Black Evening

by David Morrell

  "I won't turn the lights on. I won't disgust you."

  I lied. "It's just that I don't want to inconvenience you."

  "No trouble." She sounded emphatic. "I want to help. I've always believed in charity."

  She began to walk away. Paralyzed, I thought about it. For sure, the steak sounded good. And the sofa. A hell of a lot better than sleeping hunched in the car.

  But Jesus, the way she looked.

  And maybe my attitude was painfully familiar to her. How would I feel, I wondered, if I was deformed and people shunned me? Charity. Hadn't she said she believed in charity? Well, maybe it was time I believed in it myself. I followed her, less motivated by the steak and the sofa than by my determination to be kind.

  She lived three blocks away, on a street as dark as the one we'd left. The houses were still, no sounds, no sign of anyone. It was the strangest walk of my life.

  From what I could tell in the dark, she lived in an old two-story Victorian house. The porch floor squeaked as we crossed it to go inside. And true to her word, she didn't turn on the lights.

  "The living room's through an arch to your left," she said. "The sofa's against the wall straight ahead. I'll fix the steak."

  I thanked her and did what she said. The sofa was deep and soft. I hadn't realized how tired I was until I leaned back. In the dark, I heard the sizzle of the steak from somewhere at the back of the house. I assume she turned the kitchen lights on to cook it, but I didn't see even the edge of a glow. Then the fragrance of the beef drifted toward me. Echoing footsteps came near.

  "I should have asked how well done you like it. Most customers ask for medium rare." Her wispy voice sounded like wind chimes.

  "Great." I no longer cared if she was ugly. By then I was ravenous.

  In the dark, she cautiously set up a tray, brought the steak, bread and butter, A-l sauce, and a beer. Although awkward because I couldn't see, I ate amazingly fast. I couldn't get enough of it. Delicious couldn't describe it. Mouth-watering. Taste-bud expanding. Incredible.

  I sopped up sauce and steak juice with my final remnant of bread, stuffed it in my mouth, washed it down with my final sip of beer, and sagged back, knowing I'd eaten the best meal of my life.

  Throughout, she'd sat in a chair across the room and hadn't spoken once.

  "That was wonderful," I said. "I don't know how to thank you."

  "You already have."

  I wasn't sure what she meant. My belly felt reassuringly packed to the bursting point.

  "You haven't asked," she said.

  I frowned. "Asked what? I don't understand."

  "You do. You're dying to ask. I know you are. They always are."

  "They?"

  "Why the people here are horribly deformed."

  I felt a chill. In truth, I had been tempted to ask. The town was so unusual, the people so strange, I could barely stifle my curiosity. She'd been so generous, though, I didn't want to draw attention to her infirmity and be rude. At once, her reflection in the mirror at the BAR-B-CUE popped up terribly in my mind. No chin. One eye. Flat slits where there should have been a nose. Oozing sores.

  I almost vomited. And not just from the memory. Something was happening in my stomach. It churned and complained, growling, swelling larger, as if it were crammed with a million tiny darting hornets.

  "Sins," she said.

  I squirmed, afraid.

  "Long ago," she said, "in the Middle Ages, certain priests used to travel from village to village. Instead of hearing confessions, they performed a ceremony to cleanse the souls of the villagers. Each member of the group brought something to eat and set it on a table in front of the priest. At last, an enormous meal awaited him. He said the necessary words. All the sins of the village were transferred into the food."

  I swallowed bile, unaccountably terrified.

  "And then he ate the meal. Their sins," she said. "He stuffed himself with sins."

  Her tone was so hateful I wanted to scream and run.

  "The villagers knew he'd damned himself to save their souls. For this, they gave him money. Of course, there were disbelievers who maintained the priest was nothing more than a cheat, a con man tricking the villagers into feeding him and giving him money. They were wrong."

  I heard her stand.

  "Because the evidence was clear. The sins had their effect. The evil spread through the sin-eater's body, festering, twisting, bulging to escape."

  I heard her doing something in the corner. I tensed from the sound of scratching.

