THE SUBWAY COLLECTION-A Box Set of 8 Dark Stories to Read on the Go

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  Brian's arm stayed raised and now he hesitated. His head swiveled on his neck so he was staring at the window. "Look. There, see him? He was never real until I told you about him, making up that stupid story. Now he's come to get revenge. He doesn't like his story told, not by anyone. People think it was just a legend, all made up to frighten teenagers and kids, but it must have really happened somewhere, sometime; he must have once been real because he walks now. He walks outside, dragging his arm along the walls, waiting to get inside."

  My gaze was drawn along with his to the window, the dark square with the snowstorm blowing outside. For a brief second or two I saw what Brian was seeing. A wizened face pressed to the icy glass, the eyes mad and senseless with rage. And there, next to that face the mechanical hand clenched so that the two pincers were curved, gleaming, pressed together into a hook.

  Startled, I gasped. But then the apparition vanished and nothing but snowflakes gusted past the window panes.

  I turned my attention back to Brian and saw he was still mesmerized, lost in that dark dream. It was my chance to make a move. I rushed forward and grabbed the weapon in his hand and twisting, wrestled it from his grasp. I hurried to the door to call for help and heard footsteps ringing in the hall, some of the other men coming to see what the shouting was about.

  #

  Now that they've taken Brian away I wonder if the story he told was true or not. Or had he been the one who murdered Betsy Ann? Had there even been a Betsy Ann? It was maddening not to know the truth. Had he told me it was a lie, an urban legend, just to throw me off? And what had that been at the window, that madman with the hook? Had we shared a psychosis and a vision together, Brian and I?

  I'm beginning to have real trouble deciphering between the real and the unreal. I hope Brian's madness wasn't catching. I've put in for a transfer. I told them I didn't care where they sent me just as long as it was out of McMurdo Sound and out of Antarctica. They said it might take a while. Finding replacements was hell. I told them it was imperative. I'm not sure they're listening.

  As I sit here in my bunk, keeping to myself, I hear the arctic wind and it never ceases. It rattles across the corrugated walls like...like a metal arm dragging past the window searching for the next victim, waiting until the time is ripe for murder, taking all the time in the world to make the next move--like a chess player who is patient, methodical, like a player who never loses.

  The guys tell me I need to get more rest. It was a shock, what I went through when attacked by my friend, they say. They've heard the story about the winter night near the baseball diamond and the scraping sound at the car door. I had to tell them, something made me tell them the whole thing. I've broken down and told them about poor Betsy Ann who was snatched from the road and dragged into the woods. I finally even admitted I took Folcum for a little walk to the creek and held his head under the water until he drown. I can recall the chill of the flowing water, a bird singing wildly in a nearby tree, the muscles bunching in the back of Folcum's neck. I can taste revenge like it is a penny on my tongue. I can feel the man losing his battle, his body going limp to fall halfway into the water, ripples rolling over his motionless head and shoulders like he's a rock, just a centuries' old rock obstructing the water's flow.

  I told them what happens then, how he comes back, sometimes years later. He always comes back.

  No one believes a word I say. I just can't tell a story like Brian could. If I was a better storyteller they would probably see what I see when I look out the windows, when I go outside to check the equipment, when I glance around in the dark shadows that squat in the corners like malevolent creatures. One man, Jimmy Datsuoto, says he believes me, he thinks maybe he can see something out of the corner of his eye sometimes and it creeps him out. Jimmy's become my friend. He beats me at chess. Everyone beats me at games.

  I will have to make a weapon to defend myself the way Brian had to do. That's what I tell Jimmy and he agrees. He said he needed to make one too.

  We need protection from the demon who stalks McMurdo Sound.

  I don't know about Jimmy, he's on his own and I told him so, but I'm not going to let Folcum take me alive.

  It's been two months since Brian was taken away and I miss him. Jimmy's sitting across the table from me in the radar room and it's his move. I'm about to block his queen from taking my bishop, if he doesn't move it.

