Deep in the Darkness

by Michael Laimo

  Then without letting myself think about it any further, I pulled away from the tree and darted toward the house.

  Old Lady Zellis's House.

  Gasping, I reached the back door. Bits of bark clung to my shirt. A sharp pain made itself known in my knee. I stood quietly for a moment, resting, allowing the ache in my knee to level out before drumming up the nerve to go inside. In this nightmarish moment of inaction I felt a type of loathsome honor...here I was, some kind of b-movie hero about to rain down on the parade of the evil doers by bounding in and rescuing the poor fair maiden. It made me feel disconnected from reality, being on this mission to save my family from the evil ancient breed who's taken an entire New England town hostage. Did it really make any sense? Have I too become one with the ghouls by partaking in their sick game? Am I losing my fucking mind?

  I wanted to scream but held it inside, along with the deep inner coldness I knew would stay with me for as long as I kept breathing. I drew my arms around my body, shivered, then again looked at the house.

  At the back door.

  I reached out and grabbed the doorknob. It was rough with rust.

  I turned it.

  And then, I went inside.

  35

  I walked into a small vestibule. Stopped. Inhaled deeply. The air tasted bitter, of age and dust. I paced forward into a small kitchen. Here the room sat in a spiritless light, the windows caked with soil and grime and barely able to accept what little illumination the outside world had to offer. In a sudden and alarming moment, I tried to envision my wife and daughter here in this strange dark environment, but had trouble even remembering what they looked like. I'd spent very little time with them over the past couple of months, and over that time they'd changed on not only an emotional level, but on one physical as well. Staring at the decrepit features of the kitchen, the rusty basin, the rotting cabinets, the shredded wallpaper, I realized that my family had become complete and total strangers, as foreign as this place was to me. I mean, I could very well make out their features, Christine's swollen belly and permanent frown, Jessica's blonde curls and glassy blue eyes, but attempting to recall how they looked before all this happened seemed impossible, as though all outward aspects of their happiness had never existed. And then, when I tried to muster up some images of happiness taking place amongst us in the future, only dark shadows arose in my mind's eyes, blanketing the potential for such a seemingly overindulgent request.

  Momentarily keeping thoughts of my family at bay, I set my sights past the doorway in the kitchen, toward what would be the living room—although from this angle it didn't appear that much living went on in it. I could see outside beyond the two front windows, to the porch and then to the wrought iron fence. Like before, the environment appeared lifeless. If it wasn't for the minivan, I'd've assumed this place to have been long abandoned.

  But Christine and Jessica are here somewhere. The car is parked outside.

  Did you actually see them going into the house?

  No.

  I walked into the living room. It was empty save for some broken pottery and a broom with a splintered handle. A thick layer of dust coated the floor.

  In the nearest corner of the room, by a small doorway, were two sets of footprints. Those of shoes, one of an adult's and one of a child's.

  I walked across the living room, stared down at the footprints, then opened the thin wooden door.

  Steps, leading down into a cellar.

  Christine? Jessica? Where are you?

  I wondered for a moment if I were in control of my own actions. Somehow, the inability to summon up any happiness in my past led me to believe that I was being psychologically influenced by the Isolates as well. Could this journey be yet another element in their grand scheme? Or was this just another surge of overwhelming fear and anxiety beleaguering my mind? Am I really in control? Or am I not?

  I thought of the tombstone out back, only this time envisioned it with my name crudely etched into the stone: CAYLE. Perhaps in a moment I would be dead, and in need of a marker.

  Perhaps.

  The stairs were set in darkness. But below, somewhere in the basement, candles flickered; a gentle orange glow dancing against the cinder walls leading down. The first wooden step met my feet with a harsh creak, and when I turned my head in defense of the alarming noise, I saw that my footprints had vanished in the dust on the living room floor. So did the others.

  My God...

  My heart thumped slow and hard in my chest. I turned back to face the dark stairwell (The lesser of two evils?). I told myself, rightly so, that going down these steps would become a defining moment. That there were people down here in this basement, Christine and Jessica and maybe even Old Lady Zellis. Or an Isolate or two. It appeared convincingly enough that a confrontation might occur, ending in the death of someone.