  "And not just priests ate sins," she said. "Sometimes special women did it too. But the problem was, suppose the sin-eater wanted to be redeemed as well? How could a sin-eater get rid of the sins? Get rid of the ugliness. By passing the sins along, of course. By having them eaten by someone else."

  "You're crazy," I said. "I'm getting out of here."

  "No, not just yet."

  I realized the scratching sound was a match being struck. A tiny flame appeared. My stomach soured in pulsing agony.

  "A town filled with sin-eaters," she said. "Monsters shunned by the world. Bearable only to each other. Suffering out of charity for the millions of souls who've been redeemed."

  She lit a candle. The light grew larger in the room. I saw her face and gaped again, but this time for a different reason. She was beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. Her skin seemed to glow with sensuality.

  It also seemed to shimmer, to ripple, to —

  "No. My God," I said. "You put something in my food."

  "I told you."

  "Not that foolishness." I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't respond. My body seemed to expand, contract and twist. My vision became distorted as if I peered at funhouse mirrors. "LSD? Was that it? Mescaline? I'm hallucinating." Each word echoed more loudly, yet seemed to murmur from far away.

  I cringed as she approached, growing more beautiful with every step.

  "And it's been so long," she said. "I've been so ugly. So long since anyone wanted me."

  Reality cracked. The universe spun. She stripped off her uniform, showing her breasts, her… Her body was…

  Despite the torture in my stomach, the insanity of my distorted senses, I wanted her. I suddenly needed her as desperately as anything I'd ever coveted.

  Passion was endless, powerful, frantic. Rolling, we bumped the tray, sending glass and plate, knife and fork and steak sauce crashing down. A lamp fell, shattering. My naked back slammed against the sharp edge of a table, making me groan. Not from pain. I screamed in ecstacy.

  And just before I came with an explosive burst, as if from the core of my soul, as if after foisting her sins upon me she needed something from me in return, I felt her drawing me close to her, down, ever down.

  She moaned and pleaded, "Eat me. Eat me!"

  I lost consciousness. The Nebraska state police claim they found me wandering naked down the middle of Interstate 80 at one o'clock in the afternoon two days later. They say I was horribly sunburned. I don't know. I don't remember. All I recall is waking up in the hospital in Iowa City.

  In the psych ward.

  The doctors lied. They claimed I wasn't ugly. Then why would they have locked me up and taken the mirrors away? Why would the nurses have flinched when they came in with guards to feed me? They thought they were so smart, but I knew the truth. Despite the thick wire screen across the window, at night I saw my reflection. I don't have a chin. There's only one eye. In place of a nose, I've got two flat repulsive slits. I'm being punished. I understand that now. For all the evil in the world.

  I used to be a Catholic, but I don't go to church anymore. When I was young, though, learning to go to confession, the nuns made me learn a speech to say to the priest in the booth. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was… And then I'd tell him how long ago, and then I'd confess, and then I'd finish by saying, I'm sorry for these and all my sins. I am, you know. I'm sorry. Except I didn't commit them. The sins aren't mine.

  My wife and chi
ldren came to visit. I refused to let them see me. I couldn't bear to see the sickened reaction in their eyes.

  How can a sin-eater get rid of the sins? That's what she said to me. By passing the sins along, of course. By having them eaten by someone else.

  I've known for several weeks now what I had to do. It was simply a matter of pretending to be calm, of waiting for my chance. I hope the guard wasn't badly hurt. I tried not to hit him too hard. But his head made a terrible sound when I cracked it against the wall.

  I've been very clever. I've stolen three cars, and I've never kept one long enough for the state police to catch me. It's taken me two days to return.

  That's why the tree's so important. It's my landmark, you see. Remember the off-ramp had no sign. The tree's all I had to give me direction.

  But I'm puzzled. Oh, I found the tree all right, its branches in the shape of the menorah candelabrum. And it's so distinctive I can't believe there'd be another like it. But I swear it had eight upright branches then, and it was bare.

  But now it's got nine.

