The following evening, as Vaughn sat and blankly stared at the mess of files on his desk, the medical reports, the stacks of crime scene photos, and the coroner's report on Angela's uncle, he came to agree with Mrs. Davis.
Angela was still in the hospital, but the bandages had been removed from her eyes. Her scarred and torn eyelids looked pitiful, and her eyes were bloodshot, with angry scratches on her corneas and irises. She sat by the window contemplating the night.
"Angela," Vaughn said. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay. They'll let me go home tomorrow." She tried to smile. "It's hard for me to see, but I'm getting bored just lying in bed. I don't want to fall asleep. I don't want the nightmares to return."
Vaughn sat on the edge of her bed. He said nothing for a while. "Beth isn't very good at keeping secrets, is she?" he finally said. "The secret about Carrie and Kevin, for instance. That probably had you worried. Worried that her tongue would get even looser and she'd start to reveal other secrets."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your uncle. His death. It was ruled an accidental overdose, but even the coroner wondered in his notes why there were traces of insulin in the needle. The insulin sent him into shock, then into cardiac arrest. Your uncle had such a colorful drug history that the strange mixture was written off as just another example of his reckless experimentation. But we know what it really was, don't we?"
Angela stared at him. Her expression was unreadable.
"How long had he been molesting you, Angela?"
"I don't want to talk about my uncle."
"Beth's younger brother has diabetes. You got her to steal some of his insulin. You mixed it with your uncle's morphine. And when he died, you swore her to secrecy."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Vaughn removed the police evidence bag from his overcoat pocket and set it down on the bed beside him. Angela's injured eyes welled with tears when she saw the sewing needle and thread inside.
"Angela," Vaughn said, "we have to talk about what really happened that night."
"I told you what happened. It was Mr. Stitch."
"No it wasn't," Vaughn said softly, "He's not real. He's just a story that you made up to keep Beth quiet. He doesn't exist."
"Yes he does," Angela insisted, "I saw him!"
"Where did you see him?"
"In Carrie's house. He was standing at the end of the hall."
Vaughn's mind recollected the layout of Carrie's house, mentally following the trail of blood droplets down the corridor to where they ended in front of the locked room, and a grim realization swept over him.
"He was in the mirror," she whispered. "His evil eyes were glaring at me in the darkness. He was still holding the needle and thread in his bloody hand. You have to believe me."
Suddenly, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Vaughn stood up. "Angela, we'll get help for you. I promise."
The girl's lips curved into a slow, cold smile and her bloodshot eyes narrowed to a sinister squint. "There's no one to help her," she said in a raspy, masculine voice. "She must pay the price. She saw what no one must see. And she had to be punished. Just like the other one. They swore the pact, and she broke her promise. I had to pay her a visit."
Vaughn rushed from the room and ran down the hall. He had to find a nurse to get Angela sedated, and he had to get her admitted to the psychiatric ward as soon as possible before she hurt someone else. He found a young nurse in a room down the hall and practically wrenched her shoulder out of the socket dragging her back to Angela's room. When they entered the room, the nurse began screaming and Vaughn was left speechless by the grisly sight that greeted them.
Angela was staring at them both, blood raining from her ruined lips. Her scarred eyes reflected a distant expression of blissful madness. She was humming, and Vaughn imagined she was humming the ominous oath to Mr. Stitch. The needle and thread she had used to bind her mouth shut dangled from her crimson lips and the monstrous Mr. Stitch, his ghastly work complete, had retreated back into the shadows of her mind.
Darkness Immortal
by Joseph Vargo
My heart pounded in perfect time with the distant tolling of the old church bell as it struck the midnight hour. Concealed in shadow, I stood silently by the roadside as I watched the two moonlit silhouettes scale the tall iron rails of the old cemetery fence. The dark forms disappeared into the graveyard mists once they crossed the threshold of the dead.