  I looked back into the living room. My footsteps...they were still gone. It wasn't my tired eyes playing games with me. It was the damn Isolates. Somehow they had covered my trail, as if to destroy all evidence of me coming here. In this moment Phillip's voice came back to me from the day we went walking in the woods: The old lady's eyes started glowing this odd golden color and they had me hypnotized...

  Was it possible that some form of magic existed here in Ashborough? That the Isolates maintained not only a physically intimidating prowess, but exhibited a strong mediumistic power as well? If so, was I now under some form of hypnosis, leading me to believe that my footprints had vanished? A trance not unlike the one leading me into the woods to the circle of stones, forcing me to kill Jimmy Page? At this point, anything was possible.

  I took the steps one at a time, steeling into my soul and seeing that, life or death, I had no choice but to go ahead with this. I told myself that it might be easier to head back outside into the minivan and return home, leave it all behind to run its course. But in doing so, I'd be failing myself, and my family, and then death would most certainly make itself the only option in my terrible existence. So I placed my hands against the cinder walls, reached bottom, and turned into the basement.

  Dear God...this can't be...

  A horror so intense met my gaze...so awful and surreal it seemed wholly impossible, like a nightmare. But this was no dream, this was real—as real as the fear pumping through my veins.

  They were here. Christine and Jessica. At first sight of them I clapped my hands to my face, fury immediately rising up in me, overturning all those emotions, cold and dark, that had ruled my body and soul for so long.

  Then my legs went weak and rubbery on me, stomach twisting madly and shooting acids up into my throat. My anger escalated...but so did my fear. I never felt such a spectacular combination of emotions and it tore me even further away from reality, as though I were an astral traveler exploring the heavens while my body lay resting somewhere a million miles away.

  I stepped toward them, my feet seeming to move by themselves. An odor hit me and I began to gag. It was awful, and familiar. I gripped the staircase wall, holding on to my balance and breathing heavily. Nausea swept over me and I clenched my teeth in an effort to hold back my gorge.

  I took another step forward, shaking so much I thought I would simply collapse. My line of vision skittered, making it difficult to focus on the scene before me.

  Michael, what you're seeing is absurd, illogical and foolish. A figment of your spent imagination. You've been through a lot over the past six months, and now it's finally taken its toll on you. Time to check out, my friend. It's been nice knowing you.

  There were three people in the basement, Christine, Jessica, and the ancient woman that had come into my office, Old Lady Zellis. They didn't see me, that much was certain. They were surrounded by a circle of candles on the floor, blinded by the shadows they made. Christine lay fully naked on a concrete slab, legs spread-eagled, pregnant belly undulating like a small wave. The old witch was hunkered down before her, large calloused hands cupping a wriggling mound of jelly-like substance she'd
scooped out of a wooden basin alongside her. Using both hands, she smeared Christine's abdomen and vagina with the gelatinous material, using two yellow-clawed fingers to paint odd hieroglyphs upon her skin. Hunks of the matter slid away in streaks down Christine's waist, which the old lady eagerly smeared up the sides of her torso to her armpits. This whole time Jessica was sitting on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, seemingly unperceiving of the wicked event taking place before her, her eyes open but coated with tears and aimed at some non-descript point in the basement. Her face appeared devilish in the flickering candlelight.

  My entire body began to tremble, but I suppressed it. I took another step toward the scene, unsure of what I could possibly do. In this instant, the old lady doused her hands again, only this time instead of splashing the outside of Christine's body, she clawed a hand into Christine's vagina, up to the wrist. The green matter oozed out at the edges of her orifice as the old lady twisted and turned her arm. Christine seemed not to feel nor care about this offense taking place, moaning and wincing only slightly as the witch continued thrusting her hand deep inside her. In the corner, a tranced Jessica began chanting something alien in a deep-toned voice that wasn't hers: uhhhnaa, uhhhnaa, over and over again.

  It was at this moment, hearing my little girl speaking out in that strange tongue, that the entire scene really hit me...really hit me, and I began to scream.

