Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror

by Glen Krisch

  Ethan had been unconscious and feverish. Blisters rimmed his mouth, seeping, crusting. But he was alive.

  Scully stepped through the netting and sat in a chair at Ethan's side, swatting the flies away. Taking in the severity and extent of his friend's wounds, and afraid to do anything more, he held his hand, waiting for his eyes to open.

  A week later, Ethan woke from a frightful delirium in which he had raved about setting fires to scorch crops and flesh in equal measure, and the necessity to skin the conniving red skin, skin the treacherous black skin. Rid the earth of them. The last words of his delirium haunted Scully, and from that day on, he would often wake from his own nightmares with Ethan's words conjuring up the worst possible imagery.

  A distant voice niggled his brain, shaking it free from memory's pull: "Scully. Scully, come on, Arthur, wake up."

  Someone slapped his face, hard. Ethan. Ethan had returned from the house. A dull thud hit the ground nearby. The Harris boy. The job was done.

  "We need to get you back. In a hurry." His friend lifted him, grunting with the effort as he threw him over his shoulder. "I didn't realize it was so bad. Digging the grave must've made it go faster. I told you it needn't be so deep."

  Scully tried to speak but couldn't.

  "Don't worry. Here we go. We're going home."

  Arthur Scully's body was falling apart. Ethan's hands kept slipping through the muck that was all that remained of his flesh. "Just close your eyes, rest up." Scully didn't know his eyes had opened of their own accord. He could no longer feel his skin, could no longer see.

  "I'll get you back safe, then come back to fill that hole you dug." Something from inside his skull was pressing down with the gravity of being carried upside down. The pressure built at his brow line, then found release as something gushed through his eye sockets and into his matted hair.

  "We're going home," Ethan told Scully a few weeks after waking from his delirium.

  "We didn't think you'd make it."

  "But I did." Ethan grimaced as he stood from the hospice bed. His wound's dressing still needed frequent changing, and he wasn't up to full strength yet, but Ethan had an urge about him; he had to leave this place behind and move on. He no longer wanted to sleep in the bed where he had been expected to die.

  They bought two seats in a cramped, rickety wagon from a group of trappers and merchants traveling from the Everglades to New Orleans. Sharing the wagon bed with curing skins pulled taut over wooden frames, the oppressive air smelled worse than Ethan's recovery room. Ethan was still too weak for them to travel on their own, and Scully didn't know the lay of the land, so despite the stench, the arrangement worked for the best. Once in New Orleans, they booked a cabin on a steamer heading back to Illinois, and they were soon on their way home.

  Scully remembered the moment specifically. The first mention from Ethan about a venture that would change the course of their lives. Haze rose in indolent wisps from the Mississippi. They both leaned against the railing circling the deck of the steamer, watching the sunrise over the wooded Tennessee side of the river. Ethan leaned closer and in a conspirator's whisper said one word: "Expedition."

  "Expedition?"

  Ethan glanced around the deck, but it was early and few people strolled by.

  "Private Abrahms, he died in the final Seminole raid, he used to go on about how he was going to trap once the fighting was done. He was going to trap live gators and bring them up north, sell them to carnivals and zoos. Once up North, he'd make his return trip home with rich old coots to do some of the trapping themselves. He'd set up cabins along the 'glade's shore, make them real fancy. The best liquor, the best whores, the best hunting and trapping. He'd go on and on like it'd be a damn resort."

  "We don't know nothing about gators, Ethan. Don't they bite?"

  "Not gators, nitwit. That's just where the seed of my idea came from. A jumping off point."

  "You lost me."

  "Ain't gators we're going for."

  "What then?"

  "Niggers. What else? We'll set up an outfitting company for rich southern folk. Some will hire us on to catch their runaways, and we'll track them and collect the bounties. Some will want to come along to bag a prize to bring home."

  "Niggers… you know that sounds, well, is that legal?"

  "If the right people get a take, anything's legal."

  "Sounds like poaching to me."

  "Exactly! That's the point. We bring in the Borland brothers for muscle, and with you and me on the business side, we'll be rich in no time."