Good sense alone should have held me there, or forced me to turn back and head for home, but instead, I drew a deep breath of the cool autumn air and proceeded to follow them. I slid the black satchel that I was carrying through the wrought iron bars of the fence, then paused once more to wonder how I had let myself get talked into this mess before I scaled the cemetery gate to trespass upon hallowed ground.
Once within the confines of the perimeter gate, I heard a rustling of dead leaves coming from beneath an ancient willow tree. They were there, in the shadows, waiting for me.
My eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness, I stepped cautiously toward the twisted willow. Suddenly, from across the cemetery, a beam of light swept over the field of gravestones, breaking the pitch blackness of the night. Before the light could reach me, a hand grabbed me from behind, pulling me into the shadows.
"It's just the old watchman," a voice behind me whispered, breathless with apparent anxiety. It was J.D., and no matter how tough he tried to sound, his nervousness always betrayed him. The light slowly faded until at last it vanished completely into the misty dead of night. "He won't be back this way for a while."
I turned to face my two confederates who were well cloaked in the shadows. Even in the darkness, the two were easy to distinguish by the shape of their silhouettes. J.D. was the taller of the two. He looked like a lanky scarecrow and carried a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The other one was built like a brick wall and carried a large sledge hammer slung over one broad shoulder. His name was Vic, and though he hadn't spoken a word, it was clear who was in charge. Ever since I'd known them, J.D. followed Vic's every command like a faithful dog.
Vic stepped out of the shadows and climbed up onto a headstone to survey the grounds. After quickly assessing that the coast was clear, he whispered "Let's go."
As silently as possible, we made our way through a crooked field of century-old, moss-covered tombstones. Once we had crossed the field of ancient graves, we came upon a monument chiseled in the likeness of an angel holding a sword. Vic stopped before the statue and set his sledge hammer down at the monument's base, then whispered "Give me the bag."
I handed him the leather satchel I was carrying and he opened it to retrieve a flashlight and a small, age-worn journal. The yellowed pages were tattered and covered with scratchy writing, arcane symbols and strange sketches. Vic studied the book beneath the flashlight's glow, then shifted the beam onto the angel's face. Following the direction of the statue's stern gaze, he guided the light toward a thick patch of woods at the farthest end of the cemetery. Vic handed the flashlight to J.D. and picked up the sledge hammer again, then said, "This way," and headed off toward the thicket.
We made our way through several yards of thorny bramble to discover a rusted gate, overgrown with vines. Tall crooked spikes protruded from the top of the gate, making the ancient barrier impossible to scale. J.D. pulled the vines from the gate and used the flashlight's beam to reveal an old lock. "We need a key," he whispered.
Vic stepped forward and said "Stand back," then, raising the sledge hammer from his shoulder, added "I got your key right here." Before anyone could utter a word in protest, Vic gave the lock two solid whacks, and with the groan of rusted iron, the ancient gate swung open.
Hesitantly, we ventured beyond the spiked perimeter fence and entered into a small clearing, dense with fog, where the rustle and flutter of crypt bats could be heard above the ghostly, whispering wind. After a few cautious steps, we saw something that made all three of us
halt dead in our tracks.
Through the thick shroud of mist, a tall shadow loomed motionless at the center of the clearing. We slowly stepped toward the dark shape to to discover a grim monument—a tall tomb marker, crowned with the graven image of a human skull chiseled from black stone.
"Well, I'll be damned," Vic said.
J.D. directed his flashlight onto the monument where dead vines had entangled themselves around the base, half-covering an epitaph chiseled into the stone. He brushed the vines aside then struggled to read the inscription aloud, "Disturb ye not what lies buried here, lest ye wake what cannot die."
"What the hell is this place?" J.D. asked.
Vic answered "According to the journal, this is the tomb of Sebastian Drake."
"No way," J.D. said, lowering his voice to a breathy whisper as if afraid of disturbing the dead. "He's not real. That's just a story, like the freakin' bogeyman."
"Afraid not," Vic said, then paused to take a long swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels. "He's real... and he's buried right here." Vic set the sledge hammer down with a hard thud on the black sepulcher lid. The heavy stone slab was engraved with a large cross, surrounded by strange glyphs and wards.
