Fear of the Dark: An Anthology of Dark Fiction

by Maria Grazia Cavicchioli

  “Yeah, I like it,” he said, to whomever was still listening. “This thing’s got a charm all its own.”

  ○

  “You know, maybe if you hurry and catch that dealer before he leaves for the day you can get your money back.”

  “Still crabbing about my find, eh, Grandpa?” Dennis asked while busily polishing the brass railings along the oak bar. He’d arranged a few tables around the hearse — where people could sit and eat, if they desired — and got to work. “Well, I like it,” he said, “and it stays.”

  Willard sighed and then smiled over at Daphne. There was mischief in his eyes.

  “One good thing,” he started, continuing to bait his grandson, “if anybody in here chokes to death on the food, you at least got transportation for ‘em!” He laughed at his own joke until he had tears in his eyes. Daphne laughed, too, while Patsy, busy drying off drinking glasses for the imminent Friday night crowd, had to resist; she could tell her boss was getting irritated.

  “Don’t you have something to do this afternoon?” Dennis asked the old man, looking up from his polishing. “Like pigeons to feed or somebody else to cheer up or something?”

  Willard’s expression soured and he figured he’d finally overstepped his bounds. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I do. Just remembered I told Widow Johnson I’d mow her grass today. Guess I forgot all about it.” He got up, dug around in his trouser pockets and slapped a ten dollar bill down on the bar.

  “Oh, for Crissakes, take your ten, Grampa,” Dennis told him. “You know my staff drinks for free. Even the pains in my ass.”

  Willard looked to Daphne and grinned. She returned his smile. “All right,” the old man said, wasting no time in retrieving Alexander Hamilton from the countertop. “If you’re gonna insist.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Dennis said, if for no other reason than to check that he still had a clean-up man: Willard couldn’t sleep too well, so the old man, to kill time, was on staff at the tavern. He’d go in at two in the morning — after the night’s crowd had been ushered out — and put the place back in order, sweeping the floors of popcorn and broken glass and setting all the chairs and tables back into place. It was a lonely job, but it gave Dennis an early start on his 30-minute ride home (he lived three towns over) and, truth be told, it was good for Willard — it not only put extra money in his pocket (his Social Security needed all the help it could get), it also gave him a sense of purpose in an uneventful retirement. And seeing he lived right there in town, barely five minutes away, driving was no real inconvenience.

  “Yeah, sure,” Willard agreed. He nodded to Patsy and then Daphne. “Ladies,” he said, and turned to go.

  He stopped before the antique hearse on his way to the door and took a long look at it. He could feel its dark history, could smell its age and mustiness, and was overcome by the dreariness of its purpose. He didn’t like it at all. Didn’t like the way it looked or what it had been used for. And he felt it certainly had no business in an eating and drinking establishment, where people went to relax and enjoy themselves. While he stood there, peering through the plate of leaded glass at the four black iron spikes that had kept countless coffins from sliding around inside, and at the dusty black velvet curtains and dirty black tassels, he suddenly felt very cold. Gooseflesh stood out upon his arms and the short hairs on the nape of his neck tingled and rose up. He looked to his left, expecting (hoping) to see the door standing open and allowing a draft into the room.

  But the door was closed. It was the hearse that had made him cold.

  “This thing gives me the creeps,” he said, turning back to face his grandson. And it was there in the old man’s eyes — for the first time that afternoon he was serious. He walked through the door and was gone.

  “You know,” Dennis said a few moments later, to Daphne and Patsy, “ever since my grandmother died he’s been like this. Gloomy and cynical and never happy about anything. It gets me worrying about him sometimes.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Daphne spoke. Her voice was old and wise and brittle in the afternoon quiet of the bar.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I don’t like it either.” There was a troubled look on her grandmotherly face, and dark shadows flitted in her gentle eyes. “It feels... well, it feels like... doom.”

  Dennis frowned, sighed, and went back to work.

  ○

  Willard pulled back into the parking lot of the Wayside Tavern at 1:30am. The last of the late-night stragglers were departing, some stumbling drunkenly as they made their ways home. The old man walked into the bar and found Dennis and Patsy wiping down the countertops.