  That's how it all started. A conversation Ethan had with an entrepreneurial private now buried in an unmarked grave somewhere south of nowhere. Over ninety years ago. Now Scully's chest still fought to glean oxygen from his inhaled breath. His muscles fought the onslaught of rapid decay.

  As Ethan carried his friend down the steps to the Harris's cellar, and while he dragged him through the damp, unlit tunnel carved by the Borland brothers in the guise of The Collectors, Arthur Scully's body continued to deteriorate. His mind had receded to the farthest reaches of his memory, to his earliest recollection--stumbling and falling as he learned to walk--when his flesh felt the Underground's delicate caress.

  Ethan had saved him, saved his immortality. The Underground worked its wonder, knitting new flesh over putrefied, replacing the dead with something not quite. Scully gasped for air and held it deep in his rotting chest, then let out a laugh that sent oily, putrid tissue sputtering from between his healing lips.

  "Let me down, old hos'. I got it from here."

  "That was close. I didn't think you'd make it."

  "Well, you were wrong."

  They returned to the Underground, returned to immortality, with another loose end severed and Ethan one step closer to realizing his goal.

  At the outset, they weren't expecting to kill the entire family. Just bury the old man. Give him peace, even though he'd turned down their offer of salvation. They were, after all, a respectable people. The wife would've held silent over the evening's events; but then the daughter came out, and judging her reaction, she wouldn't have kept silent on her own. So Ethan helped her along with that. Then the mother and son had to follow, falling like dominos.

  "I best get back and take care of the boy."

  12.

  "Are you sure you two are okay here?" Jacob's mom pulled on her black bonnet, lifting the black veil back from her eyes. Her funeral dress was old. She had worn it twice since she buried her husband, each time after losing a parent.

  "Yes, Ma'am. Georgie can see me from heaven right here," Ellie said. She seemed relieved not having to go to the service.

  His mom leaned over to give her a hug. When she stood, she blinked through tears.

  Jacob had woken early and explained to his mom that Ellie couldn't go, that attending her brother's burial would damage more than heal. His mom had argued that it was important for her to go to the funeral to give her a sense of closure. He refused to back down in Ellie's defense.

  His mom knew what it was like burying a loved one. After briefly questioned Ellie, she relented.

  "Okay. I'm leaving. Jacob, make sure you two eat come lunchtime."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  She smiled sadly to both of them, then left.

  Jacob went to the window overlooking the driveway and watched his mom climb into the faded black pickup. The engine roared, then she backed away, far more smoothly than Jacob could yet accomplish. Ellie joined him at the window. He parted the curtains, allowing her a better view.

  "Your mom's sweet."

  "I know."

  Since it felt like the right thing to do, he put his hand on Ellie's shoulder, and together they watched the pickup disappear at the end of the drive as it took off down Teetering Road. "Are you hungry yet?"

  "No, not really." Ellie left the window and sat on the sofa. She picked up her rag doll, holding it in the crook of her elbow.

  "What should we do?"

  "We can p
ick flowers for your mom and have them in water for when she gets home."

  Ellie surprised Jacob with how she was dealing with the loss of her brother. After the initial trauma of seeing George's body, it seemed like her tears fell for two days straight. But now she seemed more concerned about his mother than her own pain. He assumed she was hiding her feelings, keeping busy enough so she didn't have time to think. Maybe she felt like she was imposing by staying with the Fowler's. He hoped she didn't feel like a burden, because she wasn't. He thought about telling her this, but couldn't find the right words. "She'd like seeing a bunch of flowers when she walks in. Where should we go?"

  "Where the flowers are, silly." Ellie hopped off the sofa, her blonde braids swaying as she moved. She was out the front door before Jacob could react.

  "Hold up." Jacob hurried out the door. "Wait for me."

  A stiff breeze nudged the cottony white clouds across the horizon as if they were shifting islands. In short order, Ellie gathered a bouquet of flowers from the plants surrounding the house. She made Jacob put the flowers in a vase with water, and then place the white and blue blossoms in the kitchen where the sunlight would shine on them through the window.