  And leaves have sprouted.

  Dear God, help me. Save me.

  I pressed the accelerator to the floor, racing along the two-lane blacktop. As before, the road stretched forever. Doubt made me frantic. I tried not to glance at the rear-view mirror. All the same, I weakened, and my ugliness made me wail.

  I saw the building in the distance, the glint of sunlight off the metal roof. I whimpered, rushing closer. And I found the town again.

  Exactly the same. The water tower. The cattle pen (but it's full now). The service station, the BAR-B-CUE.

  I don't understand, though. Everyone's normal. I see no goiters, no hunchbacks, no twisted limbs and festering sores. They stare as I drive past. I can't stand to see their shock and disgust.

  … I've found her house. I'm in here waiting.

  In the hospital, the doctors said I was having delusions. They agreed my initial suspicion might have been correct — that some chemical in my food could have made me hallucinate, and now the effects of the drug persist, making me think I'm ugly, distorting my memory of the trip. I wish I could believe that. I even wish I could believe I've gone crazy. Anything would be better than the truth.

  But I know what it is. She did it. She made me eat her sins. But dammit, I'll get even with her. I'll make her take them back.

  I've been writing this in her living room while I glance hurriedly out the window. In case something happens to me, so people will understand. It wasn't my fault.

  But she'll come home soon. Yes, she will. And then…

  I hear a car door. On the street, someone's stepping from a station wagon.

  Oh, sweet Christ, at last. But no, it's not one person.

  Two. A man and a woman.

  But the woman isn't the one I want.

  What happened? Did she leave?

  They'll come in. They'll find me.

  I don't care. I can't bear this anymore. I have to pass the sins along. I have to…

  I found a knife in the kitchen. See, I don't know the words. I don't know how to put my sins in the food.

  But I remember the last thing she said to me. I know how to do it. I have to use the knife and a fork and make them —

  Eat me.

  The following three stories were written as a group and published together in 1985 as part of the Night Visions series. Their common theme is ambition and the dark side of success. Each is about a specific occupation, in this case a paper boy. I have a special fondness for this story because when my son, Matt, was twelve, he liked to earn extra money delivering newspapers. He had more than an adequate allowance, but like the chatty likeable boy you're about to meet, he was determined to be an entrepreneur. Because the route required him to get up every morning at five-thirty, my wife and I couldn't resist helping. Often, before dawn, I set out with Matt, and in winter, that help was especially appreciated. It was appreciated even more when, over the space of a year, two paper boys disappeared in a neighboring city. Those boys were never found. As you might expect, the route had its tense moments, and part of the purpose of this story was to communicate how alone a paper carrier can feel early in the morning. These days, the job is usually done by adults in cars, but if you're in one of those rare places that still has paper boys or girls, next time your carrier comes to the door, give a big tip.

  Black and White and Red All Over

  « ^ »

  You probably read about me in the paper this morning. Fact is, if you live near the corner of Benton and Sunset, I'm the kid who normally delivers it to you. 'Course I couldn't bring it to you today, being in the hospital and all with my arm busted and my skull what the doctor says is fractured. My Dad took over for me. To tell the truth, I kinda miss doing the route. I've been delivering three years now, since I was nine, and it gets to be a habit, even if I do have to wake up at five-thirty, Christmas and New Year's and every day. But if you think I slept in this morning, you're wrong. The nurses wake you up early here just the same as if my Mom was nudging me to crawl out of bed and make sure I put on my longjohns before I take the papers 'cause it's awful cold these snowy mornings. You have to walk the route instead of riding your bike, and that takes a half hour longer, especially with the sky staying dark so long, and sometimes you can't see the numbers on the houses when you're looking for where a new customer lives.

  The way this works, the Gazette has this guy in a truck come along and drop a bundle in front of my house, and my Dad goes out to get the bundle and fold the papers in my sack while I get dressed. A lot of times, there'll be this card with the name of a new customer or else the name of a customer who doesn't want the paper anymore, and then my Mom and I'll have to add or subtract the name from my list and figure out how much the customer owes me, especially if he's starting or stopping in the middle of a week. It's pretty complicated, but my Dad says it teaches me how to run a business, and the extra money comes in handy for buying CDs or playing video games, even if I do have to put a third of what I earn away in my bank account.