  “Hey, Gramps,” Dennis said cheerily, although his cracked voice betrayed how tired he was. Willard nodded and half-heartedly raised a wrinkled hand. Patsy waved as well.

  “Not much of a crowd tonight,” Dennis offered. “Band wasn’t so hot. Didn’t draw squat.” He stood up straight from where he’d been leaning over the bar and stretched his back. “Not much for you to do but sweep up and straighten the chairs — probably take you half-hour, forty-five minutes tops.” He reached behind the bar and popped open a small refrigerator. There were two cans of beer in it. “Left you a coupla ice-cold Old Milwaukees. Just like you like.”

  Willard grinned. “Hope you don’t plan on seein’ ‘em there in the mornin’.” He slipped his flannel shirt from his sagging shoulders and draped it over a nearby barstool. With a look around the brightly-lit room — the dimmer switches on the lights were always full-up at clean-up time — he started off toward the supply closet to fetch the industrial broom and the dustpan. When he got back, Patsy was pulling on her denim jacket and preparing to leave.

  “See you tomorrow, Old Timer,” she joked, heading for the door.

  There were a few seconds of silence as the two men, grandfather and grandson, stood and watched the door close behind Patsy. “You know,” Dennis said at last, “I got a lot of comments on that there hearse you think’s such a bad idea.”

  Willard looked over at him. “Oh? Group of morticians in to see the band?”

  “Funny. Yeah, it’s a real conversation piece, all right. Some good and some bad, but people are talking just like I said they would. Seems we got ourselves a hot item.”

  The old man sighed wearily. “Well,” he said, “it’s your bar and you can do what you want. You want to keep a death carriage in here, it’s your own business; if it was my place, I wouldn’t have it within a mile of here.”

  Dennis laughed. “You’ve made that plain enough,” he said, as he pulled on his jacket. “Now don’t forget to lock up when you go. And help yourself to those cold beers.”

  He moved for the door and, before he opened it, turned back to face his grandfather. “And Grandpa? I expect you’ll leave that hearse right where it is.” He grinned mischievously and then disappeared through the double-doors. They clanged shut behind him and their sound echoed loudly in the large, empty room.

  Willard was alone.

  He wasted no time in cracking open one of the Old Milwaukees. Its fresh cold hit the back of his throat and jolted him wide awake. He was ready to work.

  It was a big, open room, divided into three parts — the bar area, which was spacious and well-lit and also held the dining area, and adjoining the dining area and being the central section, the dance floor-cum-stage; and beyond the dance floor, the third section, the billiards room. The dancing area was large and shadowy. A small wooden stage stood at one end of it, and the dance floor stretched sixty feet from the stage to a fireplace along the back wall. The billiards room, just past the lip of the dance floor, hosted two pool tables and numerous antique artifacts, and alongside the pool room were the bathrooms.

  Willard looked around and scratched his head, wondering where he should start. He looked over to the dining area and his eyes settled on the old hearse. It stood between him and the tavern doorway.

  Immediately,
the revulsion he felt for it returned. “I s’pose I’ll clean around you first, you old bitch, and have it over with,” he said aloud. He crossed the floor and set the dustpan down on the coachman’s seat, and then set to sweeping out the booths around the hearse. He whistled to himself as he accumulated a small pile of wasted popcorn, napkins, shreds of beer labels, and even a few coins, which he pocketed. He turned to retrieve the dustpan and felt the skin around his testicles tighten.

  There were flies-about 20 or 30 of them inside the back of the hearse. They buzzed and flitted around wildly behind the smoky glass plates. Some of them were crawling on the tassels and curtains and coffin pegs.

  Willard felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He found himself gagging, but he threw up nothing. Get a grip on yourself, old man, he told himself, they’ve probably been there all afternoon and you just didn’t see them.

  But he knew they hadn’t been there before. He would have seen them.

  Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he walked around the rear of the hearse and peered through the glass of its wood-framed double doors. He glanced at the small iron knob that opened them and considered giving it a turn and letting the flies out. But then he thought better of it and let the doors be. I’ll just leave you in there, you little bastards. You’ll die soon enough anyway.

  He looked warily at the hearse and backed away from it, and decided to get on with his job so he could get out of there as quickly as possible. They’re only flies… Nothing to worry about. He picked up the dustpan and moved onto the dance floor, ignoring his can of Old Milwaukee as he passed by the bar. He would drink no more of it that night.

  He swept up more popcorn and beer labels and some cigarette butts and cellophane wrap from cigarette packages, all the while being sure to not completely turn his back on the hearse. His imagination was in overdrive, and he had the weird idea that the old carriage was going to spring to life somehow and come rolling at him, a hellfire-eyed graveyard reaper high in the coachman’s seat, its bony jaws wide open in laughter and wispy white hair billowing wildly... and he’d end up in the back of it, and that’s where Dennis and Roy and the waitresses and the whole breakfast crowd would find him in the morning, lying between the plates of smoked glass with the flies...

  Christ, will you knock it off? he told himself, trying to wrest his mind from its line of thinking. You’re giving yourself the goddamn creeps. Just finish up the floor and get the hell out of here.

  He doubled his efforts, and in no time the dance floor and stage area was swept clean. He peeled duct tape (‘rock n roll tape,’ if you were in the band) from the stage, cursing the musicians all the while, and dropped the whole tacky wad into the dustpan, which he carried over to the bar to dump its contents into the trash basket. Turning back towards the dance floor and the billiards room, he glanced nervously at the hearse.

  And it was full of flies. Where there had been 20 or 30, there were now hundreds of them, buzzing and crawling and clinging to the insides of the windows in numbers so thick Willard could no longer see the bed of the hearse.

  “What in hell!” he cried in a voice broken with fear. He felt the air rush out of his lungs and staggered back against the bar, believing he was suffocating. He quickly sat down. Not there, he thought, rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. You’re seeing things, you old goat. Nothing there but an old meatwagon. Nothing but wood and metal. He opened his eyes again.

  The hearse was empty. There were no flies.

  “Goddamnit!” he cursed. “I’m losing my mind!” He drew a deep breath and rose to his feet, grabbing hold of the remainder of his beer and pouring it into the sink. After crushing the empty can in his hand and tossing it angrily into the basket, he stormed across the dance floor and tried to focus on his work in the pool room.

  Whistling to himself, he tried to keep his mind off the old monster in the dining area. Don’t let it get the best of you, friend. It’s only your imagination playing tricks, your mind making you see things that aren’t there. You’re tired; finish up and go home to bed, will you?

  He swept quickly, and through his whistling and the swish of the broom came a loud creak, a loud, rusty, squealing creak that echoed eerily off the antique-laden walls of the tavern. It was the kind of noise rusted metal springs would make. Like the steel leaf springs beneath the hearse.

  SOMETHING’S ON THE HEARSE! a voice said in his mind. His heart leapt to his throat and he again had trouble breathing. His eyes wide with terror, Willard dropped the dustpan and broom and nearly followed them to the floor.

  Trembling on weak legs, he gaped in horror at the hearse.

  But there was no one there.

  But it creaked beneath someone’s weight! the mind-voice cried out, you heard it!

  Just the same, the coachman’s seat was empty. And so was the hearse’s glass-encased bed.

  On sea-legs, Willard picked up the broom and swept around the pool tables faster than he ever had. Hastily, he collected the pile of garbage in the dustpan and, running as quickly as his old legs would carry him, crossed the dance floor and dumped the stuff in the trashcan. He didn’t bother to return the broom to the supply closet but propped it against the bar, and then grabbed his flannel and fumbled in its pockets for his keys.

  In seconds he was at the door and, as he turned to flick off the light switch, he caught sight of the back of the hearse.

  Its rear doors were hanging open.

  He could take no more. Hair standing on end, he hurriedly set the alarm and dowsed the lights, slamming the tavern doors closed behind him. He ran — not walked — to his car, started it up, and tore out of the parking lot.

