The Face of Midnight

by Dan Padavona

  Her eyes considered the bike—twisted, bent carbon, the brand name nearly scraped away by blacktop.

  “Hmm. No saving the bike, I fear. But if you want me to throw it in the trunk—”

  “Just leave it,” I said.

  I turned away. The scrapes across the bike’s body reminded me of what had become of my skin. I found no sign of my headphones or MP3 player. They were probably halfway up the hill, in worse shape than the bike.

  “All right. Can you walk to the car if I help?”

  I told her I could, though each step made my head swim and my stomach turn. She watched me closely as we took it one step at a time, concern etched into her face.

  “We should really get you to the hospital.”

  “No doctors.”

  I expected her to protest, but she just shrugged her shoulders.

  “Good. I don’t trust doctors.”

  I pulled the passenger door open, and she eased me into the car. New car smell and pungent black leather met me as I slumped into the seat. I should have told her to drive me to the hospital, insurance or not. My head seemed to float off my shoulders, and the yellow stripe of dividing line snaked and slithered out the window as though alive. Maybe I had brain trauma. Maybe I was minutes away from an aneurysm.

  Screw it.

  I rolled the dice and put my life in her hands. There were worse fates than dying in the front seat of a sports car with the sexiest girl in Kane Grove beside me.

  “What do they call you, Don Juan?” she asked, slipping into the driver’s seat. I would’ve stolen another glimpse of her legs, but I felt sure I would vomit if I didn’t keep my eyes fixed on the undulating road.

  “Jerry.”

  “Jerry like Seinfeld, or Jerry like Cantrell?”

  I smiled to myself. An Alice in Chains fan. Could she be more perfect?

  The last thing I remember was trying to form an answer.

  “Jerry…Laymon.”

  Everything went black.

  My eyes squinted open to a blur of traffic lights whipping overhead, the windows rolled down, letting in a cold splash of upstate New York air. Where was she taking me? What if the short skirt and pretty face were meant to lure me into her car before she slashed a razor across my throat, stole my wallet, and left me in a countryside ditch?

  I still hadn’t asked for her name. Or had I? My mind was a needle on a skipping record.

  After losing consciousness for several minutes, I awakened to the grumble and jounce of tires along a gravel road. The high beams were on, painting field grass in monotonic whites and grays. A creek sluiced beyond a line of barren trees, reflecting the twilight, mirroring her eyes.

  She swung the Mazda up a rocky incline of a driveway. Just up the hill, a long apartment complex seemed to grow out of the earth, like the dead rising.

  “Where are we?”

  She jumped, the dashboard lights cast back against her face.

  “Jesus, you scared me. I thought you were asleep…or dead.”

  “I feel like I am,” I said, trying to rub away the sensation that a layer of putty lay beneath my face.

  The beams swept across an apartment on the lot’s right end and shut off. She killed the engine, and a chorus of cricket songs rang through the open windows.

  “Home, sweet home.”

  Home, sweet home?

  The L-shaped complex, with its chipping paint and dingy windows, made me think of the Bates Motel. One of the apartment’s shutters hung askew like the broken wing of an injured bird, and there was a smell—a stale, musty odor that blotted out the scent of spring rising off the dewy grass. I wondered why she chose to live here, why she of all people scraped my carcass off the blacktop and drove me to her house without knowing the first thing about me. That got me thinking again about who she was and whether or not I should trust her.

  As she helped me up the steps, I took in the string of connected apartments, a queer familiarity tickling recollection down the less-traveled corridors of my memory. I’d seen this place before. But where? A faded wooden sign welcomed all to Gardenia Apartments. At the base of a pitched roof, five dark letters spelled MOTEL, each letter flickering and dying like moths to a flame. I should have known this place, but the memory hid lost and unrecognized, like a ring in the dark, smutty murk of a catch pipe.

  She unlocked the door, and I limped with her assistance from the entryway to the couch. The downstairs barely looked lived in—little in the way of furniture, a small television, an absurdly small dining room table. While I slouched against the cushions, she disappeared around the corner to the kitchen. I heard cabinets opening and closing and the sound of running water, and a few minutes later she returned with a first aid kit, a box of gauze bandages, and a glass of water.

  “You look prepared for the worst,” I joked, as she dunked cotton into a bowl of iodine. She didn’t answer.

  “This is gonna hurt,” she said, holding my gaze until I nodded that I was ready.

  She dabbed the cotton, soaked with purple savagery, against the newly-exposed layers of my excavated skin. It felt as if she’d run a blowtorch across my arm. I bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming. Even after she took the cotton away, the burning went on incessantly.

  “The hurt means it’s working,” she said, giving me a wink. “At least that’s what Mom always told me.”

  “My mother said the same,” I said through gritted teeth. “I thought she was full of shit back then, and that iodine is payback for all the hell kids give their parents. Iodine and Bactine—the suburban parent’s favored choices for torture devices. Nothing since has changed my opinion.”