  But she wasn't finished. When he returned, she pointed to a patch of distant wildflowers barely visible in the distance.

  "We should pick flowers she doesn't get a chance to see everyday. That would make it special."

  They spent the next hour heading away from home, over grassy hills, through gaps in rickety fences bordering properties. Jacob tried to help, but Ellie was particular about which flowers she wanted picked. He found a cluster of yellow wildflowers in a pasture beyond their property. When he called her over, she gave the blossoms a cursory glance, and then furrowed her brow and shook her head. Obviously, he was missing something important in this chore, probably since he was a boy and would rather toss a baseball around than find the perfect flower.

  He was getting hungry. Acting as Ellie's pack animal, with his arms full of flowers, he was more than ready to head back. Ellie was just ahead, keeping her eyes to the ground, but clearly no longer paying attention to the vegetation.

  "Ellie, we should head back. Mom'll tan my hide if you haven't eaten by the time she gets home."

  She kept walking, dropping all pretense of searching for flowers. She rushed down the next hill, momentarily out of view. As Jacob hastened to catch her, he realized where they were. Dropping the flowers, a plume of pollen tickled his nose.

  "Ellie, I thought you said you didn't want to come here?"

  Ellie looked over her shoulder at him. Before her, hidden away in a plateau between two grassy hills, Coal Hollow's dead slept their eternal sleep. The Edgewood Cemetery was the largest in the county. Jacob's father occupied a plot in the southern corner, a peaceful weeping willow shading his military headstone from the summer sun. As a family, they came once a month to clear brush and weeds away from the marker. They would each speak to him privately. When they would leave, Jacob always felt like his father had been listening.

  "I don't wanna see him, can't see the box they put him in. But I also don't want people seeing me."

  "You sure?" Jacob asked. If Ellie had schemed to get him this far from the house, he knew he wouldn't get her to go home without saying a final goodbye to her brother.

  "Can't we just get a little closer?" she pleaded.

  The fresh grave was close by, the newest plot in a cemetery dating back one hundred years. People dressed in black surrounded her brother's grave. A packed dirt parking area sat between them and the graves.

  "Follow me. We'll use the trees for cover until we reach the parking lot, and then we'll stay behind the cars. Is that close enough?"

  "Yeah. Just… Jacob, I don't wanna see."

  "I'll make sure, and when we get closer, you'll hear the kind things they say about George. When we get close enough, you can close your eyes."

  "Okay."

  It felt wrong, as if they were doing something altogether disgraceful. Maybe his mom had been right and she just needed to have a sense of closure. They crept closer, staying low in the tall grass. The scent of newly turned earth weighed heavily in the air. The mourners graveside didn't stir, even when Jacob snapped a twig underfoot. They wouldn't be mindful of noise or aware of much of anything as long as they were burying one of their own.

  They reached the parking lot, Ellie keeping close to his side. Keeping out of sight, they inched as close as they could without seeing too much or having anyone see them.

  Jacob motioned for Ellie to stop where she was, and then he craned his neck around a truck he recognized as Sheriff Bergman's. They'd already lowered the casket into the ground and the ropes used to lower the casket were coiled next to the hole.

  A crowd had gathered around Jasper Cartwright, who was reading from a worn bible. He read a passage he must've had memorized, since his vision was so poor and not getting any better. Jasper spoke about someone named Lazarus, about his death and his rising from the dead.

  Imagining the dead rising from the ground, the decayed corpses aimlessly moving about, didn't lend any comfort in this trying time. Not borne to a religious family, he wondered about the significance of the story.

  "Jacob?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Who's there?"

  "Why, just about everyone. My mom, and Doc Thompson, Magee and Bo Tingsley, Mr. Prescott, the Calders, Arlen Polk, lots of people. Dozens."

  "Is my dad there?"

  "Sorry, no."

  "Are they sad?" Though tense, the girl also seemed somewhat relieved.

  "Yeah, they're all sad. They all loved George."