  "DID YOU HEAR THAT? WAS IT THE WIND?" Jimmy's shouting. I tell him to shut the hell up.

  I reach for the welded pipes and Jimmy reaches for his.

  We're ready. We know exactly what to do.

  THE END

  SPARKLE

  A Tale of the Devil

  by

  Billie Sue Mosiman

  Copyright Billie Sue Mosiman 2012, All Rights Reserved

  SPARKLE

  ABE ABADDON STOOD scowling out the front windows of the big old stone house, waiting for the couple to arrive.

  He watched snow fluttering against the windows as twilight settled. He could just see the swinging sign at the snowy lawn's edge, STONYHART BED & BREAKFAST. The wind blew it back and forth with a regular rhythm.

  It was almost Christmas, a day Abe dreaded. Here in upper Connecticut the season was usually greeted with several feet of snow, winds that brought temperatures dipping below zero, and early dark night. This new snow was sure to drift against the doors and up to the window sills before dawn.

  He turned from the windows and went again to the dark stairs, looking up. He turned on the ancient wall sconces with a switch. Four of them at intervals up the staircase gave dim, but sufficient light for going up to the second floor where the rooms were for rent. Abe tread up the steps, the scowl still in place, his mood dark as the backside of the moon.

  He didn't like the man who would soon be in his house. He cared little for the woman, either, but she wasn't a problem. The man was. He was the one who had made the reservation in early November. Abe knew the website advertising Stonyhart had drawn the man to the site and then caused him to make the call. That was the website's job--pull the bad ones toward it, cause them to choose it over other accommodations.

  At the top of the long stairs, Abe turned right and walked softly along the carpeted hall to Room 12. Standing at the closed door, Abe's scowl relented and a demented smile replaced it. Room 12 was the "Sparkle" room. It was where everything waited for the right occupant.

  Abe turned the doorknob and stepped inside without turning on the overhead stained glass fixture, or going to the ancient chest to switch on the lamp. He didn't need artificial light. This room was called the Sparkle room for a reason.

  #

  Dina looked over at Frank with trepidation. How she wished she wasn't in a car with him on the way to her parents' home for Christmas. It was as if she couldn't get out of it and there was no help for it. She had dated him for two months and was slowly moving away from him by missing a few calls, making excuses why she couldn't go out, and making herself generally unavailable, but he wasn't the kind of man who noticed subtlety. He thought everything was as intact and screwed down tight as a bolt against hardwood. He hadn't done anything too terrible to her or acted in some kind of unseemly manner, but there were cracks in the veneer that was Frank Nesbeth. These cracks, when she peered into them, revealed a man of secrets, a man who was probably involved in criminal activities (though he claimed to be a computer nerd at an up and coming tech company). She overheard some of his phone conversations and they sure didn't sound like he was talking about computers. He made references like "bag 'em" and "make sure the warehouse is watched" and, whispering angrily, "we're not talking about this on the phone."

  Dina figured that's what she got for going out with men she met at bars during Happy Hour. It was all her fault, but she didn't know how to get out of this relationship.

  Now he was driving her to her family's home. He had shown up two days ago and caught her packing for the trip. He saw the folded clothes, the wrapped Christmas gifts. He invite
d himself, offering to make arrangements for the overnight stay in a motel for the long trek to Connecticut from Virginia.

  What could she say to him, no, I don't want you to go? Dina hated disputes and conflicts of any sort. It's probably why she never got pay raises or moved up at the art gallery where she worked. She didn't have the stomach to be aggressive and pursue a hard line. She'd rather be told what to do than be the boss and give others orders. She couldn't order Frank to back off and she sure couldn't tell him she didn't want him along on the trip home.

  He was driving over the snowy roads too fast for her taste. Dark was coming on like a stealthy black cat creeping around a corner of the world. The conifers hung heavy with a blanket of snow. The ditches were filled with snowfall and the gray slushy gutters on each side of the road were freezing into slick pans of ice. If he had to brake, they were going to slide right into a snowdrift.

