The Darkest Lullaby

by Jonathan Janz

  That’s right, there was a dog. There was also James Brolin, Margot Kidder and Rod Steiger as a priest besieged by flies, and that movie bears absolutely no resemblance to this, so quit being a child and figure out what the hell is making that noise!

  She made a fist, tapped the side of her leg for courage.

  Though she’d never been down here, she thought she could guess the layout of the basement easily enough. This rectangular room followed the outline of the kitchen and dining room exactly. She ventured a few paces farther and realized that, yes, there was another door that led under the foyer and, presumably, the living room. The mechanicals or whatever the hell you called them had to be in one of the other rooms because this one was empty.

  Almost empty, she amended. There were several old boxes and what appeared to be a cobwebbed set of andirons. A dusty, full-length mirror.

  A thunking sound made her jump. She covered her chest with a trembling hand and stared at the wall. The thud grew faster, louder, something else mixed in now, a jittery clicking that made her, for the first time, fear for her safety. Not from anything otherworldly, but from the possibility of something exploding and ripping her face off.

  She crept toward the door and grasped the cool knob.

  And drew her hand away.

  Wait for Chris. He’ll know what to do.

  Or better yet, get out of the house, go sit in the car and listen to some tunes. Then, if the place blows sky high it won’t take you with it.

  Abruptly, the noise stopped.

  She became aware of another sound beyond the door: an anguished whimper. Her eyes widened.

  Petey.

  Couldn’t be. If the basement door had blown open somehow, he could have gotten down here, sure. But this door was closed tight, perhaps even locked.

  She reached out, twisted the knob.

  Not locked.

  She opened it a crack and was assaulted by a new odor: a gamy, nauseating smell that reminded her of rancid meat.

  Petey whined, his voice very faint.

  Ellie opened the door and stared into the darkness. Skin prickling, she pawed the cinderblock for the switch but couldn’t locate it.

  Petey whined again.

  Why did Chris have to take the flashlight?

  She stepped into the gloom and bent forward to see. She strode deeper and a little more light spilled in.

  But not enough. She could just make out more boxes, several unidentifiable shapes.

  And another door.

  Great. Just what she needed.

  There could be another switch over there, she told herself.

  Yeah? And what if the door behind you swings shut? This old house is drafty as hell. What happens if you get stuck down here in this stinking dungeon? What if Chris doesn’t come home for several hours? Are you really willing to subject yourself to that for a dog?

  Yes, she realized. She was.

  Petey might act strangely at times—she’d be a long time forgetting the way he’d gawked at her naked body a few minutes ago—but he’d become a member of their family. A loyal, good-hearted member. And if he’d gotten himself stuck down here, it was her responsibility to get him out. Chris would be proud of her. Hell, she’d be proud of herself. It would prove she didn’t always quit, could actually stare down a hairy situation and see the damned thing through.

  Jaw firm, she continued into the room.

  The men would have long hair, Chris thought, the women the type who rode on the backs of motorcycles with their lower back tattoos showing.

  Jesus, man, would you calm down?

  He barely heard the faint, rational voice. As he reached the base of the hill and began to skirt the edge of the pond, he wondered if this was how Petey felt when sensing the presence of other dogs.

  Like the one he’d killed.

  Interlopers. Threats. Creatures to whom he needed to send a message, to destroy if necessary.

  Relax! They’re probably teenagers, for chrissakes, harmless teenagers sneaking out for a few kicks. They’ll be scared shitless when they see they’ve been discovered, so there’s no need to march in there like a backwoods Dirty Harry.

  But what if they weren’t scared of him? What if they were hellraisers looking for trouble, the kind who’d welcome a confrontation?

  What if they’re armed?

  That stopped him.

  Yeah, he told himself, what if they have guns? Just what the hell will you do then?

  With a sinking heart he cast about for a weapon. Nothing presented itself but a few smooth stones and a larger rock that was too cumbersome for practical use.

  You could find some poison ivy and threaten to give them a rash.

  He chuckled softly and glanced back the way he’d come. He’d made better time tonight—the trip had taken just over an hour. He supposed he could go back home and arm himself with something a little more imposing than a flashlight. But that would take another couple hours round trip, and then what? By one in the morning they might be dozing peacefully in their sleeping bags, perhaps even making love under the moonlight. He’d feel like a schmuck barging in on their campout brandishing a kitchen knife and demanding they pack up their things.

  He regarded the mouth of the trail indecisively.

  They’re teenagers and they’re on your land. Tell them to get the hell off. You’re completely within your rights, and the only reason not to do so is your own fear of confrontation. Stop being a pussy and do it.

  And then what? he demanded. Granted, there’s a chance they’ll be scared to death, but if they’re the kind of teenagers you sometimes encountered in the classroom—the type of kid who’d tell you to fuck off and couldn’t care less about your authority—what will you do then? What if they laugh at your Clint Eastwood act and tell you to get lost? Or worse, what if they threaten you? What if they do more than threaten?