  "Good. I mean, it's nice so many people showed up."

  Jacob returned his attention to the gathering. People were shuffling their feet. Arlen Polk and Bo Tinglsey broke from the group and took up shovels from the loose dirt pile next to the hole in the ground. They waited next to the grave.

  His mom was the first person to approach. She dropped a small white flower inside the grave. She paused, covered her face with a hanky and walked away. She was walking toward Jacob and Ellie's hiding spot.

  "I think it's done. My mom's heading in this direction."

  "Did she see us?"

  "I don't think so, but our truck is just a couple rows over. We should go before someone does see us."

  "Okay. Thanks for bringing me. I know George can see me from heaven, but I wasn't sure if he'd be in heaven yet, or if he doesn't take his wings and fly away until… they pour the dirt."

  "I'm sorry you didn't get to hear any of the kind things they said about him."

  "It's okay. I didn't come for them. I came for Georgie. I wanted to say goodbye."

  The crowd dispersed, fanning out in a wide wave to their respective vehicles. "Wait, we can't just leave like this. There's no way we'd get out without being seen. That tree," he said, pointing out a burly tree at the edge of the parking lot. "We should hide over there until everyone's gone."

  Ellie offered her hand and he took it. Together, they hurried to the gnarled oak tree. He held her in front of him, sandwiching her with the tree trunk. She trembled against his chest, but didn't cry.

  "It's going to be okay," Jacob whispered.

  "I don't want to be seen. I'd be too embarrassed."

  Jacob glanced around the tree trunk. His mom was walking in their direction, rooting in her purse for her keys. Sheriff Bergman followed close behind, waving his hand as if she could possibly see out the back of her head.

  "Jane? Jane Fowler? Got a second?" the sheriff called out.

  Jacob shied back behind the tree. Ellie's needy, upturned gaze caught him off guard. He held his index finger against his lips and then chanced another look around the tree.

  "Oh, Larry, I was hoping to talk to you," his mom said, drying the last of her tears.

  "I heard back from Peoria."

  "And?"

  "The recruiting office has no record of a Jimmy Fowler come up that way. But that don't mean
that's not where he's heading."

  "He would've been there by now."

  "He could've decided to go on to somewhere else. Another big town with a recruiting office. St. Louis, maybe. Or even Chicago. Might want more time to think things over before he signs up."

  "I suppose. Can you keep trying, check in with Peoria again?"

  "I sure will, Jane. I also wanted to thank you for starting up the collection for the headstone. The Bradshaw's came forward and footed the bill for the remaining balance. I'm not sure they would've done that without you starting it."

  "At least he's next to Mabel. He was a great kid. No one deserved a nice resting spot more than him."

  Bergman touched her shoulder. If he didn't look so uncomfortable with the gesture, Jacob might've said something and ruined their hiding spot. "We'll find your boy. If he run off like you think, he's probably just as scared to sign his name over to the Army as facing his family here."

  "God, I hope so."

  The sheriff tipped his cap, nodded grimly, and headed to his truck. His mom hopped into the pickup and quickly pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  The other mourners broke up quickly, with but a few people remaining in a small circle, sharing tears and memories of George Banyon. As Louise Bradshaw cried on her mother's shoulder, her parents exchanged a puzzled look at her pronounced reaction. Watching the burial, Jacob figured, her thoughts of Jimmy's fate must've taken a darker edge.

  As the last mourners filtered away, Bo Tinsley and Arlen Polk alternated throwing dirt into the hole, consigning George Banyon's body to the earth. Forever.

  They waited just a while longer, allowing the cemetery to clear out completely. "We should go now. Mom's already going to have a conniption when she beats us home."

  "Jacob, Jimmy's not in Peoria."

  "I know, I heard."

  "He's not in Peoria. No one's found his body yet, either" Ellie said, pressing against him. "Jimmy's alive. I can feel it."

  "I know." It felt weird admitting aloud, but he'd been harboring those very same thoughts. It felt like admitting he still believed in Santa Claus when all the evidence said just the opposite. "I feel it too."