Darkshine

by R. D. Vallier

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  DARK EMBER SNEAK PEEK

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For my husband, Joshua.

  You are my magic.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the dark crept something darker, but I dismissed it as merely shadows. A swaying branch perhaps, or a deer tensing until I finished stuffing the can with garbage. Something abnormal never crossed my mind, not even with my scalp prickling and my heart pounding. After all, excitement in this town meant the first gunshot of open season, and battered morels sizzling in oil. Muggings were rare here, murder nonexistent. Crimes occurred behind closed doors, and often by a man who swore he loved you.

  I started back up the walkway, but froze mid-step when I entered the porch light's glow. It flickered, then dimmed, and I didn't feel the security I normally did. I felt exposed, as if the light was an agent of the shadows, highlighting my position for all the night to see. Behind me, wind chimes dinged in the gnarled oak tree. Woodsmoke drifted on the breeze. I released a shaky breath, but the cloud of mist didn't leave my lips; it fled with my body-heat, as if the night was a singing siren, her music luring my warmth away. Dread seeped into my marrow. Unseen eyes bore into the back of my skull. I rubbed my arms and summoned the courage to glance over my shoulder.

  The sky was clouded, the darkness beyond the oak tree expanding into infinity. The world seemed empty. Hollow. If I listened closely I might have heard the shadows echo. But still, it was only blackness.

  Stop being a goose, Miriam. The night is just playing tricks with your imagination, I told myself, unaware the dark would soon make me tremble more than any nightmare. But right then, in a nowhere town in rural Appalachia, shivering on a cement walkway in flannel pajamas and fuzzy penguin slippers on a cloudy, winter night, I did not believe in magic or mystical creatures. I did not believe monsters lurked beneath my bed or in the woods around the farmhouse, and I certainly did not believe they lurked as neighbors or strangers or things darker than the darkness.

  The backdoor's knob creaked in my hand. A shadow struck from the gloom and brushed my cheek, softer than a whisper. I recoiled as if a fist had swung. A moth fluttered up to the porch light and I cursed my foolishness, fear's bitter tang in my mouth. The moth circled the lightbulb twice, then rested upside down on the rim, its antennae twitching. I tilted my head. Have I ever seen a moth so calm beside a light in the darkness? I wondered. It was no larger than a half-dollar, and brown. When I stepped closer it spread its wings, exposing the yellow eyes on its back. My fingers itched to hold it, to feel its soft feet tap my skin. I reached up, my hand cupped. The powdered eyes on its back widened.

  A chickadee buzzed my head; its wingtips scraped my wrist. I jumped back with an: "eek," yanking my hand away as the bird snatched the moth with its beak and zipped off into the night.

  The porch light flickered. I darted through the backdoor and latched the deadbolt behind me.

  "Damn, woman. You look like you've seen a ghost," my husband, Sam, said as I scurried into the living room from the kitchen. He was perched on the couch in a sweatsuit, his back stiff, the television remote in one hand and an iPhone on his thigh. He looked like the general of the living room, the commander of gadgets. His crewcut perfected the picture.

  "No ghost," I said. On the flat screen the newscaster with the birthmark on his forehead reported about American soldiers injured in the Middle East. I clicked on the Christmas tree and slid the chain on the front door. The tree's lights shifted lazily from white to blue to green, and my heart began to steady. "A chickadee buzzed my head. It just startled me, is all."

  "Chickadee? At this time of night?"

  "It snatched a moth off the porch light."

  Sam lifted his cigarette from the empty beer can on the coffee table and tapped off a stalk of ash. "Don't be stupid. It's too cold for moths. You're jumping at shadows again."

  "I know—" what I saw, I almost said. My lips pressed tight as my mother's voice scolded me inside my head. Never make waves, Mir. You already cause enough trouble. Don't cause any more. My poor heart can't take it.

  My face muscles relaxed and hung off my skull, heavy as dough. "You're probably right."

  "Did you lock down the can's lid?" Sam asked, his eyes on the newscaster.

  "Yes."

  He spared me a glare. "Are you sure? I don't want raccoons spreading trash everywhere again. Makes us look bad to the neighbors."

  That had happened once. Three years ago.

  "It's locked. I tugged on the lid like you showed me."

  He nodded curtly, my answer deemed acceptable.

  Most nights I left the curtains open to display the Christmas tree, but tonight I pulled them shut to hide our home from the darkness. My right penguin slipper stared up at me, its stitched smile now pleading. A button eye had fallen off, probably on the walkway near the garbage can. Stuffing protruded from its socket. I glanced at the backdoor, remembering the hollow darkness, the heat-luring night.

  Sorry, little penguin. Surgery must wait until daylight.

  I headed for the stairs, then stopped on the lower landing. "Um, Sam?"

  Smoke leaked out his nose. "What?"

  My brow furrowed. How do I ask for comfort without acting like a child who is afraid of the dark? I leaned against the banister and traced a finger seductively along the wood. "Come to bed with me?"

  Sam groaned as if I had asked him to re-shingle the roof. "I'm watching the news."