  But I was telling you about my customers. You'd be surprised how close a kid can feel to the people he delivers the paper to. They wake up early and rush to get ready for work or whatever, and I figure the only fun they have is when they sit down at breakfast to read what happened while they were sleeping. It's sorta like catching up on gossip, I guess. They depend on me, and I've never been late delivering the papers, and the only times I've missed are when I was sick or like now from what happened yesterday morning. The bandages around my head feel itchy, and the cast on my arm's awful heavy. The nurses have written lots of jokes on it, though, so I'm looking forward to going back to school in two or three weeks, the doctor says, and showing it to all the kids.

  You get to notice things about your customers, stuff a guy wouldn't think of unless he delivers papers. Like after a big football game you can't believe how many people are awake with all the lights on before I even get there, waiting for the paper so they can find out something new about the game they already heard or went to or watched on TV. Or like this house on Gilby Street where for a week or so I had to hold my breath when I came up the sidewalk past the shrubs because of the worst scuzzy smell like something really rotten. Even when I held my breath, it almost made me sick. Like the bad potatoes Mom found in the cellar last month. Nobody was picking up the papers I left. They just kept piling up beside the door, and after I told my Dad, he looked at my Mom kinda strange and said he'd better go over to see what was wrong. I could tell he figured maybe somebody was dead, and I guess I wondered that myself, but the way things turned out, those people were just on vacation which is why the papers kept piling up, and the smell was only from these plastic bags of garbage they'd forgotten to put out and some dogs had torn open at the side of the house. That smell really made me nervous for a while, though.

  And then there's the Carrigans. He lost his job at the mill last summer, and his wife likes fancy clothes, and they're always yelling
about money when I'm next door playing with Ralph or when I come around to collect or even at six in the morning when I bring them the paper. Imagine that, getting up way before dawn to argue. Or what about old Mr. Blanchard? His wife's old, too, and she's sick with what my Mom says is cancer, and I haven't seen Mrs. Blanchard in a couple months, but old Mr. Blanchard, he's up when I put the paper under the mat. I can see through his living room window where the light's on in the kitchen, and he's sitting at the table, hunched over, holding his head, and his shoulders are shaking. Even out front, I can hear him sobbing. It makes my throat tight. He always wears this gray old lumpy sweater. I'd feel sorry for him no matter what, but he cries like it's tearing his chest apart.

  And then there's Mr. Lang. He's got this puffy face and a red-veined nose and squinty angry eyes. He's always complaining about how much the paper costs and claims I'm cheating him by coming around more often than I should to collect, which of course I've never done. Two months ago, he started swearing at me so I'm afraid to go over there. My Dad says it's the whiskey makes him act like that, and now my Dad collects from him. The last time my Dad came back from there, he said Mr. Lang's not bad if you get to know him and realize he doesn't like his life, but I don't care. I want my Dad to keep collecting from him.

  I guess I was spooked by what you read about that happened in Granite Falls two months ago when Mr. Lang swore at me. That paper boy who disappeared. His parents waited for him to come home from his Sunday morning route, and after they got calls from customers wanting to know where the paper was, his Dad went out looking and found his sack full of papers a block away in an empty lot behind some bushes. You remember how the police and the neighbors went out searching, and the paper he worked for put his picture on the front page and offered a reward if anybody knew where he was, but they didn't find him. The police said he might've run away, but that didn't make any sense to me. It was too darn cold to run away, and where would he go? My Dad says he read how the police even seemed to think the parents might have done something to him themselves and how the parents got so mad they wanted to sue the police for saying that. One man was cruel enough to phone the parents and pretend he had the boy and ask for money, but the police traced the calls, and the man didn't have him. Now the man says it was just a joke, but I read where he's in lots of trouble.