept it to himself, seeing that neither Brent or Eric had noticed.
As he looked around, he noticed some people had begun feeling the effects, even if they weren’t aware of it. It was written in their postures, in the way their brows furrowed or the corners of their mouths twitched. They may not have seen that something was wrong, but their body language didn’t lie. As the afternoon went on, the effects gradually diminished. The day brightened, and the shadows made a hasty retreat.
Unfortunately in Elmview, even in the light of day, the shadows were never very far behind.
***
The parking lot of Maggie’s Ice Cream Parlor was packed with post-storm patrons. After a day of cleaning out flooded cellars and covering broken windows, people had worked up an appetite for something sweet and refreshingly cold. Long lines of people curled around the side of the squat building, some waiting twenty minutes or more just to catch a glimpse of the serving window. Even so, more and more people joined the ranks of the ice-cream army.
An overweight man in shorts and sandals removed his shirt and hung it over his shoulder as a pretty teenage girl looked on in disgust, holding a fidgety toddler to her bikini-clad breast. A group of pre-teen boys straddled their bicycles and passed a cigarette between them as a police officer in full uniform turned his head the other way. It’s just too damn hot, he thought. The young and old alike shared a single passion as the sun beat down overhead, and they weren’t about to turn away without having something to show for it.
Maggie’s stood at the northwest corner of Elmview’s busiest intersection. Across the street to the east was the town’s last movie house, the 1,200 seat Victoria Theater. Ever since the old playhouse had been refurbished to include modern air-conditioning and plush seating, attendance had tripled. Some lingered in the lobby between movies just to keep out of the baking heat.
On the two opposite corners to the south were Adam’s Wholesale Candies and Macelli’s Market, two businesses with a time-honored tradition of delivering the best to Elmview’s residents for over fifty years. The owners of these establishments had made a mutually beneficial agreement to only sell specific brands so neither of them monopolized the intersection. Their competition was one of mutual respect.
The intersection was always crowded during the summer months, not only with pedestrians but also with a constant flow of traffic from two major intersecting streets. On a good day it was a slight inconvenience, but today it’d become a battlefield for the impatient.
Adding to the usual traffic was an influx of vehicles attempting to navigate around the town’s several detours. To top it off, a crew was stationed almost directly in the middle of the intersection ripping up a patch of asphalt to fix a broken water main. Traffic had come to a standstill, the heat from idling engines making it nearly unbearable.
Drivers honked their horns impatiently. Several exited their vehicles, waving their arms at the cars in front of them and shouting at the red light as if they could change it through intimidation. An argument had broken out between two members of the road crew, escalating into a full-blown fistfight as the crowd at Maggie’s watched on in amusement and picked sides.
Elmview held its breath.
***
Five miles from town, Ray and his wife Jamie were in a heated argument of their own.
Perched above the street in the cab of Ray’s Peterbilt, Jamie waved her arms frantically, trying to get the stubborn bastard’s attention. Ray had heard all of her petty bullshit a thousand times before, and at the end of the day, nothing had changed. Ray was a creature of habit; their relationship had worked that way for years, his way, and it wasn’t going to change until he was good and ready.
“Jamie, for Christ’s sake! Can we have this discussion some other time? I can’t concentrate on the road when you’re buzzing around in my ear.”
Jamie sat in silence, trying to get herself under control. Her face had turned an unhealthy shade of red and sweat beaded on her forehead. She turned away from him and looked out the window at the ground speeding by below. She brushed several strands of blond hair from her forehead and sighed.
“You’re driving too fast.”
“Would you like to drive? I’d be perfectly happy sitting on my ass and doing nothing, but then again, that’s something you’re used to.” Ray’s mouth was getting dry, and the lukewarm bottle of water sitting in the cup holder just wasn’t going to cut it. He could use a cold beer. Maybe something a little stronger.
“All you ever think about is your next delivery,” she shouted. “You don’t think about me or your son when you’re on the road for weeks at a time. You’re married to your job, and it’s eventually going to kill you.” She wiped a lone tear from her cheek. “Just like it’s killing us.”
That beer was sounding even more enticing. It wouldn’t be the first time he stashed a six pack on a haul, and it wouldn’t be the last. A Budweiser is just about the most faithful driving companion a man could have, he thought. His pal Bud would never tell him to slow down, and would sometimes whisper in his ear to take a chance… go just a little faster, let the wind whip through your hair. Hell-bent for leather, just like the Judas Priest song.
All eighteen wheels sang the song of the road, a familiar tune Ray knew quite well and had grown to love. It wasn’t the shrill squeak of Jamie on one of her tirades, or the annoying whine of his spoiled brat every time he wanted a new toy. The song of the road was soothing and Ray knew every word by heart.
The fighting between them had become more frequent in the last few months, but instead of letting
him relax and cool down, Jamie insisted on coming with him… a last-ditch effort to save their irreparably broken marriage. While scolding him for not caring about their son, she would often leave Tyler at his grandmother’s house while she worked her shitty job at the diner for pennies a day. Ray didn’t see a difference. Someone had to put food on the table, right? Someone had to pay for the kid’s braces and the stupid action figures he was always crying about. Surely Jamie couldn’t manage it on tips alone.
She simply wasn’t the same person he’d married. The Jamie he knew was seventeen years old, sitting on her mother’s porch swing, barefoot and with flowers in her hair. She had the best set of tits he’d ever seen and an ass so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. She liked to have a few beers and get kinky, go to concerts, party with friends. Ever since that little shit was born, things had changed. She’d grown up. Now, she was never in the mood for sex and never left the house unless it was to go work or the occasional Bingo games at the local church. She’d gained weight and stomped around the house in a pair of sweatpants like some trailer-park hillbilly.
Ray wasn’t exactly a prize, but his body was still solid from years of high school football. He used this to his advantage when out on the road, stopping at the special places along the way where he knew a hot meal and a quick fuck were only a phone call away. Strange blow-jobs by strange women had become the norm, and to hell with the occasional trip to the clinic to clear up the evidence of his indiscretions.
Jamie had made up her mind some time ago that she was going to leave him. She couldn’t sit around wondering where he was, what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. She was still young and pretty and there was more to life than living with a man who no longer noticed she was alive.
This trip was going to be her last.
She’d vowed to leave him and take her son where Ray would never find them. Somewhere across the state, across the country. Every town had a diner. She’d be able to find work in no time. Ray wouldn’t give a shit about her taking Tyler; he never showed the kid any attention beyond the obligatory ruffling of his hair when someone was looking. His affection for his own son was just a show. If he didn’t have an audience to witness his exceptional fathering ability, Tyler just blended in with the rest of the furniture.
The Darkening (A Coming of Age Horror Novel) (The Great Rift Book 1) Page 10
