by Aaron Dries
It was over. Everything.
He stood at the cliff face where his family had fallen; their smashed-in faces and slit throats were branded into the dark behind every blink. This was the way he remembered them, not as they were. The horrible reality of their death-promise had been the last thing he’d seen before burying them in dirt. It was impossible to shake. He missed them. And their absence had turned septic, poisoning him.
The assumption that they would always be with him?
Wrong.
The assumption that he would live to tell his own child of their bravery and cunning?
Wrong.
Theirs was the heritage of the misled.
The line separating ocean from sky was no longer present, having melded into a dark wall that was as impenetrable as the blackness of the tunnels. The last son was so feeble in comparison to the storm’s power, and he knew it. But he stood tall—the final, defiant spike standing between heaven and hell’s battle to claim ownership of the island.
He cringed, the truth having been made apparent to him. Survival was worse than death. And he suspected that the woman knew it too.
The last son had not killed himself as his family had done because he was afraid. This was his shame. He’d been raised to believe that the violence in his heritage would one day return, and he’d been foolish enough, self-righteous enough, to think that these tales were a falsity. They had come, passing through to his home’s inner circle, shedding blood over sacred ground, slaughtering one of his own: their little scout, so loyal and so loved. She’d worn the seashell necklace he’d made for her, even into her grave. Her laughter had been sweet. Her corpse, ripe.
And even after all of this, still, he thought they were wrong.
He’d been sure there was kindness and dumb understanding in at least one of the invaders: the woman. Incorrect.
Screams echoing through the tunnels. Blood on their hands.
Her deceit equaled the cruelty of his elders’ prophecies.
The rain drizzled out. Winds backed away. Everything calmed in hushed reverence. The last son, still panting, pushed his dreadlocks off his face and glared into the eye of the storm. A dim sun stared down on him. It was warm, forgiving.
Lightness swept through him and his knees went weak. He didn’t fight it. There was no point. He was tired, so very tired. He allowed his body to cartwheel through the warm tropical air, and the sense of weightlessness was a little like relief, though it wasn’t. It didn’t take long to reach the bottom. Waves washed his corpse off the rocks and dragged him into the sea.
15
The woman is slouched against the rock. She licks her lips and tastes rat, her last meal; the air is different here. It’s sweeter, saltier. Her smile is faint. There has been nothing but damp rot and wisps of natural gas since the water flooded the warren.
It had been a storm. A big one. So big that the tunnel walls had moaned great vibrations into her hands when she clung to them for balance, as the pain reached its heights. She had expected the entire structure was going to come crashing down on them, but the reinforcements held. The woman thought that maybe, just maybe, she would be better off if it did collapse and they died.
Their child was dead.
The pain had taken it away from them. And he knew it. This was why he slapped her across the face and ran.
She has not seen him since.
There is no more movement inside her anymore, just heaviness she has never experienced. Her hands knead at her exposed stomach.
Red eyes burn in the dark. The dogs are close. They growl as they lap up her vomit.
There is another noise down here. It is a little like the sound of an old transistor radio caught between stations. Ghost voices filtering through. Something in the back of her brain triggers, and the woman knows that she owned such a radio once.
“Pa! PA! Are you out there? Pa! I need you. I need you!”
He does not come. She thinks she can see him shuffling through the shadows, but it’s not him. It’s a stranger in an old gas mask. The glass bug eyes shimmer for the briefest of moments and then are gone. But she knows that he is still there. He is like a great spider lurking in the darkest part of its funnel, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out at her and drink her dry.
She does not know for how long she has walked into the island’s bowels, past the crops and far, far beyond the room where the man kept the crates that washed up on the shore. The flood has forced her farther than she ever expected to go.
Now she is here, where there are no reinforcements on the walls and the ground is rising. And of course there is the new breeze brushing over her, bringing with it the terrifying smell of the outside world. The dogs follow her as she pulls herself off the rock and continues up the slope. She slips. Picks herself up again. Slips. Picks herself up again.
The insects are against the rock. The wind blows and they glow, lighting the way in drawn-out moments of blue exposure. It’s just enough for her to see where she is going. There are even weeds growing here. Cockroaches. She is close.
The walls narrow and she comes to a barricade of rocks. Either part of the ceiling has collapsed or the rocks were wedged there by someone in the hopes of keeping her trapped in the tunnels.
Even though she is close to collapse, even though it hurts, the woman who no longer remembers her name, grabs the rocks and begins to shift them. Some of them are small and come away easy, though the bigger ones require all of her strength. The cooler wind on the other side lashes against her face; it makes her feel alive.
Insects glow and swirl. It is a throbbing light, matching her heart, beat for beat. She stops pulling at the rocks and watches them with fresh eyes. Sweat drips down her face. The insects are a sea of stars, and upon each there hinges a single wish.
It takes a short while for her energy to ebb back her way, but it does. She grabs one rock with both hands, and when it comes loose she falls with it. The woman leaps backward and narrowly misses having her foot crushed.
