Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror

by Glen Krisch

  He walked over to the kitchenette, his feet feeling cramped and sweaty. Not figuring on staying for more than a couple of hours, he had fallen asleep with his shoes on. He especially didn't expect to sleep through the night and into morning.

  "Good morning, Kevin," Andrew said from his seat at a folding chair. Their kitchenette consisted of the kind of card table with legs that could fold under for easy transport, and was accompanied by two mismatched folding chairs. It wasn't much, but Sophie and Andrew didn't appear to need much.

  "What time is it?"

  "Just shy of 6 a.m., dear." Sophie carried a pan of scrambled eggs over to fill his plate. "Don't worry, I already ate. Have a seat."

  He sat down. "Six o'clock. Wow. Didn't know I was that tired." He felt that by staying so long and eating their breakfast, he was taking advantage of his gracious hosts. And also putting them in incalculable danger.

  "If you're going to get as far as you say you want, you'll need to fill up."

  He was in the process of standing, when Sophie put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Nothing is so pressing that you should leave without eating. Dig in," Andrew insisted.

  It sounded like an order, and he did what he was told. If Mr. Freakshow hadn't found him yet, maybe he'd lost him. Somehow, he doubted that. He let his hunger silence his better judgment.

  "That's some painting," Kevin said, cutting into the steaming eggs with a fork. They were fluffy, coated in salt, and delicious.

  "Thanks. We've been working on it for a few weeks now. Someday we'll move back to Bakersfield. It's home to us. We might have moved away, but it's always been in our hearts," Andrew said, his eyes being drawn to the mural.

  "It's pretty cool that you work together."

  "It's funny, we've always been artists, but had never collaborated on anything until recently. Now it seems as natural as breathing." Sophie cleared the plate from in front of Andrew and came back with a steaming pot of coffee. She poured until Andrew waved his hand for her to stop. He dropped in two cubes of sugar and stirred it with a teaspoon.

  "Well, I think you should keep it going. It's a shame no one can see it," Kevin said.

  "Art is successful as long as at least one person can enjoy it," Andrew said philosophically.

  Kevin didn't know if he understood his meaning, but he nodded in agreement. He finished his eggs and sopped up every last drop of maple syrup with the homemade waffles before he pushed the plate away. "I'm so full. I couldn't eat another bite."

  "You're a good eater," Sophie said. Kevin didn't think someone could be talented at something as trivial as eating. He liked the compliment anyway.

  "I should get going. It's probably six thirty already."

  "Just be careful," Andrew said. There seemed to be more depth in his words than there should be. They couldn't have known about Mr. Freakshow, or that he was after Kevin. They might just be wary in general. That had to be it. Anyone with a conscience would be concerned about a ten-year-old kid walking the streets alone.

  Andrew rose from his folding chair, pushed it under the card table and went out to the main area of the apartment. He picked up a brush and bit the end of it as he considered the wall.

  Sophie was rummaging through a drawer by the sink, taking out a plastic baggie.

  "Before you go, let me pack some of those cookies for you. They won't be warm like yesterday, but I think they're still pretty good cold."

  "If you insist," Kevin said cheerfully.

  As she busied herself with the cookies, Kevin noticed her canvas purse on a shelf next to the kitchenette. Crisp green bills stuck out from the wallet in the opening, and he realized just how little money he had. He had his seven dollars from when he ran away, and then the money from the water fountain at the park. But all that wouldn't last more than a day or so.

  He watched for Andrew, but he was engrossed with his painting. Sophie had her back to him and was filling baggies full of cookies into a brown lunch bag. He felt terrible for doing it, but he snatched the money before their attentions returned to him. He took the money, a bunch of twenties from a quick glance, and shoved them in his pocket. Next to the purse was a pad of paper and pen. The pad had a list for the grocery store, and doodles of three dimensional boxes and abstract faces. He wrote a simple note, tore it from the pad, and shoved it in the open purse.