  Now she held a pair of scissors. A needle and thread rested on the end table, and I hoped to hell she didn’t intend to stitch any wounds. She cut the gauze to size, and I looked away as she moved it toward my bleeding arm.

  “You never told me your name.” I tried to change the subject, hoping she’d slow down and let me recover between torment sessions.

  “Yes, I did. But you kept falling asleep during the ride.”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “I didn’t. You had a valid excuse. This time.” The bandage felt like sandpaper against my arm. She moved her attention toward lesser wounds, applying a dab of antibacterial cream here, a small bandage there. “And it’s Kelli Tyler, by the way. Kelli with an ‘I’, not a ‘Y’.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kelli with an ‘I’. Do you always make it a point to pick up roadkill and take it home?”

  “You needed help.”

  “I didn’t ask for help.”

  “In a fair world, you shouldn’t have to ask.”

  Something flashed in her eyes when she said it. Anger? Hurt? It came and went before I could decide.

  She pulled the bottom of my shirt up to my armpits and cursed. I glanced down at a trail of gravel buried into flesh which appeared as though someone had gone at it with an acetylene torch. Feeling such pain made me regret my decision not to see a doctor. If it were up to me, I would’ve given up and gone to the hospital no matter the cost, but she bit down on her lower lip and went to work.

  Kelli nursed my wounds for what seemed like the entire night but was probably about thirty minutes, removing every last bit of gravel, applying ointments, washing and rewashing wounds. When she finished, I still looked like hell, but I was clean. No infection could have survived the nuclear assault of ointment applications she administered.

  “Expect the skin around your wounds to feel tight for a few days. You should feel a lot better by next week. Do you still feel dizzy, nauseous?”

  My stomach felt unsettled, but the room wasn’t spinning.

  “Not as bad as before. Look, if you could just drive me back to my—”

  “Not a chance. You’re staying here. On the couch. Someone has to keep an eye on you tonight.”

  “How do you know I don’t have someone to look after me at my apartment?” She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, yeah. I’m a loser, and I li
ve alone. That’s my story. But what’s yours? I still don’t know why you’d pick up a total stranger and let him sleep on your couch.”

  “You’re not a total stranger. I’ve seen you around campus.”

  “Kane Grove University?”

  “Yes. I’m working on my psychology masters. We’ve crossed paths in the Jamison Science tower. I recognize you, though I don’t think I’ve seen you around lately. Did you graduate?”

  “I took a leave of absence.”

  Her eyebrow cocked higher.

  “Any particular reason?”

  There was a lot I chose not tell her. I was already $35,000 underwater in loans, and this year’s aid package had fallen much below last year’s. True, I was only 36 credits from a bachelor’s of science, and conventional wisdom stated that I should have bitten the bullet and paid the last forty grand of tuition and board. But conventional wisdom wasn’t paying my bills. I was. And to be totally honest, I’d started to hate university life—the sense of entitlement among the student body, star professors who were more interested in getting their research papers published than in teaching, the whole scam that is higher learning in the twenty-first century.

  I mean, it’s just a shell game when you get right down to it. The university takes your money, draining your family’s life savings, then delivers a vague promise about job prospects for graduates, while forcing you to waste two-thirds of your credits on poetry and theater classes which don’t have jack to do with your major. They roll out bar charts comparing the lifetime earnings of college graduates versus the general population, all the while subtly painting the trade schools as the great unwashed masses. After four years, your savings are replaced by a mountain of debt, and no one in your career field is hiring. College is a confidence trick. Anything which takes so long and costs so much has to have an incredible payoff. Right? Yet when you leave campus for the final time, you look back over your shoulder and see the same bright-eyed prospective freshman sitting at the recruitment table, watching the shells slide back and forth.

  “I needed some time away.”

  “I don’t blame you. We could all use some time away from Kane Grove.” Intensity flared in her eyes, again so brief that I almost missed it. “Anyhow, you can tell me all about it later. We’re staying up late tonight.”

  “We are?”

  “Well, I am. I’ll wake you several times during the night to check on that head of yours. You’re probably fine, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  I slept uncomfortably on Kelli’s couch, which was really more of a loveseat. I’m a pretty short guy, but my head hung over one arm, and my feet draped over the other.

  As promised, Kelli came to wake me once an hour, though the discomfort of the cramped couch and the searing pain every time my skin stretched kept me wide awake or in a state of semi-sleep. I was delusional through much of the night. I remember talking about old friends and lost loved ones, as though Kelli was family. I dreamed she cried at my grandmother’s funeral. Don’t ask me what that was about. Another time she kissed me fully on the mouth, her tongue searching for and finding mine. That couldn’t have happened, either—not to me, and definitely not with a girl so beautiful. Yet when I awoke the next morning, I wasn’t convinced I’d dreamed the kiss.