  My screams clamored piercingly about the basement: in this foreign place where only the near-dead and dazed existed. I could feel my face contorting—eyes swelling, jaw stretched, skin heated—with noises coming from my throat like the sirens of war, awful screeches and squeals that notioned the discharge of insanity, of love lost and then found incomplete and fruitless. Images of the last six months came back to me: Rosy Deighton in her bedroom, the deer in the shed, Lauren Hunter on my walkway, Jimmy Page's blood on my hands, Old Lady Zellis in my office, Phillip Deighton's exploding skull. But...most horrifying of all were the memories of the Isolates themselves, God's impropriety of nature, evil demon fuckers doing a damn fine job in running my life in their sick, twisted, evil way.

  Jessica's moaning stopped.

  Old Lady Zellis removed her claw from my wife's vagina.

  I'd made my presence known. Now, I had to do something about it.

  The position of the candles had distorted the appearance and size of the basement, and it became apparent now that I was closer to the scene than I'd first estimated.

  Old Lady Zellis backed away from Christine, slowly, as though trying not to disturb the scene any further. She drifted out of the circle of candles, not toward me but toward the left side of the basement, against the cinder wall closing out the steps. She stared at me and the candles flickered upon her face, somehow transforming it into something beautiful, princess-like: hair dark and flowing, skin smooth and unblemished, arms waving gracefully in the air. The rags she wore metamorphosed into a silky dressing that ran around her neck, across her chest, and down to her ankles; suddenly it appeared to be adorned with golden jewels that glimmered against the dancing flames.

  "Michael", she said, her voice soft and musical and seeping out of the gloom like tinkling piano keys.

  She was...beautiful. Suddenly everything I'd feared and suffered seemed extraordinarily distant...all I wanted was her, her dark beauty, the grace with which she hugged the wall, the way she grinned—so seductively—how she used one single feminine hand to call me to her. This woman before me was the most strangely exotic specimen I'd ever encountered, stirring thoughts of a breathtaking siren from some untitled silent film.

  "Daddy!" I heard the voice filter into my sequestered consciousness. In my peripheral vision I saw Jessica struggling to rise from her spot in the far corner; her arms were outstretched toward me.

  I turned to look at her. My daughter. "Jessica?"

  "Daddy," she cried. "No...don't look at her..."

  But I did, and she looked back at me, Old Lady Zellis, now a monstrous witch again, grinning at me with ireful eyes that glowed gold and brought pure horror back into me—a horror so cold and icy...fouled and fully poisoning my lustful desires of just seconds earlier. Her hands and feet had become claws again, serviceably assisting her in performing a dexterous spider-like climb up the cinderblock wall. She kept those golden irises pinned on me as she perched herself against the beams in the low ceiling, hands pinned deep into the swollen wood. She was more Isolate than human now, a demon showing dark gnarled teeth, hissing at me.

  In this time, the spell Old Lady Zellis had on Christine and Jessica appeared to weaken. Jessica was now standing with her arms folded tightly across her chest, crying. Her face was corpse-white, wet with tears. Her hair was a tangled mess. Christine looked more surprised than frightened, staring at me as if to say, Well, look what you've done now, Michael! She sat up from the cement slab, shifting her pregnant belly with two hands. Her breasts, swollen and covered in green sludge, jostled like pendulums as though each might have held a baby too. It seemed as though she was still partially buried in her trance; she scooped up a handful of the green jelly from the floor beneath her crotch and licked it from her palm. He face went awry and she spit it out as though wholly disgusted. Soon thereafter, she vomited a thick stream of green jelly, splattering the floor beneath the fidgeting witch.

  I leaned down to take Christine's hand. She cowered and cried and screamed, like a character in a nightmare, and I wondered if she were actually afraid of me. If being saved wasn't what she really wanted. She tried to back away but Jessica was there, grabbing onto her other arm. We both had her now, pulling with as much strength we could both offer, and pretty much dragging her naked pregnant body across the cement floor. A trail of green gunk was left behind like a tire-track.

  "Christine!" I yelled. "We have to get out of here! Now!"

  Jessica had stopped crying and was yelling, "Mommy! Please! Mommy!" and then Christine blurted a round of hysterics, gazing around the scene and looking tremendously confused. Her trance had definitely lifted, and she was now a naked babe in the woods in search of her mother. Lost and reeling. She began to scream, eyes wild and rolling.