  He hadn’t cleaned the bathrooms and had haphazardly left the broom and dustpan by the bar, but he didn’t care.

  ○

  Willard didn’t sleep too well that night, and he looked like hell when he arrived at the Wayside the next afternoon.

  He was met by Dennis and Patsy and was surprised that they didn't read him the riot act for leaving the bathrooms untouched and the dustpan and broom out the night before. Surely, he thought, Roy and the two breakfast waitresses had noticed; but, curiously, nothing was said about it.

  “You only drank one of your beers last night,” Dennis said. “Anything wrong?”

  Willard stared blankly, afraid to give his grandson the truth. He wanted to let him have it, wanted to tell him all about the goddamn hearse that creaked for no reason, and its bed full of flies and its doors that opened by themselves. But what then? Dennis already knew he hated the thing, and probably figured he’d do just about anything to be rid of it — telling horror stories included.

  “Wasn’t in the mood,” Willard lied. “Was tired from mowin’ the widow’s lawn and all, so I figgered I’d just get the place cleaned up and go home.”

  Dennis nodded and grinned and didn’t seem to suspect that it wasn’t the truth.

  “But I’ll have one now,” Willard said as he plunked down on the stool farthest from the hearse. Just being near the thing was making him sweat. In his mind he kept seeing the carnival of flies in the glass box, saw them multiplying from 10 to 50 to a hundred and then two hundred, and on and on and on until the whole compartment at the rear of the hearse was a thick and roiling mass of buzzing, black, crawling flies. Willard rubbed at his bleary eyes and felt some snake-like thing settle deeper into his stomach.

  “You look like crap, Gramps,” Dennis said as he set down Willard’s beer. “You need something to eat? A burger or some cheese sticks or something?”

  (The flies)

  “No. Thanks,” Willard said. “I’ll just sit here and nurse my beer, if you don’t mind.”

  But he wanted to quit, tell his grandson that as long as the frigging hearse was parked in the middle of the floor he would have nothing to do with the place, especially not at night when it was just him and the hearse and the million flies that lived inside it.

  “Oh, before I forget
,” Dennis said while putting away some clean glasses, “the ShieldPro guys are coming here for their breakfast meeting tomorrow morning, at about 8. Could lead to some extra business, you know? I want to make a good impression on them, so... work your magic tonight and make the place really shine, huh?” He winked and grinned at his grandfather. “I’ll leave you an extra beer or something for your troubles.”

  While Dennis went back to the glasses, Willard stole another hateful look at the hearse. Its interior, under the dimness of the tavern’s lighting (Dennis kept the lights low during the day to save money on the electric bill) was deep with shadow. There seemed to be no flies within the glass but Willard was seized with a feeling of unspeakable dread anyway, and he shivered on his barstool.

  Of course, quitting was out of the question. Dennis needed him to come through, to be sure that the floor and tables and bathrooms were immaculate. ShieldPro was a big company, new to the area and just a town over, and the patronage of its employees would mean some much-needed money in the Wayside’s coffers. Willard couldn’t think of letting his grandson down, at least not until after the ShieldPro thing.

  One more night won’t kill me, Willard told himself. I’ll do it. For Dennis. And then that creepy pile of shit hearse goes or I do.

  ○

  It was two in the morning, and after watching the tavern doors close behind Patsy, Willard got right to work.

  The place was trashed. Popcorn and cigarette butts littered the floor in such concentration that it looked like a carnival had passed through. A few empty beer bottles had found their ways into dark corners, and wadded-up napkins, some sopping with spilt beer, crouched like dust bunnies beneath the tables.

  The band had been a big hit, the likes of their draw unseen at the Wayside in nearly four months. People had come in droves and had drunk up most of the tavern’s stores. And Patsy, for the most part, had handled the revelers alone, for Dennis had had to leave early on account of an illness in his girlfriend’s family and Paul had only been able to sub in for him for a few hours. From 11 on, Patsy had been left by herself to serve the small army. She went home dog-tired, bitchy and complaining. “Don’t forget about ShieldPro,” she reminded Willard before departing.