Darkness Whispers

by Richard Chizmar

  The sheriff stood, bending sore muscles and started toward his son. He walked slowly, still unsure of what he would do. His eyes were filled with tears and his Glock hung loosely from his right hand; his finger was not on the trigger.

  The sheriff was ten yards short of his son’s position when Paul spun suddenly and pointed the rifle at his head—and smiled.

  25.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  The sheriff jerked to a stop, opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “C’mon, Dad, you taught me better than to let myself be snuck up on in the woods.”

  “What… what the hell are you doing, Paul?”

  His son’s expression remained unchanged. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were cold and dark. The eyes of a stranger.

  The air reeked of death and hung heavy like smog around the boy. Ben could taste it on his lips. He saw a wildness, a hint of something not entirely human, in Paul’s eyes, and for a moment he thought he might turn and run away from his son.

  “Explain to me. Please. What are you doing here?”

  Paul looked directly into his father’s confused eyes and laughed.

  The sound was evil.

  26.

  “I think you know exactly what he’s doing here,” a voice said from behind the sheriff.

  Ben turned and watched the old man in the black suit reveal himself from behind a tree.

  “You?” Sheriff Logan said.

  “Do you know me?” the old man asked, genuinely surprised.

  The sheriff nodded. “I’ve seen you before. In a dream. You were standing on Main Street, surrounded by fire and death and skulls.”

  “Yes, that does sound like me,” the old man mused. “I’ve been waiting to meet you all day. I’ve already met your deputies and some of the other fine people of your town. Well, maybe not so fine of people. I had such hopes for them.”

  “How have you done this? Why have you done this?”

  “It’s what I do, Benjamin. It’s my duty, you could say.”

  “What did you do to Paul?”

  “Well, he told me he would do anything to see his deepest, most secret dream come true. I told him I could help him with that, but I needed a small favor in return.”

  “Favor?”

  “That’s right. He had to shoot your wife and daughter and a few other people. He’s a very good shot, you know? Must be in his genes. But here’s the rub. He still had a choice to make. He could say no and walk away. Do you understand that? He had to choose to move forward with our agreement. I’m many things, but I’m not a sneak.”

  “You’re insane, aren’t you?”

  “Me? You’re the one who dreamed of me, remember? You dreamed of me and invited me here.”

  “I never invited you here!”

  “Benjamin, I only come to the willing. Time and space mean nothing to me. I simply go where I’m wanted.” He paused. “Where I’m needed. You called me here whether you realize it or not. Joe Thompson, Jason Sinclair, Peter Meyer, and now Paul welcomed me into their hearts and minds. They all asked for my help, so I gave them a choice, and they got something in return.” The old man snapped his long fingers. “Fair trade.”

  “I’ve seen what those first three got in return,” Sheriff Logan said gravely.

  “Well, in that case, perhaps I could do you a favor in exchange for you doing me one? I already know what your biggest desire is right now. You want your family back, correct?”

  Sheriff Logan glanced at his son, who stared blankly at him with the rifle in his hands.

  “Paul’s already done what you wanted, hasn’t he? He lured me here. Even if I do whatever you ask me to do, he’s going to be repaid for what he’s done, right? Like you repaid the others?”

  The old man bit his upper lip to stop his grin from growing larger. “That is the way these deals often work.”

  “Okay,” Sheriff Logan said, firing so quickly even he wasn’t aware of his hand moving. He squeezed the trigger six times, hitting center mass all six times.

  The old man simply stared at the sheriff, the six holes in his suit flapping in the breeze.

  “How’d that work out for you?” the old man asked, smiling like a lunatic now, his mouth crammed with more sharp teeth than Ben thought humanly possible.

  The old man didn’t wait for an answer. He swung the cane at Sheriff Logan’s head, but the lawman was already ducking to dodge the blow. The old man had done the same thing in the nightmare and Logan was not only expecting the quickness of the attack but he was also desperate to avoid the impact this time. He didn’t want to experience whatever horrors the cane might bring.

  But even though he moved as fast as he could, Ben didn’t move fast enough.

  The cane grazed the top of his head and a brilliant white light exploded all around him.

  27.

  As the white light flickered and then faded, Sheriff Logan found himself standing next to a smartly dressed twenty-something blonde woman wit a microphone as if he were about to be interviewed by a reporter. Yet she didn’t seem to notice him. She was facing a cameraman and behind the cameraman was the open door of a WTAE-TV ABC News van where a producer sat watching a handful of monitors. The van was parked as close to the Windbrook Grocery and Farmer’s Market as the State Police would allow. It was night now and there were dozens of police officers and crime scene investigators spread across the scene. Another dozen news vans were parked along the street leading to the market.

  From the reporter’s earpiece, Sheriff Logan heard the story being thrown her way:

  “And now for more on that horrifying story out of Windbrook, Pennsylvania,we go to Cynthia Haddonsmith for a live update.”

