Darkshine

by R. D. Vallier

  "Go home," the chickadee said. I wondered vaguely if it was midnight, if it was still Christmas Eve. "You are freezing and your husband will worry."

  My body stiffened. Darkness stood between me and Sam's protective embrace. It felt like a cruel, nighttime trap. A shooting star streaked across the sky and I wished I was insane, that there were no talking animals or things darker than the darkness. Insanity is safer.

  The chickadee sensed my unease. "No darklings will hurt you tonight," the songbird said. "The spiders made sure to send their spies in the wrong direction."

  "Darklings?"

  "That's the polite name for them."

  "What are they?" I asked.

  "They are part of the Earth's magic. The bad part." The chickadee casually observed the sky. "Morning will be here in a few hours and darklings hunt only at night. The spiders have everything under control for now, but more of its agents are coming. It is coming. You must leave town."

  "Why? What does this darkling want with me?"

  "That is ... complicated. What's important is you leave."

  "Me and Sam are going into the city for a few days tomorrow, but—"

  "That will do," the chickadee said. "Your guide will arrive with more options."

  "Guide? Who else is coming?"

  The chickadee scratched its head. "I'm not sure exactly. A sudden change in the ranks has caused some issues. A raven in Kansas received orders from a golden eagle from the Sierra Nevada, ordering me to fly in from Indiana to find you."

  I blinked. "Wait." I stood up, my feet numb with frozen fire. "Are you saying a bunch of talking birds flew across the United States to tell you to watch me?"

  "Of course not. That's ridiculous," the chickadee said. "Eagles can't talk."

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. I had a thousand questions to ask, but the whole idea of black magic and traveling messenger animals seeking someone as mundane as myself seemed so absurd I had trouble deciding where to begin.

  The chickadee spoke before I formulated a thought. "We will talk more tomorrow. Now hurry back to the house before Sam calls a rescue squad." The chickadee flew up into the branches. "And don't worry. I'll watch out for you."

  I started back through the woods, Keith's story about the chickadees's strength replaying in my mind. Perhaps it was foolish to trust my wellbeing to a songbird, but I trudged through the woods without jumping at a single shadow. The blood had settled in my veins, killing the heat and making me shiver. The way back seemed farther than when I was in a panic, but I soon found the farmhouse. It was impossible to miss. Every light inside glowed.

  "Where the hell did you go?" Sam snapped as I slipped through the backdoor.

  "S-sorry," I stammered, my teeth clacking. "I-I was covered in spiders an-and freaked out. I ran outside, brushing them off me, and got turned around in the woods."

  Clumps of cobweb hung from the stairwell's ceiling, but Sam had cleared away most of the mess. Other than some smashed carcasses on the walls, no spiders or moths were in sight. "What was all that?" I asked, pretending confusion as I peeled the soaked socks off my feet. I never believed the farmhouse's floorboards would feel warm against my skin in December.

  "A goddamn infestation." Sam rubbed his forehead and groaned. "I managed to scare the swarm away, so it will probably leave us alone for tonight. Let's go back to bed. You can finish cleaning the mess in the morning."

  As we climbed the staircase I noticed the scores of smashed spiders—their blood smeared across the wall's paint, their bodies mashed into the crannies of the horsehair plaster. My heart sank as I realized it wasn't just a mess. It was a deserted battlefield, stained with blood for a cause I didn't understand, yet was somehow its catalyst. The steps creaked beneath my weight, and my heart grew heavy with guilt. I was passing the corpses of my murdered heroes.

  I changed into dry pajamas and crawled into bed with Sam, waiting for his breathing to deepen, wondering about the future and chewing on my lip. Sam would be at my side for the next three days braving family obligations, but what about afterwards? Would my husband prove to be my knight in shining armor and stand against the supernatural if needed? If the darkling lunged, would he fight or faint or flee? He held his ground against moths and arachnids, but could he stand against black magic? Was my husband as brave as a spider?

  Sam started snoring. I crept downstairs and fetched paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner from the kitchen cupboards. By the light of the upstairs bathroom I removed the dead spiders from the floors and walls. I wrapped each body in its own strip of paper towel—the only palls I had to offer—and thanked each one for their sacrifice.