  "I know. But we haven't seen each other much lately and—"

  "We live together." His iPhone buzzed. He glanced at it, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He tapped a quick text and sent it off, then noticed I still lingered. "I'll come up when the news is over, all right? If I'm tired."

  Sam's iPhone buzzed as I headed up the staircase. "Can I get you anything before I go to bed?" I asked.

  "Nuh-uh," he grunted.

  "Love you." I stopped on the third step when he didn't answer. His fingers tapped away at the iPhone's screen. "Goodnight," I said.

  When he didn't hear me the seco
nd time I crept upstairs alone.

  I kicked off my slippers and clicked on the bedside lamp. Wind tapped the windowpane, and the floor vent whirred, straining to fight off the cold. A moth flittered out of the closet and circled the light, the shadows of its wings fluttering on the ceiling like a frightened heart.

  "Don't you know it's too cold for moths?" I said, crawling beneath the blankets.

  The moth perched on the lampshade, preened its antennae, then fluttered into the hallway as if eager to deliver a message.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The chickadee stood on the windowsill, staring in at me with its black, beady eyes. It had been there every morning since my incident with the moth three days ago, as if we had some prearranged appointment. I believed it was the same chickadee from that night as well, but had no proof. Instead, I dismissed its behavior as humans often do. It is cold outside and it's seeking warmth through the window. Nothing peculiar. Nothing odd. Life was normal, so carry on.

  "Good morning, chickadee," I told the bird from across the bedroom, even though the sun wouldn't rise for another two and a half hours. The chickadee stared at me as I dressed for work, an intelligence behind those eyes beyond my comprehension. Inside, the window-frame was strung with bunches of dried flowers I had collected the year before—lavender, roses, yarrow—colorful reminders of warmth and sunshine, promises of spring. Outside, a gust of wind sprayed the chickadee with snowflakes. The bird didn't even flinch.

  I must remember to buy birdseed on my way home from work. It's so miserable to be alone in the cold.

  "Tell you what, chickadee," I said, tucking my T-shirt into my jeans. "If I make it through this day without murdering anybody, I'll bring you a treat. Deal?"

  The chickadee stared at me, unmoving.

  I fetched my sneakers from the closet. They were old and dingy, and the double bow hadn't been untied since I bought them two years ago. I crammed my feet inside, wiggling to get my heels in. I stood four feet away from the bird, expecting it to flee from my sudden movement. Instead it watched me, feathers rustling in the wind. I crouched to its eye-level and inched closer to the window. Three feet away, then two, then one. The bird stood its ground. Brave little thing. I held my breath to keep from fogging the glass. If the bird hadn't blinked I would have thought it was dead, frozen on the windowsill. I admired its black cap, its gray body, the hint of tan outlining its wings. "Do you have a message for me?" I asked. The bird lunged at the glass and cursed in its tiny, chirping voice: "chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" Then flew up and over the house.

  The outburst jolted me to my feet. The chickadee had left footprints on the sill, like two tiny pitchforks pressed into the snow.

  I tugged my olive knitted cap over my ears, slid into my favorite overcoat and pranced downstairs, enjoying the weight of the layered, cranberry coattails flailing behind me. I had bought the coat seven years ago, and even on clearance it had been a splurge which made Sam blow his top. It was worth every penny and gripe, however. The satin-lined wool made me feel like a fairytale's winter princess, waiting to enter a ballroom carved from ice and be swept away in a swirl of silk and gold.

  "We're out of milk."

  Daydreams of tiaras and twirling ball-gowns disintegrated as I entered the kitchen. Sam leaned against the counter, scraping a spoon through a bowl of dry cornflakes. The deputy star on his chest gleamed beneath the fluorescent lighting. His collar was starched and creased. "You know I hate dry cereal."

  I grabbed a banana from the Longaberger basket on the table. "I'll pick up some after work."

  "And how exactly does your lack of foresight help me now?"

  I leaned against the refrigerator, tracing a brown spot on the peel with my thumb. "It doesn't."

  "Speak up. I don't understand mumbling," Sam said.

  "It doesn't! I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to upset you."

  Sam nodded, my apology acknowledged. He dumped the bowl of dry cornflakes into the sink and left to check his e-mail. I tossed the banana back into the basket, no longer hungry.

  Computer keys tapped in the living room. My eyes narrowed as my blood-pressure rose. I wanted to march into the living room and tell Sam I was not sorry; his attitude was hurtful and unfair. But my mother's voice scolded me inside my head, insisting how lucky I was to have a husband with a respectable job; how lucky I was to have such an attractive man when most ignored my straggly brown hair and boyish figure; how lucky I was to marry a homeowner; how lucky I was he didn't beat me or cheat on me or mooch away all I had.

  You're too damn sensitive, Miriam. Be grateful for what you have. I could almost see my mother in her wicker chair. A delicate gold cross hanging from her thick neck, her second glass of scotch in hand. Be a good girl. Don't make waves.