  "Here we are. With your appetite, I bet these are gone by dinnertime." Sophie handed him the bag. It was heavy, and the guilt he felt from his spontaneous theft felt even heavier.

  "Thanks. Someday I'll repay you."

  Sophie walked him to the door, and Kevin thought something else would come up to delay his departure, but nothing did. Before he knew it, she removed the bar from the door, and had all of the locks and chains pulled aside, and the door swung open. The morning sun hurt his eyes, and after saying a quick goodbye, Kevin walked into that sunlight, feeling rested, but unsure about what even the next hour would have in store for him.

  Sophie stopped at the bookcase before entering the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes. She noted the money was missing from the top of her purse. "He took it, just like you said he would."

  "Feel better now?"

  "No. If a genuinely good kid like that is so scared that he would steal money from an old lady, then there is something terribly wrong with the world." Sophie started the water to fill the plugged sink. She cleared the table, putting the dishes in to soak.

  "I know. But what could we have done? We did our best. We gave him a warm bed. We fed him. We made sure he had money when we knew he wouldn't accept any if we had offered it directly."

  "We could have called the police." She rung a dishrag in her hands, and then noticing her mounting tension, threw the rag against the kitchen wall.

  "Sophie, I know you mean well, but you know the dreams are running the police around in circles. They wouldn't stop for one lost boy when they have so many other things to worry about."

  "I know, I know. We don't exactly want them traipsing through our apartment, either," Sophie said. She turned off the kitchen faucet and went over to Andrew. She put her arms around his waist, and he squeezed her shoulders, kissed the top of her head. "But it feels so wrong, letting him go like that."

  They were silent for a long while. They swayed in their embrace, and Sophie closed her eyes, as if shutting out the cruelty of the world.

  The silence was broken by a loud crash against the apartment door. "What was that?"

  Andrew cautiously stepped toward the door. Another resounding thud rattled the door. It shook in its frame, but the steel bar held it steady. It wasn't going anywhere. "I'm guessing whatever had Kevin so scared."

  "Open up! I know the boy was here. I can smell him." The voice was a shambles, rage bending its rhythm to its will.

  Sophie went up to Andrew and held him once again. She shook in his arms. "I know what that is." She didn't need to say the name. Andrew had heard all about Mr. Freakshow from Sophie's time painting at Lucidity. She continued to shake, and her legs became weak. Andrew eased her to a sitting position on the floor, and they clutched each other, even as the pounding seemed to shake the whole apartment.

  The pounding suddenly stopped, and after awhile, the Freak spoke in a placating voice, his voice tempered of its anger, "I just need to find the boy. He's gone missing. He's so lost. So lonely…" He was quiet again, and enough time lapsed that Sophie began to wonder if the beast had gone away. "Old lady, I know what you've done. I despise you and everything about you. Right after I kill the boy, I'm coming back for you."

  Sophie clung to Andrew for a long time. She was almost certain Mr. Freakshow was now gone for good. He was on a hunt, after all, and his prey was gaining distance. She could feel the pulse of Andrew's neck against her cheek, and it was comforting. She didn't want that steady reassurance to ever leave her. She closed her eyes, and Andrew held her, even as the adrenaline rush left her limbs and she felt weak and old, he held her. Her thoughts went out to Kevin. She hoped
he was fast enough and clever enough to evade such a horrible fate.

  Chapter 19

  White noise, disinformation.

  The young man sat on a thinly-padded bucket seat aboard the trundling L-train, his brown attaché case balanced against his thigh. Everything about him was bland. Details, once recalled, someone would immediately question for validity.

  Everything about him--the embossed initials, K.L., near the handle of the attaché, his slightly tanned skin (courtesy of a bronzing agent he picked up at an out of town drugstore), his preppy, died-brown hair, his khakis and button up brown shirt--everything about him was a fake, a deception.

  White noise, disinformation.