She reaches into the hole in the barricade and pulls herself through to the other side. The insects follow close behind, spreading across the wet, narrow walls like ants from a nest.
That cool sweet air…
It is now that discomfort strikes. There is no warning, and it climbs in waves, each stronger than the one that came before. She moans, vibrations on her cracked lips. The insects—her only allies since the man left her—sense it too, and sparkle.
It isn’t a pushing pain, more like having knives driven into her abdomen. Her gasps are deep and scorch down her throat. The muscles in her back boom so hard that she has to roll onto her side. Cramps take hold of her, grip, and don’t let go. The dogs are on the other side of the barricade and are jumping up and down with excitement, barks echoing through her head.
“Go ahwhayy!”
With this, her first contraction passes.
The woman is too exhausted to move, and even with the growling dogs climbing over her, sleep manages to snatch her away.
16
It is as though every ounce of oxygen is being compressed from her body. This is almost an industrial pain. Her system is firing pistons and cogs, mercilessly turning, pushing her closer to birth. It grows, holds, withdraws, leaving behind a faint sting. Her back is so bad she’s convinced her spine is contorting, stretching ridges of bones driving up through her skin.
She wishes she had some of the mushroom dust here with her. It numbs. It heals. She wishes this even though she knows, on some fundamental level, that each time she has it, some part of her is corroded away. It is a price she is willing to pay. Anything is better than this. If taking the dust means that this pain will be gone, then she will happily sell her soul for the chance—assuming she still has one.
Another wish: that her father was here to hold her and to tell her that everything is going to be okay. He does not come when she screams.
The woman touches her stomach and finds it as hard as the rocky floor she writhes
against. Her legs thrash. She still doesn’t completely understand what is happening to her. Her terror is primitive, drawn from a well shared by all who have been in such situations, stretching back through the warren of history to the very first woman, whose screams echo through these same dark corridors. They come together, chiming in a single reedy shrill, just like the Coke bottles in the clearing where the upturned boat still lies. That tone is the unknowable made music. It is both the divine and the destroyer.
She feels as though her body is conspiring against her, putting her through all of this because pain reminds the living that they are not dead yet. Even though they want to be dead.
Fingers reaching between legs. There is something there.
Her scream comes again. It is not for her father this time. She does not know where the name comes from, only that it feels right.
“Caleb!”
The baby slides into her hand. Insects swirl and fall and fly again.
It is then that she realizes that every one of those wishes on the stars around her were wishes she’d spent on this child. A wish that it would live. A wish that it would one day find someone to share silence with. A wish that it would not die alone.
The woman lifts her cupped hands and sees what unheeded wishes look like, garishly lit in neon. It is almost amphibian, strung with a net of tissue. Little hands lie still. It has fingers. Legs dangle. It has toes. It is like a featherless bird taken from its shell well before it was supposed to be—this image aligns itself with something from her past, though it’s impossible to place… The child’s head is the heaviest part of its misshapen form. A delicate face glares at her with shut eyes, and she can’t help but think that this is some kind of mercy.
She reels. Cries. Holds it high above her.
Twisted hands shoot out of the gloom and snatch the child away. The insects scatter into chaos so bright there are shadows cast in the crevice.
The woman crumples in on herself, dazed, exhausted. Everything spins, blurs. Her ears ring with the snarls of dogs that have grown sick of waiting. There are gunshots and crashing waves thundering against her ears. The skittery ghost voices between the stations go to static.
She tries to push herself up off the floor. Slides in her own mess. Her vision fades. The fog is coming. The fog is here.
It is the ancient man from the cave. He is familiar to her, like an image from some recurring dream, and she knows that he is worth fearing. His flesh is pocketed with caves, and in them crabs scuttle and fuck. Their tiny pincers are wet. His foot ends in a stump of bone and empty skin and he keeps his balance with the aid of an old workman’s pick. He moves with a jolting, twitching quality—not dissimilar to the parasites that house themselves in his pus-filled cancers. He holds the baby in the crook of one elbow; the fingers of that hand are fused to his wrist. She sees the flints of shale embedded in the flesh where his digits should be, and recoils.
Dead hair hangs over his face, but his black eyes can still be seen through the knots. Those eyes lock with the woman’s, wracking her to the core. Insects buzz. Some land on his lips; they make his rotten pin teeth shine. His head arcs down. Jaws clamp over the child’s head. The skull yields. A stream of black blood paints the rock wall.
The man stands tall, rips her son from his mouth. The remains dangle from his one good hand. He drops them, and the sound of their slopping against the ground has a color, and that color is RED. The dogs leap forward and snatch up the mess, fight over it. They covet it, patience having paid off.
She watches, her hands still outstretched in front of her, as the man scuttles up the incline and into the dark, where the wind is strong and the insects do not go. His pick scrapes against the rock with every jagged step, sending up sparks.
The woman is alone with her vibrations, but even those fade. Insects settle and the dark reclaims her. The dogs are chewing. Her mouth opens. Closes. She tries to remember her name again. If she can only remember it, then maybe there is something here worth saving. It does not come to her. Not yet. But she does allow her hands to move of their own accord, dictated by something she does not quite understand. A memory shining through the fog.
