Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection)

by McCray, Carolyn

  The cave lit up as the fire consumed the screeching, flailing beast. Sanu shielded his eyes from the sight, but slowly his arm lowered as he realized the wall behind the beast now glowed of its own accord. Detailed, scrawled etchings formed a circle within a circle within a circle. Sanu was a master of fifteen languages, and he did not recognize a single symbol.

  The Seal of Deur Hel.

  The myths were true. The entire reason they had begun this cursed mission lay before them. He had been right. Not that it brought him any solace as the beast’s wails threatened to shatter his eardrums.

  Then, as suddenly as the fire started, it sputtered out, leaving no trace of the beast. Slowly, as if it had never been aglow, the wall, too, descended into black.

  “Chad!” Kadie screamed, as she fell to her knees beside the unconscious student. “Oh, God! He’s hurt!”

  Gingerly, Sanu knelt beside the young man, who lay face down. Bright red blood streaked his side. Sanu’s hand shook as he reached for Chad’s shoulder. The student’s back was badly injured. What would the front look like? Kadie helped to pull him over.

  Chad flopped onto his back as Sanu and Kadie scurried away.

  It could not be. It simply couldn’t.

  Chad’s shirt lay shredded, revealing a glowing seal on his chest. The same seal upon the wall. The thing pulsed with his heartbeat, growing brighter by the moment.

  Sanu held Kadie close as she sobbed hysterically, not knowing what else to do.

  * * *

  “Say again!” the general yelled into his mouthpiece, but the line had gone dead—replaced only by static. He could not possibly have heard what he thought he heard. The only thing he knew for certain was that things had gone south—way south—in the cave.

  “Sir,” his assistant argued again, “the only other extraction team on the continent is bogged down in the Congo. We have got to pull out.”

  Houghlin would actually like nothing better. However, there was a slight problem.

  “So, I take it that you are volunteering to tell the vice president that we lost his nephew?”

  His assistant looked sheepish, and then averted his gaze outside the window. But Houghlin knew that the sight would not give Emmeret any more comfort.

  He patted the back of the copilot’s chair. “Get me Washington.”

  “Whom are you calling?” his assistant asked.

  Gritting his teeth, Houghlin prepared to make the call that he swore he would never make.

  “Someone who can help.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Rook sat in a really uncomfortable kitchen chair, leaning over a large pewter and onyx chessboard. Of course, if he had known he was going to be playing a game for his soul, he would have chosen an overstuffed recliner or something with a bit of padding. But alas, here his butt sat on hard wood.

  He moved his black pawn in front of another white pawn, taunting Dimitri to take the easy bait. But the figure sitting across from him, shrouded in a motley robe and hood, ignored his play.

  “Rook, your moves are always so superficial.”

  Instead of taking the pawn, Dimitri moved his bishop laterally across the board, endangering Rook’s knight.

  “You should have listened to the czar, Dimitri.”

  Rapidly, they made a series of moves. Pieces were removed from the board with frightening regularity—until there were only ten pieces left. Dimitri’s hand hesitated over his white queen.

  “One would think that with all the time on your hands, you would have learned to play a bit better than this…” Rook taunted.

  His words only seemed to steel Dimitri’s nerves. The Russian forcefully moved his queen into position.

  “Check.”

  Oh, why did opponents never see this coming? “Like I said…” Rook sighed.

  Taking hold of his black rook, he slid it over and knocked Dimitri’s queen off the board. “Check and Mate.”

  “No!” Dimitri bellowed, but it was far too late to change his destiny.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Dimitri’s form began to waver as his hood slipped back, revealing half the flesh eaten away. His cheekbone glistened a sickly red. “You tricked me!”

  Rook shrugged. “Of course I did. Duh.”

  A fiery whirlpool blossomed behind the mangy ghost.

  “Rook, you can’t—”

  Dimitri flailed as the whirlpool sucked first his robes, and then his legs, in.

  “Sorry, dude. A bet is a bet.”

  Finally, the ghost’s torso slid through the flames as Dimitri screamed.