"Who the hell is Sebastian Drake?" I asked.
"Oh yeah," Vic replied with a twisted grin, "that's right, you didn't grow up around here. You never heard the tales. He's a murderer, or at least he was, about a hundred and twenty years ago. Now he's just worm food."
J.D. offered a nervous laugh.
Vic handed the bottle to J.D., then continued "According to the legend, he was a sorcerer who practiced the black arts. The journal says Drake used a book called the Grimoire Mortis, which contained spells from the dreaded Ebon scrolls. He formed a coven that swore allegiance to the Dark Gods."
"They worshiped the Devil?" I asked.
"No. Not the Devil. Something much nastier," Vic said in a mockingly wicked tone. He picked up the journal and flipped through the age worn pages, then began to read aloud. "The Dark Gods were ancient beings that lived deep in the earth. They were terrible to behold and their desires were ravenous. They preyed upon mortal men and had an unquenchable thirst for human blood. As time passed, mankind grew to fear and shun them, and sought refuge from them. And the Dark Gods, their savage hungers denied, returned to the cavernous depths from which they came, to slumber and dwell in the shadows as darkness immortal." Vic snapped the journal shut and tossed it back into the satchel.
"Where'd you get that book?" J.D. asked.
Vic gave him a wink and said "Never you mind," then turned to me and continued. "Drake's coven held forbidden rituals and sacrifices on the two nights of the year when dark things supposedly arose to prowl the earth—Walpurgis night and Hallow's Eve."
The two of us stood there, staring speechlessly at Vic, as a grim realization began to sink in. He gave us a devious smile and said "Tell me this ain't the perfect place to spend Halloween."
"So why the hell is he buried here?" I asked.
"As the story goes, after some of the local kids started disappearing, the townspeople tracked Drake's little group down. The members of his coven were stoned to death, but Drake wasn't so lucky. They nailed him to a post and burned him alive. Then, just to be on the safe side, they cut off his head and buried his remains in hallowed ground. Their secret remained hidden for all these years, for over a century... until tonight." Vic approached the monument and locked his gaze on the black skull, perfectly sculpted to the most minute detail. "And now that we found his grave, I ain't leavin' without a souvenir." He took a step back, lifting the heavy hammer and said, "Shine your light on that skull."
J.D. stood frozen, and asked, "What are you gonna do?"
Vic gave him an icy stare for daring to question his order, and J.D. conceded to shine his flashlight beam onto the ebony death's head. Vic wrenched his hands tightly around the handle of the heavy hammer, raising it like a baseball bat, then swung the sledge with all his might. The hammer crashed against the monument at the base of the skull with a resounding crackle that echoed like thunder, sending shattered pieces of the black stone flying. Another violent hit sent a crack straight through the top of the ebony marker and a third strike sent the sinister chiseled skull toppling free from its tombstone base.
Vic burst into laughter as the skull hit the ground with a thud. The detached death's head rolled across the grave, and came to rest at my feet. I picked it up to examine its macabre detail in the moonlight.
Vic picked up the satchel and held it open before me, then smiled and said "Trick or treat."
I dropped the skull into the bag, happy to be rid of the accursed thing. Vic closed the satchel and set it on the ground, then picked up the sledge hammer again. He turned back toward the tomb and whispered, "Trick or treat you rotting, black-hearted corpse," then he slammed the hammer into the base of the monument.
"Wake up, Drake," he shouted. "It's Halloween! Wake up!" He continued his assault, furiously pounding on the lid, on the cross, on the obscure markings and sigils that covered the granite slab. Again and again he brought the sledge hammer down on the stone slab beneath his feet until a crack split the sepulcher lid in two.
The wind howled through the crack, sounding like the hiss and wail of some demonic beast. J.D. dropped the flashlight and bolted, and I followed close behind. As we ran through the woods, I could hear Vic laughing and shouting insults, followed by a thunderous sound and a mortal scream cut short.