  Thanked each one for my life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Will ya hurry up?" Sam said, our luggage slung over one of his shoulders, a gift-filled Hefty bag clenched in his fist. The boxwoods beneath my in-laws' front window were lined with wooden candy canes and strung with colorful lights, their bulbs dark in the daylight. Two blowup snowmen grinned and swayed on the grass, freshly dusted with snow. "Dinner was supposed to start at two o'clock."

  "Isn't that technically still lunch?"

  "Don't be a smart ass, Miriam."

  I shut the truck door with my hip, clenching my scandalous canned pumpkin pie with both hands. I glanced both ways before leaving the truck, as if I was readying to cross rush hour traffic. Vehicles didn't zip along the suburban sidewalk, of course. Or, more importantly, darklings. (At least I didn't think there were any darklings here, since I hadn't the slightest idea what one looked like.) I scurried up the front walkway to catch up to Sam. Even in the daylight I felt shadows stalking me, waiting behind corners, creeping along my skin. The chickadee had said darklings hunted only at night, but it didn't specify if they could or would. Nocturnal predators hunted during the day if starving. How long until a ravenous darkling tracked me to the doorstep to tear the flesh off my bones? Instincts screamed for me to flee, but I couldn't abandon my husband without a word or trace. Nor could I tell Sam something evil hunted me in the dark—he would insist I was insane. But what if Sam sees the darkling, meets it face to face? I wondered. Surely he will stand with me and fight and—

  "Watch it!" Sam caught my forearm as I stumbled over an uneven paver. The pie leapt into the air and landed precariously on my fingertips.

  "It's a miracle you've lived this long with your clumsiness," Sam grumbled, hoisting me to my feet. I clenched the pie dish, imaginary shadows nipping at my heels.

  "Good thing you're here to protect me, huh?" I said, shamelessly testing his loyalty.

  Sam snorted, amused. "Someone's gotta."

  Plus one, I thought, and smiled slightly.

  "Merry Christmas!" Sam hollered as he flung open the front door. Cheers and dog barks trumpeted from the rear of the house. The home's warmth embraced us like a hug, swelling my heart with the scents of roasted ham and peppermint, apple stuffing and pine. Every year my mother-in-law's decorations made my heart glow. Frosted green garland spiraled around the banister, Santa figurines populated the shelves, velvet bows dressed every doorway, and crystal snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, reflecting beads of light from the Christmas tree's twinkling glow. Her decorations reminded me of every Christmas I never had in my childhood, with the shrieking mother, the empty liquor bottles, the cat piss rotting in the carpet. I had abandoned that life in search of a place where I was wanted and belonged, a place where I was allowed to be happy. At the tail of each year I sensed my quest had finally ended. I felt home seep from the spacing between my in-laws' glossy floorboards, and float along Elvis's drawl as he sang Silver Bells. The spiraling garland seemed to whisper everything in the past was gone, buried, forgotten, and promised it was time to start anew.

  "You made it!" Sam's mother called from the kitchen. My muscles tensed. I remembered these decorations were temporary, the aromas a trick. These twinkling Christmas lights were like those of an anglerfish, luring prey in a deep sea abyss. The comfort here is not meant for you, I re
minded myself, and started the dance around the angler's jaws as Sam's mother, Charlene, waddled into the foyer.

  "We almost started dinner without you." She hugged Sam as if he had just returned from war, the sleigh bells hanging off her sweatshirt jingling.

  "Sorry, mama. I left a message on Rich's voicemail. I got called into the station for an hour this morning."

  A Lhasa apso circled my legs like a beige mop, toenails clicking excitedly on the tile. "Hi, Ginger! I'm excited to see you too!" I said, and knelt to scratch her head.

  Sam's mother cast me a strained smile. She reminded me of a gnome—short and squinty and most likely came from a hole in the ground. "Hello, Miriam."

  I forced a smile and a "hello" in return. I had been dreading this visit since ... well ... last Christmas. But what better place to test Sam's protectiveness than in an angler's hunting ground?

  "I'm so happy you made it," she said, her words meant just for Sam. She smirked. "Has your mother spoken with you yet, Miriam?"

  "No." Not since she kicked me out on my eighteenth birthday and I moved in with your son, as you already know, I didn't say.