  She wrung her hands unconsciously until she saw Frank glancing over at them and then looking into her face for clues to her nervousness. She held her hands still and tried to breathe easy. "So what's this surprise place you've found for our overnight?" she asked.

  They had left the freeway and had taken an exit into a small town, and finally outside of the town down a two-lane blacktop through thick, silent forests.

  "It's called Stonyhart Bed and Breakfast. The pictures on the internet were fantastic. It's a huge three-story made of gray stone with narrow lead glass windows. It even has a turret and dormers on the roof. Looks like the castle of Frankenstein." He laughed and Dina drew in her shoulders. "Frankenstein, get it? My name's Frank?"

  She smiled at him. Inside her stomach began to churn and she caught herself again fiddling her fingers, locking them, unlocking them. She stopped. She needed to get hold of herself. After all, she had dated this man, she had bedded him, and until she could find a way to move him out of her life, she was stuck with him.

  "Sounds...interesting." She glanced out the side window of the Nissan Pathfinder at the impenetrable wall of deep green forests covered with snow and they looked as thick as old clotted cream. She shivered despite the warm air blowing from the car vents. "How far is it?"

  "Another mile or so." He consulted the GPS map and nodded. "Listen, you're gonna love it."

  She had never once said she liked old creepy bed and breakfasts--or stone castles--or places hidden off the beaten path at the end of a long, empty glacial road. Frank really didn't know her well at all. God, she didn't feel Christmasy, and it was her favorite holiday of the year. She just had to get through this night, through the short drive in the morning to her parents' house, and then she'd feel better, she was sure she would...

  #

  Abe sat in a high-backed leather chair before the great stone fireplace. Flames danced and shadows cavorted across the room. He would wait to turn on the lights when the young couple arrived. Until then, he favored the dark, the fire, the flames, the...shadows.

  In those shadows were people. Not technically, but in true reality. Shadow people some whacko radio talk show hosts and their late night callers, wide-eyed and caffeined to the gills, called them. Abe called them demons, the abandoned, the confused and revengeful. And he knew what he was talking about.

  He waved one long, thin hand in the air as if orchestrating and said, "Cease your stalking."

  The shadows wavered and rippled then settled, shivering only a little, making the walls and furniture alive with anticipation.

  Frank Nesbeth was a soul who needed reaping, Abe thought. He had started out bad as a boy and grew worse as a man. He had stolen from his hard-working mother. He had scared his grandmother into having a fatal heart attack. He had deceived a number of people, abused their trust, beaten those who got in his way, broken hearts, been involved in the movement of huge shipments of drugs in and out of Charlotte, Virginia--much of it shuffled into the hands of school children who grew addicted--some of them dying. He had ambitions to scale the ladder of the underworld and become, finally, a big man--a man no one can say no to, a man feared and loathed. A great man of power.

  Abe had been given notice this was not going to happen; it was not set forth in the scheme of things. Abe had been given Frank Nesbeth and he was going to take him. It made Abe's jaws tighten and his saliva glands work overtime to think of it.

  The flames in the fireplace leaped, the burning logs crackled, snow quietly layered the lead lines in the windows, and the hungry shadows swayed with barely held restraint.

  #

  "Here we are!" Frank turned off the car and sat a moment taking in the sight of the house. "Look at that thing!"

  Dina truly hated it. She couldn't think of a scarier looking place to spend the night. Daylight had failed and from the iron lamps on each side of a massive wood door light scattered over the gray stone blocks to give it a prison like appearance. Straps of iron crisscrossed the door and there didn't appear to be a handle. The house rose up into the dark, disappearing in a shroud of fog. Weak light came from windows on the bottom floor, but it wasn't inviting.

  "Frank...maybe we could..."

  He turned to her. "What's the matter, you don't like it?"

  "It's..."

  "Spooky? Hell, yeah! But I bet it's going to be great inside. You never stayed in a castle before, have you? It's an adventure."