J.D. stumbled out of the thicket and ran right into the outstretched arms of the night watchman.
"Hold it, right there," the old man ordered. The guard's hand was shaking as he withdrew his service revolver from its holster and directed his flashlight to scan the woods beyond. As soon as his light illuminated the broken gate, he uttered "Good Lord, what have you done?"
He marched us back through the gateway to see the extent of the damage we had inflicted. We reluctantly returned to the forsaken hollow to discover several heavy pieces of the shattered tomb lid lying overturned beside the unearthed grave. The watchman blessed himself with the sign of the cross then slowly crept toward the edge of the yawning tomb. He shone his flashlight into the open grave to find that it was empty, revealing only a gaping abyss of shadows and swirling mist.
J.D. picked up his flashlight from where he had dropped it, and turned its beam on the monument. The black skull had been replaced atop the marker. I stepped back from the tomb and nearly tripped over Vic who was sitting on the ground behind the gravestone. He was resting against the black monument, leaning back into the shadows, holding the satchel in his lap.
To this day, I don't know what twisted sense of curiosity compelled me to do what I did next, but I opened the satchel, and as I did, the watchman grabbed Vic by the shoulder and drew him into the light. Vic's face was frozen in a grisly leer, but to our awe and horror, it wasn't from atop his shoulders. His head was severed at the neck, as if torn from his body, and stared out at us from inside the black bag.
Golem
by Timothy Bennett and Joseph Vargo
This is what death feels like. An icy grip seizing my very breath, damming the blood in my head and petrifying my body as I struggle to hold on to life. And the darkness before my eyes, so terrifying and bleak, coldly reflects the image of my death back at me.
All this I came to comprehend in my final fleeting moments, and with a grim certainty I realized that my demise was inescapable. Does my entire life now pass before me? No. I only see the events that have brought the Angel of Death to my company.
My 40th, and final, birthday came and went as most have, quietly... until late that evening. A pounding at the side door interrupted my solitude as a delivery person arrived with the unexpected, a crate big enough to hold gifts for all my birthdays combined. A second delivery person was hidden behind the monstrosity. I joined them in bringing the box to rest in the middle of my studio, leaving the crate standing like a wooden obelisk.
I almost didn't want
to open it, wanting instead to relish in my excitement trying to determine what could be inside. As I signed for the crate, I was handed an accompanying envelope postmarked from Jerusalem. The handwriting was familiar, and when opened, the salutation was unmistakable.
A Gift from the Magi: Happy Birthday Bones. I bartered for this in my usual fashion. Some locals found this in a newly excavated crypt. Four magnificent guardian angels surrounded it on the floor above. You're not that good a friend to pay what they wanted for those, so got this thing from the basement. See you soon. — The Bobcat.
Bob was my best friend from college, and we kept in touch despite our different paths. He traveled the world searching for the meaning of life, while I remained safe at home letting life go by. Bones. That always made me laugh. Bob always said archaeologists were "doctors of the dead". When I pointed out that his nickname for my profession didn't make any sense, it only seemed to make it funnier to him.
The coolness of the basement studio didn't prevent me from perspiring profusely as I pried the front of the box off with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. Finally, it fell like the draw bridge of a castle; packing material cascading onto the floor, revealing the crate's contents. It happened so quickly, the sight of it startled me.
A dark angel stared out from the inside of the crate, perched in such a manner that it seemed as if it was prepared to leap and fly away. Dark, not just because it was formed from a stone as black as a cloud of smoke, but because its wings were those of a bat. Its ears rose high and pointy, surrounding a head that was gaunt and malformed, looking more like a skull than a face.
When I caught my breath, I noticed that the thing was crouching upon some sort of pedestal. Cautiously, almost as if not to frighten it, I approached the statue to marvel at its sinister detail. I found myself mesmerized, frozen and staring into the abyss where its eyes should have been. Then I realized the eyes were indeed there, glistening so darkly that I could see myself in them.
The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror Page 3