  He looked much younger than his forty-two years. He could pass for twenty-four, maybe a year or two younger still. His goal was to appear to be a young man on the make, decked out for a job interview, or perhaps on his way to work an entry-level position in an office setting. People continually asked him for ID when he entered a bar or bought a six pack. He always smiled inside (never outwardly, for risk of losing the upper hand), knowing he'd fooled them. He could legally buy alcohol around the time of the first George Bush's lone acceptance speech.

  The car was empty but for him, even with the early morning thrown into chaos by the startling events of the last twenty-four hours. Dreams escaping from a museum? He didn't know if he believed the stories, but he did know he would find his work easier. As soon as he heard the news on his shower radio this morning, he was certain he would find his victims easier to ply away from their relative safety. After all, with all of the hullabaloo, who would question his appearance, find fear or unease in his proximity?

  Whatever was happening in the streets and alleyways, he was happy for the extra layer of tumult cast over the city.

  White noise, disinformation.

  He brushed his hand affectionately over his attaché. He'd had it long enough. After finishing work for the day, he would have to find a new case to carry his tools. No sense in allowing a pattern of details to develop. Ah, his tools. His diamond-tipped augers, his crude sail thread and needles… he had to clear his mind of them or risk allowing to surface a clue to his intentions.

  But the train is empty, he thought. But all the better for the practice. The facade must be flawless. Who's to say who's secretly watching him?

  Besides, the train is slowing.

  The L-train bored through the dimly-lit tunnel, bored through it like his tools at work on human flesh. A gentle hiss of the air brakes indicated the train coming to a stop. He leaned against his inertia until the momentum died, until the train exited the tunnel and eased next to the elevated platform. The young man smiled inside as he casually looked out the window.

  A lone woman with luminous auburn hair stood on the elevated platform. She hugged her arms in front of her as if she was trying to hold herself together.

  The train doors split open, and the woman tentatively stepped aboard. Her indecision and insecurity made her an interesting possibility for his day. He saw much potential in the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. And her eyes--alive with some unconventional light. He would explore and insinuate his tools into her soft tissues until he discovered its origin. Then once he understood this woman, he would sew her up again. Leave no trace of his violation.

  Without looking at him, the woman braced her hand on a metal handrail, then turned down the narrow aisle, quickly taking a seat with seeming randomness. When she glanced about the train compartment, he offered her his most charming smile.

  White noise, disinformation.

  The world was too big, too overwhelming. The scope and complexity--the unending gray blanket of sky, the indistinguishable city blocks, the innumerable buildings. The build up of details, the minutia of every single thing…

  Juliet's hand began to twitch.

  Tears flowed down her cheeks. She didn't know what she was doing or where she was going. Or really, buried in the back of her mind, who she was.

  At least no one took notice of her; her disguise was working. No one noticed her for being what she was. At least so far.

  She fell in behind a group of people, trying to blend in as she collected her thoughts. The people were in such a hurry, jogging through crosswalks a split second after speeding cars rushed by.

  She couldn't hide forever. Eventually, her emotions would give her away. And when the tears started to flow unbidden, when her moods darkened, things would happen. Strange things. The clouds would clear, the sun would shine, a drizzle of warm rain would patter over her skin. And then she would have the insatiable desire to kill herself. She wouldn't be able to think of anything else but ending her own life.

  Her hand continued to twitch. Soon she would conjure up the handgun, then place it to her chin or temple. Maybe seeing her braincase exploding into a cloud of brain and blood--seeing her seemingly dead body tumble to the sidewalk, and then her wounds fade to nonexistence and watch her rise again--maybe that would give these strangers a clue as to who exactly they were walking with.

  Juliet hugged the twitching limb to her chest, aware now how hard she was breathing. She hadn't a clue as to where to start looking for Maury, or even how to make her way through the city. At a busy intersection, Juliet fell into lockstep with a woman who exuded confidence. She wore a gray wool jacket the color of smoke. Her feet were clad in white walking shoes. The cuffs of her black pleated pants swayed at her ankles as she walked. She seemed to look down on the world from an unturned gaze. Her lips were tight, her eyes alert.