  Before she could protest more, he was out the door and opening the back for their bags.

  She pulled her coat close and took her small purse. The wind buffeted her the instant she was outside of the car. Hurrying alongside Frank to the front door, they were both startled when the door opened abruptly before they knocked or rang the bell. In the doorway stood a tall, thin man with a long face and deep set eyes. His hair was black, thick and full, combed back from the gaunt face. He said, "Come in," and the voice matched his body. Low, deep, as if coming from the bottom of a barrel, a Vincent Price kind of theatrical voice.

  He stepped out of the way and Frank gave her a little push. She went in, chin in the folds of her coat. The wind had left her frozen. The tips of her ears felt like icicles and even her lungs ached from the cold.

  The door shut at her back with a heavy sound and she turned to see Frank putting their two small suitcases on the floor and shaking himself like a dog to scatter the snow from his hair and clothes.

  "Leave your bags there for right now. Come and warm your hands at the fire," their host said.

  Dina felt the emptiness of the house, the echoing vastness of it, the cold stony clap of their footsteps across the hard floor as they followed the man into a room with a giant fireplace set into a great wall. There was a jeweled lamp on a small table beside a leather chair, and another, larger lamp on an ornate chest against a wall, but neither light made the room cozy. It was too large, the ceilings fourteen feet high, the walls made of stone, the furniture antique and heavy and ominous.

  "I've made a pot of tea," the man said, gesturing that they sit on a settee upholstered in red velvet. "I'm Abe Abbadon, the owner of this establishment. I imagine your trip was difficult in this storm?"

  "Like bloody hell," Frank said, and laughed.

  They accepted white china teacups embellished with gold rims. The tea was hot and fragrant, a good black beverage that Dina sipped gratefully. "Are we the only guests?" she asked.

  Abaddon nodded and looked sad. "It's been a slow, bad winter and, of course, it's almost Christmas. Most travelers stay on the freeway and choose the chain motels, I imagine."

  Like I wish we had, Dina thought, but she kept her gaze on her teacup so as not to let her host see her true feelings. She meant to drink her tea fast and get to their room. She'd plead fatigue if Frank wanted to make love. She couldn't think about sex with him for much longer. Her feelings had...turned. He wasn't the man she wanted, not at all. Not now for the night, not ever. She just had to find a way to let him know.

  They spoke of the weather, the history of the house which had been around since the time of the War Between the States, and finally Abaddon
stood and went to help with the suitcases. Frank demurred, saying he had it, thanks, and Abaddon shrugged. He led them up the stairs saying, "I've given you the best room since we have no other guests. It has its own bathroom--fresh towels. Some of the others don't have a private bath."

  He took them to Room 12 and handed the key to Frank. "Breakfast in the morning at nine. If you need anything in the night, just use the telephone in the room and dial 77. It rings me."

  With that he was gone, lost like a tall wraith in the shifting shadows of the hall.

  "Wow, this is pretty awful," Dina said in a low voice. "And what a strange man!"

  "You really don't like it?" Frank looked sullen. "I thought you would. I thought it would be fun. A surprise."

  "It's cold in here." She hugged her arms while he unlocked the door with an old-fashioned skeleton key attached to a small round black button with the number 12 on it.

  "Maybe it's nicer in the room. You can quit whining now."

  Dina frowned. "I'm not whining."

  "Baby, you've been whining for hours." He had the door unlocked and shouldered it open while carrying both bags. Dina followed behind.

  Dark. Cold.

  Dina felt for a light switch and wondered why Abaddon hadn't left a lamp on for them. Her hand scratched along the wallpaper in a blind search. "Where's the light?" she asked, a small panic in her voice. She pushed the door open again to the hall and a bar of pale light stole across the carpeted room ending at the foot of a massive bed. She turned to the near wall and found the switch. Overhead a bulb behind a red and blue stained glass globe came on, but the light was weak. She closed the door, turning the lock.