  "How does a mother ignore her own child? Especially on Christmas?" Charlene said with a melodramatic sigh. I released a slow breath, knowing what she meant was: What makes you think you're good enough for my son when even your mother hates you? I looked to my knight in shining armor and watched him say nothing.

  I scowled and drowned my annoyance in my inner tar. Minus one.

  "Such a shame you can't be closer to your family," Charlene said to Sam. "You really must move closer."

  "Sorry, mama," Sam said, dropping our bag of gifts and belongings at the bottom of the stairs. "I finally have a shot for Sheriff next election."

  Charlene sighed loudly. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, reminding myself her guilt trips were fruitless. Everyone knew Sam dreamed of being Sheriff since toddlerhood. He wanted nothing more. My brow furrowed as I scratched Ginger's rear, her back foot thumping. But does that mean Sam wants it more than his marriage, too?

  "Is that my brother?" Sam's younger brother, Rich, hollered from the dining room, his voice as large as his barrel-chest. "Tell him to hurry up! I'm freakin' starving!"

  We entered the dining room and were greeted with a jumble of Merry Christmases, hellos, and tardiness jibes. We seated ourselves at a table crammed with roasted ham, stuffing, creamed corn, green bean casserole, cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet rolls, egg nog, sparkling cider. Sam's scarecrow of a father sat at the head of the table, quiet and brooding as always, eyeing the ham like a mongrel. Rich, and Rich's very pregnant wife, Cathy, sat to his left. Their chubby four year old daughter, Haley, squirmed in her chair between them, begging to turn the television back on, as if the blank screen was somehow suffocating the Grinch. I balanced my pumpkin pie on the edge of the table, its pan hanging halfway off the corner.

  Sam's father grumbled about China made materials as he sliced the ham with an electric knife, then sat and stuffed his face with meat. Eggnog and cider poured into glasses. Utensils clinked against plates, food passed around the table. Discussions about work and politics and neighborhood gossip drifted from everyone's lips, but I was too focused on my meal to pay any attention. I sat stiff, as if my limbs were wood, and concentrated on every jab of my fork, every cut of meat, every lift of my glass, each chew, trying to act perfect and invisible, afraid any sudden movement would provoke the anglerfish into striking.

  How do they see me? I wondered. Quiet? Rude? Aloof? I felt guilty for avoiding conversation, and hated my inability to be outgoing and joyful despite Charlene's quips and glares. Her hatred of you should not matter, I told myself. Yet it did matter, and I was too weak to fake any different. Too many times I had been bitten for reaching out during the last thirteen years. Too long I had been reminded I was tolerated in this family, not accepted.

  A daddy longlegs scurried between the wall and ceiling and disappeared behind the valance. Rich accidentally caught my eye from across the table and gave me a strained smile, his lips pressed tight. I don't know what to say to you, but I don't want to appear rude, either, his strained smile said. I returned the pressed smile, then poked a green bean with my fork.

  Near the end of dinner I grabbed a roll from the basket and slathered on a lump of butter. Sam's mother cast her stare on me. I stiffened. Did I grab the roll too fast?

  "I'm glad you remembered to make the pie," Charlene said, in a tone suggesting otherwise. My insides clenched. "It looks ... nice."

  "I bet it tastes fantastic, too," Sam said. "She slaved most of last night on it." He winked at me as he spooned mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  I smiled and bit my roll. Plus one. Some tension melted off my neck. Why am I fretting? Of course my husband will stick with me if the darkling attacks. Vying for Sheriff wasn't just a career move; it was a natural drive. Protectiveness stirred his blood, so why not do whatever was necessary to save his own wife?

  How special you think you are, my mother mocked inside my head. You're not the only thing in this world he loves, you know.

  My brow furrowed. This was true. Sam loved his work, his friends, his family, his truck, himself. Of course, none of those things had ever been threatened, either. But maybe ... maybe ... his family was an asset. If the darkling attacked during our visit, then Sam had more reasons to fight and defend. Safety in numbers, plus a home field advantage, had their benefits. And if the darkling manages to take out my mother-in-law in the process? I smirked as I daydreamed about Charlene disappearing forever into the darkness, then slipped Ginger a piece of ham beneath the table.

  The chickadee flitted onto the windowsill and shook its head, as if answering my thoughts about staying to fight. Is the guide out there, too? I wondered, and quickly looked away.