Palms up. Thumb to fingers pinched together. The knuckles of each hand just touching. And then letting them go and drop.
It is the sign for “lost”.
Author’s Note
It’s worth noting that A Place for Sinners features a gigantic number of real locations, from Yarran Street in Evans Head to the numerous Thai provinces, all of which are described in specific (and accurate) detail. These places, whilst factual, are used fictitiously. The island of Koh Mai Phaaw, however, does not exist. And even if it did, I wouldn’t recommend you visit there. For, um, obvious reasons.
So until next time, happy travels.
About the Author
Former pizza boy, retail clerk, kitchen hand, video director, copywriter and aged care worker, Aaron Dries was born and raised in New South Wales, Australia. When asked why he writes horror, his standard reply is that when it comes to scaring people, writing pays slightly better than jumping out from behind doors. His first novel was the award-winning House of Sighs, followed by The Fallen Boys, which was just as—if not more—twisted than his debut. He released the novella And the Night Growled Back in 2013 and is currently hard at work on a fourth book. Between writing, painting, filmmaking and avoiding sleep, he doesn’t have much free time, but feel free to drop him a line at www.aarondries.com anyway. He won't bite. Much.
Look for these titles by Aaron Dries
Now Available:
House of Sighs
The Fallen Boys
And the Night Growled Back
A busload of captives on an express ride to terror!
House of Sighs
© 2012 Aaron Dries
“Aaron Dries has written a fast-paced, blood ‘n guts, edge-of-your-seat horror novel that should definitely establish him as an author to keep an eye on. Be prepared to be blown away.” (Four out of Five Daggers)
—Dread Central on House of Sighs
It’s the summer of 1995, and the passengers of the Sunday bus into town have realized that something is very, very wrong with their driver. They don’t know that she began her day planning to kill herself. But they know that she’s threatening to kill them. They began the ride as her passengers, but now they’re her captives. She’s already shown she won’t hesitate to use that gun in her hand, and no one wants to be the next to die. They have no idea where she’s taking them, who will be left alive when they get there, or what‘s in store for the survivors. With a madwoman at the wheel, the bus has gone far off its route, deep into insanity. And for most of the passengers, the next stop will be their last.
Enjoy the following excerpt for House of Sighs:
Suzie Marten was ten years old when she died.
Her passion was dancing. Spinning herself dizzy in search of rhythm, pirouetting until her toes hurt. Her father had bought her a pair of ballet shoes– a perfect fit, and with pink ribbon laces that wound all the way up to her ankles. She scuffed and broke the soles with a serrated kitchen knife she snatched from the kitchen drawer. Suzie adored those shoes with a pure love that only children can seem to feel for inanimate objects. She was wearing them when she was torn apart.
It was November 9th, 1995.
To Suzie, Sunday morning was the final stop between freedom and school. She both loved and hated Sundays. Suzie despised school and feared her raven-faced, balding teacher, who would sometimes get so mad he threw things. She imagined he spent his Sundays alone, watching the clock, eager for Monday to arrive so he could overturn another desk. He had done this to her best friend; books and pencils had crashed to the floor, an eraser bounced up and clipped one boy’s ear. At recess Suzie sat beside her humiliated friend and wrapped an arm around his shoulder –a brave move considering his sex– because as any ten year old girl knows: where there are boys there's a whole lot of germs. “It’s okay,” she whispered in his
ear. “I saw on the T.V that teachers can’t hurt kids and we can sue him if we want. He’s such a . . . dirty bastard.”
They looked at each other, shocked.
“Suzie Marten, you can’t say that! If they hear you they’ll send a letter home to your mom and she’ll wash your mouth out with soap, or something. I saw that one on the T.V too.”
“Na-uh she won’t. My mom’s too tired to do that. Always in bed. And besides, she says words like that! She works the dog watch at the hospital—whatever that means. She gets home from work when everyone else is getting up. I don’t know what a dog has to do with it. I once saw this boring black-and-white movie about a vampire who only ever came out at night. He could turn into a bat and flew around eating people—or something—and during the day he slept in a box. Did’ja ever see that one?”
Suzie once teased her mother’s mouth open with a spoon while she slept, to see if she had fangs. Donna Marten bolted awake, grabbed her daughter by the wrist and pulled her under the sheets. They laughed. That night they had Fruit Loops for dinner.
On the morning of the ninth, Donna fell into bed after a ten-hour shift. Her knees ached, the smell of disinfectant and cigarettes sweating out of her pores. She was too tired to shower. Suzie pulled the blankets up to her mother’s chin.
“Mo-om,” Suzie said, her voice drawn out and meek.
“What is it, honey? I’m dead on my feet.”
“Well . . .”
“Come on, out with it. I’m two ticks from dreaming.”
“Well, I was wondering. How come on television moms don’t get old? How come Julia Roberts never gets wrinkles but you’re starting to look like an old lady?” Donna stared into her daughter’s innocent eyes.