  “Don’t do the crime, Dimitri, if you can’t do the time.”

  “No!” the ghost screamed, as the last of him was sucked through, except his head, which promptly exploded.

  Rook wiped the ghostly remains from his face. “Seriously, there isn’t a neater way to do this.”

  But, all in a day’s work. Humming “Oops! I Did It Again,” Rook got up and rummaged around his broom closet. Well, not exactly rummaged, given the fact that only three items graced the shelves. He’d only had this apartment for a week, and, given his line of employment, Rook hadn’t made time for some serious grocery shopping. He did find a broom and a dustpan, though.

  Which turned out not to be all that helpful, given how moist Dimitri’s remains were. Rook was definitely going to need a mop for this one. Which meant a trip out. Probably for the best. Maybe he could actually buy some food while he was at it. He had been subsisting on ramen noodles and Red Bulls.

  Before he could grab his keys, Rook’s fax machine whirred to life. Weird. He wasn’t expecting any communications today. The machine beeped twice, but instead of the usual connection sound, a high-pitched scream announced the fax. Acrid smoke billowed from the machine as the lights flashed an ominous red.

  Definitely not his weekly update.

  Putting his sleeve over his mouth, Rook rushed over and tried to turn the damned thing off, but to no avail. As a singed parchment slid from the machine, Rook kicked the power cord, but the smoldering machine sucked power directly from the socket.

  This was not good. Costco had a pretty liberal return policy, but come on.

  Using the end of his broom, Rook smashed the wood into the power outlet until it sparked, but then went dead. Unfortunately, it was too late. The parchment lay in the tray of the charred machine. Rook sat back on his heels. Carefully, he reached a hand out and picked up the rough piece of paper. Grotesque scenes of human suffering bordered the edges.

  How delightful.… Not.

  The inscription was not just in Latin, but an ancient form of the dialect. He translated it rapidly.

  “There is nowhere you can hide. We will eat your intestines and feast on your… yada, yada, yada.”

  Typical demon smack talk. All it was doing was making Rook hungry. He really did need to make a grocery run. Quickly, he scanned the page of insults and threats. Surprisingly, demons had an impressive understanding of human anatomy. Finally, he reached the end.

  “Beware our ire, and know that we watch.”

  Rook nearly dropped the parchment as the cell phone rang… with the theme of The Exorcist as a ringtone. Rook hated to admit it, but damn, that did startle him. Should he answer it? Would it light up as soon as he hit that little green “answer” icon? But it was Beauty’s number. He had to try.

  Still, Rook held it away from his head as he answered. “Beauty, I was just about to call you…”

  The smooth, sultry voice of his cross-dressing Arranger came over the line. “Heads up, darlin’. Your location has been compromised.”

  “Yep,” Rook answered. “The little devils have been busy. Literally.”

  “That is the least of our worries, though. We’ve got a Level Five breach in the Congo.”

  Rook stood up. “Africa, huh?” He looked around his trashed apartment. “Just as well. I was getting in a rut with domestic assignments. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  He disconnected the call before Beauty even had a
chance to respond. Rook knew she would be there. She always was.

  Grabbing his dark trench coat, Rook made his way to the door. With one last look at the place he had called home for a week—longer than most—Rook entered the code to the alarm system. Its steady green light changed to a frantic, blinking red. Closing the door behind him, Rook stepped into the hallway.

  Unfortunately, his neighbor, the stout Mrs. Westley, entered the hallway with her yapping Yorkie, Sherlock. She hit the elevator button. Rook looked down at his watch, which counted the minutes down rapidly. With the sluggish elevators in this building, she was never going to get out of the way in time.

  “Mrs. Westley, I’d suggest you take the stairs.”

  With a scarf around her neck that only made her rather rotund face even more rotund, she turned to him. “Are you implying that I need to exercise?”

  Um, yes, was what Rook wanted to say, but it would get him nowhere. He shrugged. “It’s just that the elevators have been running slowly today.”