  "Getting excited?" I asked Cathy, addressing her stomach with my eyes.

  "More nervous than anything else." She was a sandy-haired woman, like Sam's mother, with a long torso and a freckled moon-face. "I slept hardly a wink with Haley. I can't imagine how I'll manage twins."

  "That's what grandmas are for," Charlene said proudly, slicing pieces of pumpkin pie for everyone. "Anyhow, twins are a blessing in this family." She cast me a frosty glare. "How else will I get any grandchildren?"

  Maybe if your son was half as interested in sex as he is in his career, I didn't say.

  "Have you two thought about checking your fertility?" Cathy asked. Sam's father grumbled about medical costs and insurance scams and illegal immigration. She ignored him and continued: "My friend's husband had a low sperm count, but the doctors fixed it and they had a baby boy thirteen months later."

  "Hmph!" Charlene said. "No need to waste your money on tests, Sam. Thatchers are breeders. Always have been."

  Rich guffawed and patted his wife's stomach. "Damn straight!"

  Charlene lifted an eyebrow at me. "It's obvious where the issue lies."

  Sam sighed. "Mama ... "

  Charlene shrugged, passing small plates with pie pieces around the table. "I'm just saying, that's the problem with not knowing a child's father. No way to tell how many bad genes got through."

  I turned to Sam, my mouth gaping. Say something! I tried to scream at him with my mind. Defend and protect me!

  "If it isn't meant to be, it isn't meant to be." Sam yawned. "God, we had such a rough night. Strangest thing. We got infested." He chuckled. "You should have seen Miriam, screaming like it was the end of the world."

  My lips pressed tight. Wind ruffled the chickadee's feathers on the sill.

  Charlene lowered her fork. "Infested? Infested with what?"

  "Spiders and moths," Sam said. "The swarm was massive. Unnatural. I smashed spiders and moths nonstop for at least an hour."

  More like ten minutes, tops, I thought, and slipped Ginger more ham. I wondered if Sam emphasized the swarm because, on some level, he had sensed its supernatural element. Or maybe he was just boosting his own importance.

>   "That's because of bad housekeeping," Charlene said. "Learn how to keep a proper home and the problem will go away." She smirked at me. "I will give you tips if you need them, Miriam."

  My blood simmered. I stalled for Sam to defend me. When he remained silent I smiled politely and said: "I'm happy to hear them."

  Charlene made a mmmmph sound—her mixture of acknowledging what I said while still dismissing me—and bit a piece of pie. She coughed lightly, swallowed with a wince, and set her fork on the table. "Well, this is an interesting take on our family's recipe."

  I took a bite and my mouth puckered. Rich gagged and spat into his napkin. The bells on Charlene's sweatshirt jingled as she puffed her chest out triumphantly, behaving as if she had won a battle I never knew was declared. "Though, next time, Miriam, I'd suggest remembering to add the sugar."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The wrapping paper had been torn and tossed, and the tree lights twinkled in the corner. Haley pressed her nose against the television as Rudolph proved his worth to the North Pole. The rest of the family lounged around the living room, gabbing relentlessly for hours. I yawned on the couch, my head on Sam's shoulder as he babbled about college football with Rich and his father, and finished another Bud Ice. A chickadee occasionally darted past the window.

  Charlene waddled in from the kitchen with an eggnog, her sweatshirt bells jingling, and plopped back into the recliner. "Christmas feels so strange without pie," she sighed for the fifth time since dinner. She would most likely continue for the next twenty years.

  I gritted my teeth and pretended not to hear as I ripped the itchy care-tag off my new pajamas. They were as red as a throbbing headache, with obnoxious cartoon polar bears skiing down the stiff flannel. I despised them, but I knew to never slight a gift from Sam's parents unless I wanted to be gibed to my grave. Besides, Sam's present had more than made up for it. A shiny silver bracelet encircled my wrist, a rose etched into the silver heart dangling off the chain. A stark contrast against the flannel with its loose threads and faint smell of chemicals. It's not Tiffany's, but it still cost a whole paycheck, he had said as he handed me the black velvet box. I beamed, loving his effort as much as his gift, for I knew that effort was the same he would use to protect me when the darkling showed.