  "Be grateful for what you have. Don't make waves," I mumbled with a sigh, then glanced out the window above the kitchen sink. The chickadee stood on the sill, glaring in at me. It shook its head, as if disagreeing with my behavior. But that was ridiculous. Songbirds didn't understand English, let alone the complexities of human relationships.

  "Odds are looking bad for your treat, bird."

  The chickadee glared in response.

  I scurried into the living room, away from the creepy bird and its accusations I imagined. Sam commanded the couch, his laptop on his thighs. He snapped it shut as I entered the room.

  "Mad at me?" I asked as he shoved the laptop into its case and stood, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

  "Stupid mistakes happen. I understand." He kissed my cheek, then murmured into my ear: "Although, you can always make me lasagna tonight to prove you're sorry."

  "Tonight?" I had worked nearly every day for the last three weeks to earn time off for the holidays. Dirty dishes and cigarette butts cluttered the coffee table, junk mail was scattered everywhere, grime darkened the floors and baseboards, the laundry had developed a summit, and the whole house had the stale stench of smoke and neglect. "I planned to clean tonight," I blurted. "And I need to make the pie. And I need to wrap your family's presents. And I—"

  A shadow passed over Sam's austere face. "If I'm not worth the extra effort, just say so. But I honestly don't see the difficulty in some extra cooking. It's not like we have children to take up your time."

  My heart winced. "You are worth the effort," I said. The shadow on Sam's face lingered. I forced a smile. "I'll pick up the noodles with the milk after work. You know I love making your mother's recipe."

  Sam smirked and the eclipse passed. "Not as much as I love you," he said, and grabbed his truck keys off the hook on the wall.

  A chickadee flapped off the porch when he opened the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My heart sank when Sam dropped me off at the shabby gas station, its square windows blazing like the gates of hell in the pre-morning gloom. Knowing I didn't have to return after my shift for five days helped to drag my feet through the door. I punched my timecard, tied my tacky, orange apron around my waist and said a quick hello-goodbye to the puffy-eyed night clerk who practically sleepwalked out the door. I had to survive eight hours today. Just eight hours. I plopped onto the stool behind the cash-register and watched the clock. Only seven hours and fifty-nine minutes to go, seven hours and fifty-nine minutes, seven hours and—Oh!—fifty-eight minutes, until freedom.

  I gritted my teeth as the day dragged. Most people bought gas from the pumps and I never dealt with them. Winter was a bit of a treat since I didn't have to refill the squeegee buckets outside; the water just froze into a blue brick, anyway. Christmas Eve brought in excess out-of-towners, but the majority of customers were locals. Locals I served two to six days a week for the past three years. Locals who did not know my name despite the obnoxiously large Miriam stamped in caps across my heart. They stared through me as I rung up their gas and cigarettes and lottery tickets and booze. I asked them how their day was. How was the family? Any plans for the holidays? Are you sick of the snow yet? It was a rarity when I received more than a one-worded resp
onse.

  I doodled roses and gnomes on discarded receipts during the lulls, and numbed my feelings of inadequacy like an alcoholic, with inflated truths as my drink of choice. I silently praised myself for working steadily in a county with one of the highest unemployment rates in the United States. My minimum wage helped pay the mortgage and Sam's student loans, his diploma stashed somewhere with my box of oil paints and canvases, collecting a marriage's worth of dust. Everyone needed gas, I reasoned, from emergency workers to families. Thus my work helped America thrive and I had no reason for embarrassment or shame.

  And yet, at the Sheriff's Christmas party this year, I had hid in the bathroom for twenty minutes after Sam gibed about my monkey job to all his snickering coworkers as they refilled their plastic cups with spiced wine.

  At 1:59 P.M. I tugged my olive cap over my ears and buttoned my overcoat. Sixty-seconds later I waved goodbye to my relief and darted out the door, coattails flying.

  I ambled down the rural, woodland roads, smiling. The F-250 was our only vehicle, and since Sam worked twelve hour shifts and hated relying on me to pick him up, I had a two mile hike home. I never minded, though. My step bounced as the gas station grew smaller behind me, leaving only the road and trees and the air's faint scent of woodsmoke. I could have gone to the Kroger in town for the lasagna noodles and milk, but I headed toward Keith's Corner Shop instead, a small mom-and-pop on the way home. The fifteen-percent markup was worth avoiding the Christmas Eve crowds.

  The flurries had stopped hours ago and the sun broke through the clouds, making the weather brisk but pleasant. A thin blanket of white covered the ground, and other than a few oaks clinging onto clumps of brown leaves, the trees were bare, watching the roads like skeleton guards. Cardinals darted between the branches, but otherwise the world was still, with the loud silence winter creates. During spring these woods breathed in shades of green, leaves dancing to a choir of songbirds. But for now their songs were a memory and a distant anticipation.

  Except for one.

  I had heard the birdsong before, but didn't know which species sang the four, crisp notes. High, low, high, low. The notes followed me for a full mile, the soloist hidden somewhere in the trees. One of the cardinals, perhaps? High, low, high, low. Do, bee, do, bee. The music rang in the winter stillness, sweet and tender, as if trying to coax the leaves from their buds.