  He was about to walk off. He wasn’t exactly the chivalrous type, but he had a soft spot for that stupid Yorkie. Rook grabbed Mrs. Westley by the arm and urged her to the stairwell.

  “Look, let’s just take the stairs.”

  As Sherlock tried to sink his pint-sized teeth into his hand, and she beat him with her purse, Mrs. Westley screamed. “I’m being molested!”

  “You wish,” Rook muttered under his breath, as he dragged them into the stairwell and down the steps. For a chick whose biggest exercise was lifting a gallon-sized jar of Twizzlers into her shopping cart, Mrs. Westley could pack a punch with her purse.

  Half-stumbling and half-carrying the woman and her little dog, Rook rushed them down two flights of stairs. They were nearly at the lobby floor landing when an explosion knocked them all to the ground. Somehow, Mrs. Westley ended up on top of Rook. He doubted that it was by accident. She kissed him all over his face.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed as Sherlock licked Rook’s nose.

  This was exactly why he did not do the Good Samaritan thing.

  Extracting himself from Mrs. Westley, Rook shook off the explosion and the kisses. Rushing to exit the building before any inquisitive police or fire officials arrived on the scene, Rook hit the lobby door at a run, just as a pink limousine pulled up.

  Beauty. At her best.

  * * *

  Beauty shook her head as Rook got into the backseat. “Must you always make such a scene, Puddin’ Pie?”

  “Please!” he retorted, as he dusted off the dirt from his leather trench coat. “You just drove up in a pink getaway car, with hair to match.” Rook rushed on, “And if I am not mistaken, you have on a leopard-print bustier with six-inch stilettos. So please, spare me.”

  Beauty glanced into the rearview mirror as she gunned the engine. Rook’s dark hair looked like he had slept on it for three weeks, but his blue eyes shone with amusement. The dark circles under them told a different story, though. How long had it been since he slept? Even Rook could only get so far with magical poultices and Red Bulls. Yet, even haunted, he was a looker. Not her type, but still a looker.

  As she hit the gas pedal and pulled them away from the curb, she waved her fingernails in front of him. “Oh, please, these nails are just glue-on, and my weave? I’ve got to get over to Sholinda’s ASAP, or risk getting arrested by the fashion police. And the leopard print accentuates my dark skin.”

  “Oh, well, excuse me,” Rook said as he put his hand out. “Whatcha got for me?”

  Gunning the car around a right turn, Beauty grabbed a black folder off the seat next to her and handed it to Rook through the sliding glass window.

  “Don’t worry. It’s right up your alley.”

  Rook grasped the proffered file and flipped through its pages. “And that would be?”

  “S.C.A.G.G.Y.” Beauty answered.

  A smile spread on Rook’s face. “Supernatural carnage and gore? Ah, you know how to brighten a man’s day, my dear.”

  Beauty flashed some pearly whites of her own. “A girl tries her best.”

  She hit the gas even harder. The situation in Africa wasn’t going to wait on mid-town traffic.

  * * *

  Angela Morrey sat in the interrogation room as the detectives milled about, uncertain what to do with her. But she didn’t blame them. She didn’t know what to do with herself, either. She kept wrapping and unwrapping her tear-soaked tissues around her fingers. Even the crying had stopped. Maybe people only had so many tears for a lifetime. Once they were spent, were they done crying?

  “Angela,” Detective Brian Hoffman stated kindly.

  “Yes, sorry,” she said, wiping a stray blonde hair from her face.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said, as he sat down next to her and put his hand over hers. “You have been through so much.”

  She just shook her head, though. “I just want to get this over with so that I can get home.” Once she got there, she had no idea what she would do, but she needed to get out of the cramped, dingy interrogation room, or she really would lose it.

  Brian sat back and gave her a grim smile. “Okay, then. How well did you know your letter carrier, Mr. Nilen?”

  “Not well. I mean, I said ‘hi’ if I saw him. He would also ring the bell to deliver packages, you know? He didn’t like to leave them on the step. He said he was afraid they would get stolen.”