  Without the woman noticing, Juliet followed her for a short while, not taking her eyes from the back of her coat. She was able to block out the rest of the world; as long as she followed this woman, she would be able to keep her dark thoughts at bay. The woman turned down a stairway that looked like an entrance to a catacomb. After a moment's hesitation, Juliet followed. At the bottom of the stairs, they reached a turnstiles, over which the woman deftly jumped.

  For the first time, the woman acknowledged Juliet.

  "Come on over, no one's here. We shouldn't have to miss our train just because they can't keep up on their repairs."

  Juliet noticed a handwritten out-of-order sign hanging from the turnstiles. It also indicated they should enter the subway two blocks north.

  The confident woman didn't wait for her reaction, and soon, a man in a business suit was impatiently waiting behind Juliet.

  She had latched on to this unsuspecting woman as a chick will imprint on its parent after cracking through its eggshell. She felt a surge of panic as the woman walked down yet another set of concrete steps. Juliet hopped over the out-of-order turnstile, hurrying down the steps after the woman.

  Before exiting the stairwell, Juliet looked over her shoulder. The view of the sky was shrinking. Seeing this, her heartbeat slowed, and she was regaining her composure somewhat.

  She needed Maury. He was the only human she could trust. He was so kind, and she knew, even in her self-aware naiveté, that they shared a flawless love.

  The humans were getting restless. She could feel it building; soon blood would be shed. The city was a powder keg. In the few hours since she left the museum, the streets had cleared of most people. They had scurried into buildings, into the security of their homes, hiding from the uncertainty and fear that had so suddenly swept over the city. Somehow she knew those who remained on the streets were either trying desperately to get home, or were predators seeking out easy prey.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, train rails ran on either side of the platform. A few people were boarding a train, and as Juliet scanned the crowd, she noticed the confident woman boarding just as the doors were sliding shut. The woman looked ahead of her without flinching or a sign of fear and the train quickly pulled away from the platform, disappearing as it rounded a bend in the tunnel.

  Juliet was alone. She sensed rats nearby. The subway's air was heavy, pungent with the odor of urine and something else, something possibly wicked. Her hand beg
an to twitch again, and tears gathered at her lashes, ready to fall.

  She pulled her trembling hand tight to her body, and willed the dark thoughts away.

  She didn't know what she was going to do. She didn't exactly have a plan beyond following that woman, and it wouldn't have taken long for the woman to grow weary of having someone straggle behind her like a neurotic shadow. And now she was alone in this oppressive, dank place. At least the world felt smaller, more manageable.

  White light, shining like starlight, gleamed around the bend of the tunnel. The ground was shaking, and then in short order, a train appeared. At first, Juliet thought the confident woman had come back for her. She felt certain she would step from inside the train, calling out to her. She would invite Juliet to come home with her and welcome her into her confident family. But this train was following the previous one. Her brief hope snuffed out like a blown match.

  She didn't know what else to do, or where to go, so she stepped aboard the train when the doors opened. She kept her eyes to the floor, hurrying down the aisle to find a seat before the train took off again. She scanned the car, noticing only one other person.

  An odd man with a sneer of a smile pinching his face.

  His gray hair was creeping through a dye job the color of drying mud. His skin shone like that of a cooked turkey. He looked old, used up, unhinged.

  Juliet had been free of confinement and able to walk the streets for a total of a few hours. Even so, right away she knew this man was trouble.

  He stood up, holding his briefcase at his side, and approached her. His stomach was paunchy, straining against a shirt that might have fit him in his youth. He stopped less than a foot away from her, taking hold of the vertical metal handrail. Her eyes leveled on his protruding stomach. She saw crumbs dotting the brown shirt's wash-faded fabric.