  The voice went on, its logic growing more persuasive by the moment: The point is, you have no idea what’s waiting for you in that clearing, and the only sensible move is to head back to the house and return in the morning. If you want to bluster at them then, when they’re hung over and eager to go home anyway, you go ahead. You want to call Bruder, have him accompany you, have at it. But tonight? Home is the only choice.

  He’d all but decided when he heard the baby crying.

  Can’t be, he told himself. No one would carry a newborn over acres of tangled trails to spend the night on someone else’s land. No parent, no matter how irresponsible—

  The baby’s cry shrilled higher, unmistakably a cry of pain, of suffering. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his stomach roiling and sour.

  He remembered having the flu once. Unable to keep anything down, dehydrated and weak, he’d finally allowed Ellie to drive him to the ER, where he spent the small hours of the morning attached to an IV and feeling even worse than before. But just as awful as the nausea and the discomfort of the stiff hospital bed was the sound of an infant wailing in agony. The nurses had at first been concerned for the baby, then apologetic toward Chris for having to listen to its cries, and finally visibly agitated by the unceasing noise. The baby had been colicky, according to the brusque doctor who treated Chris, but to him and Ellie it had sounded as though the child were undergoing the worst pain imaginable, in agony yet unable to express it in any manner save that ear-shattering wail.

  This cry was like that but worse, much worse. The power of the child’s voice grew and grew, setting Chris’s teeth on edge, causing his scrotum to shrivel until his balls ached.

  My God, he thought. Was someone hurting the child?

  A flood of images tumbled through his mind:

  A circle of faces, their expressions devoid of emotion save the hunger in their eyes.

  A writhing, squalling newborn carried naked to the center of the circle.

  A fire awaiting the child, its acrid scent like brimstone.

  Sacrifice.

  “Oh my God,” Chris whispered and began to run.
>
  In an instant he reached the trail. He thundered down the dim corridor, a memory of the first visit informing his steps. As he dashed through the darkness the child’s caterwauling grew louder and now he did hear chanting, did hear other voices tolling in unison.

  Dear God, the voices. And not just a couple, a legion of them. He heard chanting, the baby’s cry and something else, as well, something that broke through the anesthesia of terror and slowed his movements to a jog.

  Moaning. Voices moaning in sexual pleasure.

  That couldn’t be right, he told himself as he rounded a corner. But it was. The sounds were unmistakable. It all swirled in a witches’ brew of discordance and made his head hurt.

  “Chris,” a female voice said.

  The other voices were still present, but they were fading. The firelight, so distinct earlier, had diminished, had lowered to an occasional flicker between the sparse trees separating him and the clearing.

  “Closer,” the voice urged.

  And now, far from feeling scared, Chris was overcome with desire. The voice was purring, supplicating. Full of want and the promise of pleasure.

  But…Ellie, he tried to remind himself.

  “Closer…closer…closer…”

  Chris moved deeper. A curve left, then right. The trees opened up. There were no hooded figures, no chanting cult.

  No child, writhing in agony.

  And though the fire was extinguished—if it had been there at all—he could indeed see a woman. She stood at the far edge of the clearing, naked, her slender arms dangling at her sides, the starlight whitening her pale flesh and blackening her large eyes, her red hair, the knowing curve of her mouth, the twin blush of her nipples, the chestnut-colored V between her legs.

  Closer.

  The voice grew louder.

  Closer, Chris.

  He approached, the supple grass cushioning his shoes. He made out more of her now. Tall body, her hair so curled it looked like ringlets cascading over her shoulders, ending just above the curves of her perfect breasts, which were not large but drove him crazy all the same. Slightly upturned, creamy.

  Like Ellie’s.

  Yes, he told himself, think of Ellie. At home in bed. Needing you. Your wife, Chris, your wife.

  “Closer,” the woman urged.

  And Chris obeyed.

  Ellie ventured closer to the black basement door. Amorphous shadows and sooty smudges on the walls floated past. A faint whiff of sulphur tinged her nostrils and tickled her throat.

  She succeeded in keeping her fear at bay until a deep rumble vibrated the floor beneath her, made her teeth champ together painfully. It was a low, growling bass note accompanied by the creak of something about to burst. She imagined a gigantic bellows breathing superheated air into the hull of an iron ship, the walls of the hull bending, groaning. A great oak tree being torn apart by a sadistic giant, its ancient bark twisting, a million tiny ruptures popping within.

  And beneath the sound, she heard Petey whimpering.

  My God, had he gotten himself stuck down here? Had he come to investigate the noise out of protectiveness or simple curiosity and somehow gotten caught in the gears of whatever antiquated machine powered this place?

  Forgetting for a moment how scared she was, Ellie took the last few steps at a jog, reached out and opened the door.

  And felt her heart lurch.

  Though it was nearly black within the small, closet-like room, she could see Petey’s shiny body lying sideways on a workbench. She could see his trusting eyes flickering in the scant light that filtered from the doorway, which now seemed a thousand miles behind her. She discerned his sinuous shoulders, a dark space where his mid-section should have been, then his hind legs. He appeared comfortable, unalarmed. How he could have gotten up to the workbench, why he was lying on it, she had no idea, and further, she no longer felt the need to protect Petey, was only concerned with getting back upstairs and getting into the light. There was a fundamental wrongness here, and though she had no idea why this feeling should fall upon her with such certainty, she felt it all the same.