  Had that simple act of kindness gotten him killed? Did having her as a delivery stop doom the poor man?

  “That’s good, Angela. Thank you. Now, are you sure that you didn’t see anyone suspicious around the neighborhood this morning?”

  She looked up into the detective’s green eyes. How many times had they played out this macabre dance? Between the mail carrier, her cleaning lady, fitness trainer, and her boss, that made it four dead, just in this city. Before that, back home? Her mother, brother, two sisters, an uncle, and just for good measure, a fiancé.

  She wasn’t unlucky. She was doomed.

  Her postman’s death just confirmed it.

  Brian’s partner, Detective Stakeland, paced behind them.

  “I’m sorry, Brian, but don’t we want to ask something other than the softballs you’ve been throwing?”

  Brian turned around and glared at his partner. “Stakeland…”

  But Angela nodded. “Go for it.”

  Brian squeezed her hand, but she shook him off. Seriously, what could Stakeland say or do that was worse than what had already happened? As much as Stakeland obviously wanted to grill her, he equally did not want to incur Brian’s wrath, so his tone was polite.

  “I would like to discuss your alibi.”

  Angela sighed. More of the same. At least if he was going to go at her, couldn’t he be a little more inventive? “I was online discussing a graphic design, switching out background images with a client. He can verify that I was on the call through the time-of-death window.”

  How sad was it that she knew things like “time-of-death window”—and where she was during it?

  “Your phone and online records do seem to support that,” Stakeland said, but then his tone sharpened. “But that does not rule out an accomplice.”

  She could feel Brian tense next to her, but how many times had that allegation come up as well? “You must know that techs have combed through my phone, texts, and email records. I don’t talk to anyone unless it is work related, and even then I do so under an alias that you have access to.”

  “Don’t be smug with me,” Stakeland growled as Brian jumped to his feet.

  She hadn’t been trying to be smug or anything else with the detective. She had just been trying to get through this interview without crumpling into a heap of depression.

  “Back off, Stakeland.”

  “Brian, open your eyes, man. She is jerking you around! That chick has helped kill nearly a dozen people, and you are defending her.”

  Angela watched as Brian’s hand balled up in a fist.
He spoke through clenched teeth. “There is absolutely no evidence of that, and I am not going to have you harassing a victim of all of this.”

  “Victim?” Stakeland snorted. “More like perpetrator.”

  Brian shook his head. “Stop and listen to yourself, Stakeland. Why would she do this? Any of this?”

  “Why does a chick need a motive for anything?”

  “Well, the DA certainly does, so unless you are going to be constructive, I suggest you leave.”

  Angela actually felt a little sorry for Stakeland as Brian pointed at the door. It wasn’t the detective’s fault he thought her guilty. She had even gone through hypnotic regression therapy to see whether she was sleepwalking and committing these terrible crimes. At this point, Angela actually wanted to be guilty. At least then, they would lock her away and stop the deaths. As it was now, she was a laser pointed right at the killer’s next victim.

  Hadn’t she left Cincinnati to avoid the carnage? How could it have followed her here? She never should have listened to Brian. Her instincts after her maid’s death had been to move far away again, but the detective had convinced her to stay. That he would catch whoever was responsible. No matter Brian’s dedication, three more people were dead. And the poor mail carrier lost his life because he gave superior service? There was no way she could stay. Not here. Not anywhere.

  Plus, she knew that Brian wasn’t just taking flack from Stakeland, but from his lieutenant as well. Angela couldn’t let Brian ruin his career while the dead kept piling up.

  She just needed to get through this interview so that she could go do what she needed to do. Angela had known since she opened her door this morning and found Mr. Nilen prone on his back, those still, dead eyes gazing up at her. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, do that again.

  Hopefully, her death would be the last death.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rook waited and watched from the shadows of the cave. He watched the professor, his remaining students, and several tattered gun-for-hire security guards. Group dynamics were always so fascinating, but never so much as when the group was confronted with not just the impossible, but after the impossible just kicked everyone’s ass.