  “Tom,” she said right on cue, “in a horrible twist of irony, Sheriff Benjamin Logan’s 17-year-old son, Paul, was one of the first witnesses to reach the scene. As you can see in this footage uploaded by a local citizen, the young man slipped through police barricades and broke down emotionally at the sight of his deceased mother and 14-year-old sister. In yet another cruel twist of fate, only minutes later, he would learn about the heroic death of his father, Sheriff Benjamin Logan. Paul appeared to go into shock at the news and had to be helped from the area. Paul Logan is the graduating valedictorian at Windbrook Community School and the events of today have to be particularly heartbreaking for his classmates as they…”

  While she spoke, Sheriff Logan walked between her and the camera and no one reacted. It was as if he were a ghost, but he suspected the truth was worse than that. He watched on the monitor as the shaky clip of Paul being restrained at a line of police tape played again and again.

  “Police officials failed to reveal whether they have any leads on the case but they did clarify that they feel the sniper has left the immediate area.”

  The white light flashed again.

  28.

  Time passed and now Sheriff Logan was standing in the rear of the Community School’s auditorium. He wasn’t surprised by who was standing on the stage before the capacity crowd, which included dozens of news cameras for the first time in Windbrook’s history.

  “And so,” Paul Logan said, “I’d like to thank the faculty, my fellow students, and every member of this beautiful community, not only for your help throughout my high school career but for your generous and much-needed support and genuine caring over the last few weeks. I will be forever grateful. This is a joyous day in a sadly mournful time, but today will live in my memories forever, thanks to all of you. I know my mother and Mary are watching me right now and they are smiling down at all of us. I loved my father, your sheriff, neighbor and friend, as I know he loved all of you. And I know he would be proud of me on this afternoon, as I was of him, each and every day. Thank you.”

  The crowd rose to their feet, roaring their support and love for the boy-turned-man.

  Paul waved and left the podium. He allowed a small grin to slip onto his face as he walked the length of the flower-lined stage and descended th
e decorated steps. He waved at an elegant, elderly gentleman dressed in a sparkling black suit. The man smiled and returned the wave.

  The white light flashed again.

  29.

  When the bright light faded, Sheriff Logan needed a moment to reorient himself. He stood next to two young women sitting on a bench in a park-like setting, but this wasn’t any park he could ever remember visiting. Then he saw the resurrected statue of legendary football coach Joe Paterno and he understood where he was.

  “What do you think is really happening?” the first girl said, pointing at the story that occupied the entire front page of the Penn State Daily Collegian.

  “I don’t know, but my parents are freaked. They want me to transfer to Slippery Rock to be closer to home.”

  “Slippery Cock, you mean,” the first girl replied and giggled.

  Sheriff Logan leaned over and skimmed the story that had generated the conversation.

  Does Happy Valley Have A Serial Killer?

  By Joseph Hill

  Campus, local, and state police have been busy at Penn State during the last three months. Too busy.

  In a scene that has become all too familiar at the campus, police officers responded to another call last night concerning a missing college student.

  Twenty-year-old political science major Tammy Stewart was reported missing by her roommate after she didn’t return from a date the previous night. Police are questioning Ms. Stewart’s roommates and classmates but have no clues as to the identity of her mystery date.

  Over the last ten weeks, five male and female students have suddenly vanished without warning.

  Police officials are warning all students to walk in groups after dusk and they will be enforcing the curfew…

  30.

  The white light flashed again, and this time Sheriff Logan knew exactly where he was, but it took him a moment to understand who was standing at the podium in front of the state capitol with the green dome looming behind him. Probably a dozen years had passed, and a media scrum surrounded the man, who looked too familiar for comfort for Logan.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you know, Doug Hemmings was my mentor in the District Attorney’s office after I graduated from Penn State and we will not stop until his assassin has been brought to justice. But just as important is his legacy as a leader to our community, and it is with great reservation that I’m announcing I’ll be continuing his campaign for Governor on behalf of the party.”

  Off to the side stood an elderly gentleman dressed in a sharp black suit, and Sheriff Logan was certain that man was Paul’s true mentor, no matter what he said.

  The light flashed again.

  31.

  The ballroom was grander than any Sheriff Logan had ever been in before, and standing on a dramatic stage before throngs of loyal supporters was an even older version of his son.

  Balloons were drifting from the ceiling onto the stage and people were crying for joy and Paul was dancing with a beautiful woman in a red dress. His wife.

  The enormous signs behind them declared, “Paul Logan For President! He Fixed Pennsylvania, He Can Fix Our Nation!”

  Off to the side of the stage was the same elderly man who didn’t appear to have aged a day since the events in Windbrook.

  He grinned at Sheriff Logan.

  32.

  The white light flashed, and this time the sheriff found himself in a dark conference room hundreds of feet below the Rocky Mountains.

  A General whose uniform seemed to sag with medals was briefing President Logan.