  But when the shadows shifted and the scene before her clarified, Ellie lost the ability to think.

  The reason she couldn’t see the middle of Petey’s body was the man obscuring it, the enormous man who had tensed, who was now aware of her presence, who was turning slowly to face her. Ellie had never experienced such mind-shattering fear in her life. She tried to back away from the man who was turning, turning, his wild black shock of hair spreading out like a lunatic halo, his huge staring eyes and broad thunderous brow crashing over her with the full force of insane malice, and he was reaching out for her now, striding toward her, and without thinking she wheeled and fled, the man’s heavy footfalls echoing behind her. Ellie dashed for the door, knowing she would have to turn, scamper across the last section of basement and up the steps, and she could barely see to do any of it.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder but it was too dark to see the man. Somehow, this was worse than spotting him. She cried out as she lunged through the door into a brighter dimness, and in moments she was clattering up the stairs, hands slapping the wooden slats as though she were a child again, and above her the doorway beckoned. Oh please be back, Chris, please be there at the top.

  Sure at any moment a powerful hand would seize her ankle and drag her screaming into the darkness, Ellie leaped forward, reached the kitchen on hands and knees. She slid forward on the linoleum and with a palsied hand reached out. Her fingers had just brushed the door when she chanced a look at the basement below and screamed in horror.

  The man was clambering up the stairs.

  His wide eyes pierced her with depthless hunger, his grinning mouth a scar of vicious lust.

  Ellie slammed the door on him, hurled herself against it and twisted the lock. The door jumped as he crashed against it, and Ellie stumbled away, appalled by the man’s strength.

  She sprinted through the kitchen, sure at any moment the door would splinter and the man would burst through. She careened around the corner, through the screened-in porch, and into the backyard. She no longer trusted her senses to help her; the man could tackle her from behind and she’d never hear him coming. Oh God, that face. Those sadistic devil’s eyes.

  It doesn’t matter now, she thought as she reached the Camry. The car was in bad shape, but the damn thing had worked earlier. It would sure as hell work now.

  She shut the door and reached for the keys.

  And slammed her forehead against the steering wheel when she realized the keys were in the house. What an idiot! Of all things, how the hell had she forgotten the keys? She reached for the handle intending to get out and make a break down the lane, to run all the way back to town if necessary, when she realized a shadow had fallen over her.

  Oh my God.

  The man.

  Ellie swiveled her head slowly and looked up at the face peering through the window beside her.

  Chris.

  He opened the door as she exploded into tears. She threw herself into his chest, buried her face in his shirt, shook her head as he asked questions. She couldn’t make out his words, could think of nothing but the man in the basement. The man—

  “We’ve got to leave,” she said, pulling away.

  The concern on his face only heightened her frantic need. “Ellie, what—”

  “Now, Chris. We have to leave now.”

  His mouth worked a moment, then he gestured weakly toward the house. “The keys are upstairs on the nightstand.”

  She pushed out of the car to get a clear view of the house.

  The back door was closed, and no figure stood watching them from the other side.

  “Ellie, what’s going on?”

  “There’s someone inside.”

  “In the house?”

  Tears threatened again. “God, it was awful. He was after me, Chris. He…he had Petey.”

  His voice went tight. “What do you mean ‘He had Petey�
��?”

  A fleeting pang of indignation hit her. You’re more worried about the dog than you are about me?

  Then she remembered the man’s mad eyes and her anger passed.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said. “Something’s wrong here.”

  Chris glanced at the house, his face uncertain. “Was he…hurting Petey?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know…I couldn’t tell. It was dark down there.”

  He turned to her, a questioning look in his eyes.

  “The basement,” she explained. “He was in the basement.”

  “Why were you—”

  “Who gives a shit, Chris? He wanted to kill me.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time Ellie took in his disheveled state, the rumpled shirt, sweat-soaked and ripped near the neckline. And his complexion, ordinarily so fair, was flushed a deep crimson. A new species of disquiet wormed its way through her belly, and for one horrible moment her husband resembled the man from whom she’d fled.

  “Okay,” Chris said, more to himself. “Okay. We’ll find a place to stay in town tonight, but we can’t get there without the keys.”

  “Then let’s walk,” she nearly shouted. “Anything’s better than standing here.”

  “It’s twelve miles to town. You talk about dark—”

  She grabbed hold of his shirt. “He’s in there, Chris. I locked him in the basement, but the door won’t hold him. He’s…huge…strong, crazy. Now dammit, let’s go already!”

  His hands went to her shoulders, his condescending expression infuriating her. She wasn’t some hysterical woman gibbering nonsense; she was totally lucid, perfectly able to differentiate what was real and what was—

  Her thoughts broke off when she saw the woman watching them from the forest.

  “Listen, Ellie,” she heard him say from far away, “if the man is as dangerous as you say he is…”

  The woman was naked, her bare breasts pallid and small in the moonlight. She stood beside an oak tree, one hand poised on the rough bark, the other hanging loose at her bare hip, which was also stark white, luminous against the sylvan backdrop.