  "C'mon," I yelled, grabbing her arm. "Let's move!"

  Old Lady Zellis began bobbing and jostling maniacally from her perch in the ceiling. Her eyes glowed brighter than ever—like those of the Isolates themselves. She let out a hiss that sounded something like a snake in fear of its life. I saw the inside of her gaping mouth. It was as red as fire in there, teeth dripping with saliva, wet and glistening. One clawed hand tore away from the cross-beam, taking a thick splinter of wood with it.

  "The stairs!" I yelled, pushing Jessica first, and then Christine. Each of us stumbled as we made our way up. When I reached the top step I looked over my shoulder to see if the witch was following us, slicing the air with those claws and hissing that hiss and watching me with those glowing golden eyes. But she wasn't there.

  I slammed the door behind us, thinking for a brief moment that it might very well keep the thing away from us. Christine had collapsed on the dusty living room floor, coating her naked pregnant self. There was green jelly everywhere, and suddenly the harsh odor of it rang a mental bell of familiarity in my head.

  The green tea. Rosy Deighton's recipe.

  There were so many assumptions that could be made, none of which we had any time for. I quickly told myself that it was all part of the Grand Scheme, Ashborough's conspiracy against the Cayle family. Hopefully we'd all live through this nightmare to further reflect on the greater situation. Hopefully.

  I reached down to grab Christine. She cried and tried to get up but slipped back down as a result of the slippery coating on her body. She looked up at me, her eyes tearing crazily and pleading for forgiveness. Silently I nodded and said, "Let's go, Christine. We have to get out of here now."

  She moved to stand and that was when the basement door burst open. Old Lady Zellis was there, more monstrous than ever, her face a horribly mutated mess, eyes a
brilliant gold color you could just fall into.

  And then in an instant I saw the beautiful woman again...she was holding her arms out to me and pursing her full red lips and saying, "Come to me, Michael. I want to make love to you, right here and now."

  I knew I shouldn't have, and didn't really want to, but suddenly she owned me and in the next instant I was holding my arms out towards her, wanting to taste her red-wine lips, her slippery tongue, feel her soft-white skin and run my hands through her shimmering chestnut hair. A pleasure raced through me, revoking all my fears, my duress. I could do nothing but want her and submit to her commands of me. Her fingers met mine, and I could feel my mouth watering for her as a tiny spark of electricity passed between us. Jesus, she was everything I could have ever wanted at the moment. And she was mine for the taking.

  Then something happened. The woman shrieked pure evil, a high-pitched shrill of torturesome pain. I backed away, breaking our contact. There was a quick movement beside her, and with this came her immediate transformation back into Old Lady Zellis. She backpedaled into the wall, hissing, her face bent into a vulgar mask of fury, agony, and scorn. She turned sideways, and that was when I saw what'd happened to her...what Christine did to her.

  There'd only been some broken pottery and a splintered broom handle in the room when I'd first arrived. And of course the dust. And that was all that'd remained. But the broom handle's broken edge had been fractured in such a way that the point would prove a more than practical device in inflicting damage should it be utilized that way. Christine realized this and competently lodged the handle deep into the side of the witch's neck. Blood shot out in a spectacular display, spraying the wall. The witch fell to her knees, hands blindly grasping at the broom handle. She'd almost gotten a hold of it too, but I stepped in and kicked her squarely in the face. She howled and choked—tried to anyway. Her voice was weakened by the broom handle in her neck and came out barely more than a harsh whisper. She hit the floor, blood gushing from her wound. I reached down, yanked the wood handle out, and in a quick calculated thrust, slammed it back down into her throat. A moaning, gobbling noise came out of her mouth, her lips twisted in a continuous attempt to scream, golden eyes bulging horridly. Her hands clawed the dust on the floor as if vainly attempting to conjure up one last spell. The nauseating stink of hot blood rose up; it colored the floor in a extraordinary puddle, wide and shimmering and spreading. She wheezed and thumped and hissed one last time, and then her eyes, once glowing gold, faded down into pallid gray marbles, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.