  “…in reaction to yesterday’s nuclear strike against Beijing and surrounding areas, over one hundred Chinese missiles were launched, striking the east coast yesterday evening, leaving the capital and other eastern metropolitan areas, including New York, Philadelphia and Boston in complete destruction. The death toll is estimated in the millions.”

  “How safe are we here?” the President asked.

  “Safe for now, sir,” the General replied. “This base was purposely kept off all the books and all of the workers who built it last year were dealt with as you ordered.”

  “Excellent,” Paul said, nodding at his most trusted adviser, the old man in the suit seated to his right. “What’s our next move?”

  33.

  The white light faded away from Sheriff Logan’s eyes, leaving his vision blurry with tears. He sat in the darkness under the trees, and he glanced from the old man to his son and back to the old man again.

  His Glock was still gripped tightly in his hand, pointed at the old man’s chest. The old man in the suit smiled.

  “Choices are such a unique human problem, aren’t they?” he asked. “Will you do as I ask of you, so you may be with your family again?”

  Sheriff Logan didn’t respond at first, but then he found the breath to ask: “What are you?”

  “I am what I am, Benjamin, just as you are what you are. I go where I am called. Time and space mean nothing to me. I do my job until my job is done and then I move on.”

  “You’re not insane, you’re the devil.”

  “Well, I go by many names, Benjamin. You can call me whatever will make you feel better in the morning. But you have a choice to make and that’s completely on you.”

  “What if I don’t make a choice?”

  The old man sighed as if he had heard this one a million times. “Choosing not to choose is still making a choice, Benjamin.”

  The sheriff lowered his head, studied the pine needles and leaves on the ground, and then raised his head again, his eyes full of fresh tears.

  “Paul, I love you,” Sheriff Logan said, shifting his arm, squeezing the trigger, and shooting his son in his chest.

  Paul took two steps backwards, the rifle slipping from his hands. He fell and landed on his back, his eyes locked on the swirling dark clouds above, and he did not move.

  The old man watched as another white light exploded across the land.

  34.

  Ben awoke in the middle of the night, but he didn’t kick or scream or experience any of the usual spontaneous reactions to one of his PTSD nightmares. As far as he could recall, it had been a dreamless sleep.

  Jennifer was curled up behind him, holding on tight to protect him from whatever demons might come searching for him in the dark, just like she always did.

  She hadn’t awoken at all, and Ben slid out from under her arm and left the room, moving to the bedrooms of their sleeping children.

  He stood outside Paul’s door for a moment. He hadn’t checked on his kids in the night since they were little, but he turned the knob anyway and opened the door a crack. Paul was asleep in his bed, snoring lightly.

  He checked on Mary next—his not-so-little girl was snug under the covers, holding a stuffed giraffe to her chest—and then he closed the door and walked downstairs.

  Once he reached the first floor, he made himself a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the front porch. The air above the mountains burst to life with bright colors around the rising sun, mostly red and orange and some purple, and the lack of clouds promised a morning of crisp blue sky.

  Ben had a feeling it was going to be a beautiful day.

  35.

  The old man steadied himself with his cane, regaining his bearings. He won some and he lost some, that was true, but he hated losing very much.

  The night was dark and the stars overhead burned brightly. There were no city lights. The old man stood on a cobblestone road. He almost always started out on a road or path, whether it be pavement or concrete or pressed sand or packed dirt.

  As he had told Sheriff Logan, time and space were mere words to him. He never knew how long he might spend in one place or where he might travel to next. Or when he might arrive there.

  The old man gazed at the stars and determined he had journeyed to Europe in July 1919. Germany, to be exact.

  The old man began walking, carrying his cane and occasionally twirling it. There was a young man
he wanted to meet. A young man with great potential. This young man was merely a Verbindungsmann, an intelligence agent, but his secret dream was much, much grander than that. This young man could really go places and do big, big things if someone with a little power did him a favor or two.

  The old man smiled as he walked and his gray eyes changed colors, as they sometimes did.

  The morning sun broke through the trees lining the road, and the old man’s smile turned into a grin.

  It would be a beautiful day, and there was much for him to do.

  BONUS STORIES

  THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT...

  by Richard Chizmar

  “Would you eat a dog turd for a hundred bucks?”

  Brian stopped mid-shot, the basketball poised above his head. He looked over at his friend standing in the driveway. “Dry turd or fresh and wet?”

  Jimmy considered the question and answered with a crooked smile, “Moist. Couple hours old.”

  Brian dribbled to the baseline and shot. Swish. He gathered the loose ball and drilled a pass into Jimmy’s scrawny chest. “Make it or you’re the horse. Again.”

  Jimmy dribbled awkwardly to the baseline. Started to shoot.

  “Back up, you little cheater.”

  Jimmy flipped his best friend the finger and backed up a few steps. Took the shot. Airball.

  Brian threw his arms in the air and ran around the court, hooting, “Brian Anderson! Champion of the worrrrld!”

  Jimmy shook his head and kicked the ball into the front yard. “Dick sucking champion of the world.”