  Ready to find out what happens next? Download Crawlspace at:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CM3HVUY

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  If you liked The Face of Midnight, you’ll LOVE my full-length, vampire horror novel, Storberry. Visit http://www.amazon.com/Storberry-Dan-Padavona-ebook/dp/B00N0D2LUG to start reading Storberry right now.

  Storberry is an old-school thriller that returns the vampire mythos to its horrific roots. See what others are saying about Storberry:

  “A Genuine Gem of the Horror Genre”

  “A Classic Horror Novel”

  “[Padavona's] descriptions paint vivid portraits in the mind and help with the visual 'Drive-In movie feel'."

  "Finally a vampire story where the monsters are actually scary."

  "Foreboding and moody. I love it!!!"

  "[Padavona's] descriptive imagery is outstanding. I truly 'see' this town and the characters."

  Ready to be scared? DOWNLOAD STORBERRY at http://www.amazon.com/Storberry-Dan-Padavona-ebook/dp/B00N0D2LUG and turn the lights to low.

  Author’s Note

  In “Crawlspace” and “The Face of Midnight,” I ushered you, Dear Reader, into very dark realms.

  You might ask me where I get my ideas. Do they originate from Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Richard Laymon, Brian Keene, or the horror movies of the 1970s and 1980s? These writers and movies greatly influence me as they would any horror writer or filmmaker. But I believe the true source of darkness comes from within, a product of life experiences, hopes, and fears.

  Like “Crawlspace,” I chose to write “The Face of Midnight” in the first person. I felt the voice was a natural fit for this story, as it allowed us to feel the most anxiety for Becca. After all, as a rule, the narrator does not die in a first-person-perspective story. Or at least, when they do it is a rather cruel joke. The narrator might lose a body part or see his life spin out of control, but we accept he will survive the ordeal.

  Since the “Dark Vanishings” series I’ve had a voyeuristic fascination with characters living where they previously didn’t belong. For instance, downtrodden characters moving into a luxury resort hotel vacated after the apocalypse. “The Face of Midnight” amps up the intrigue because Becca sneaks into posh residences while the owners are alive but on travel. Despite Becca’s assurances that she is safe, we are intelligent enough to understand not all possibilities can be accounted for, and eventually, she will get caught.

  And these situations are the most entertaining to write. I can’t help but live vicariously through my characters, making decisions with them, seeing how far they will push their boundaries. Would you dare to live inside someone else’s home?

  Sympathizing with Becca is easy—she is homeless, she simply wants to survive without living on the streets. Becca never abuses her opportunity; instead, she takes it upon herself to care for her temporary home. She is arguably the most resourceful character I’ve written to date.

  A clear dichotomy exists between Becca’s treatment of the Lin residence and the foreclosure house. From the moment she sees the house, she is suspicious of the foreclosure, even antagonistic. This 180-degree attitude swing influences our own feelings toward the house, even though it is obvious from the beginning that the old house is dangerous.

  Approximately half the novel takes place inside the creepy foreclosure house, and that percentage met a goal I had for the narrative. I wanted to be trapped with you inside the house for an uncomfortably long period of time, not just for the final chapter. Believe me, I felt grimy and dusty writing those scenes. I even felt a little claustrophobic.

  I hope the payoff was to your liking. The climax had a “Black Christmas” or “When A Stranger Calls” feel to it, in my opinion.

  Thank you again to Jack Musci for outstanding editing. Jack has been my editor since “Storberry,” and in the nearly three years I’ve written horror, he has refined my style and helped me discover my voice. I can’t thank him enough for his patience and persistence.

  Most of all, thank you to my beautiful wife, Teresa Padavona. We’ve traveled our own dark passages over the last two years, but we did it together and came out
stronger. I will love you forever. Thank you for three decades of magic.

  As always, thank you, Dear Reader. Your support is greatly appreciated and is a source of inspiration in all my writing. I don’t know where I’ll take you next, but I know it will be an exciting journey.

  Although some of the United States locations described in The Face of Midnight are actual places, Barton Falls itself, Smith Glen, and most of the featured locations are solely of the author's imagination. Any resemblance between the people in this book and people in the real world is purely coincidental and unintended.

  Copyright Information

  Published by Dan Padavona

  Visit our website at www.danpadavona.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Dan Padavona

  Artwork copyright © 2016 by Dan Padavona

  Cover Design by Elderlemon Design

  Editor - Jack Musci

  All Rights Reserved

  About the Author

  Dan Padavona is the author of The Face of Midnight, Crawlspace, The Dark Vanishings series, Storberry, Shadow Witch, and the horror anthology, The Island. He lives in upstate New York with his beautiful wife, Terri, and their children, Joe, and Julia. Dan is a meteorologist with NOAA’s National Weather Service. Besides writing, he enjoys visiting amusement parks, beach vacations, Renaissance fairs, gardening, playing with the family dogs, and eating ice cream.

  Visit Dan at: www.danpadavona.com