FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK
edited by Ross Warren
eBook edition
Published by Crystal Lake Publishing
www.CrystallakePub.com
Copyright 2013 Crystal Lake Publishing
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9921707-8-3
Cover Design: Ben Baldwin
eBook Formatting: Lori Michelle
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A WORD OF THANKS FROM THE PUBLISHER
Thank you, dear reader, for allowing us into your home and mind. Just knowing that you are holding this book in your hand right now makes me grin with pride. Writing, like most art, begins as a solitary act, and ends up being shared by thousands. I am grateful for your part of this wonderful adventure.
I’d like to thank the writers I’ve met throughout this project. Writers seldom get the praise they deserve. They are amazing men and women, all with their own problems, schedules, sicknesses and real life interruptions (and most of the time day jobs). I’ve even met a few writers living in physical and emotional pain, yet they still get the work done on time, never wanting to disappoint their fans. Always professional.
As you can see, writers seldom write under ideal conditions.
Writers are not just dreamers, we are doers. Passionate creators in our own right.
Personally, I’ve enjoyed scary stuff since I was a young boy, whether I did the scaring or something scared me. It’s an addictive adrenaline that most don’t understand, but they always go back for a second helping. Why else would you be reading this book?
I’d also like to thank all the amazing people who have contributed to this collection, directly and indirectly:
The writers (again), you are all amazing and I wish you all the success in the future. Hopefully the readers will take the time to take a look at your other works.
Thanks to Ross Warren, for agreeing to undertake the enormous job of editing this tome.
Thanks to Ben Baldwin, without whose incredible art work I’d never have been able to draw so many authors to this anthology.
This might seem weird, but thanks to my day job, for the money to get this project off the ground. I knew you were good for something.
And how can I not take the time to thank all the reviewers, bloggers and internet surfers for spreading the word, even the proof-readers for each individual writer.
Finally, thank you to my friends and family, for understanding my drive and passion enough to let me disappear for hours every day into my own, extremely vast, world.
So, dear reader, I hope you’ll join all our adventures into the unknown and the bizarre, where you will not only glimpse through a crack in the veil at the on-going battle between good and evil, but help me discover the horror heavyweights of the future.
Long live Horror!
Joe Mynhardt
Bloemfontein, South Africa
24 March 2013
INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR
Achluophobia, Nyctophobia and Scotophobia seem such overly complicated words for what is such a simple, primal fear as that of the dark. For most of us there will have been a point in our childhood when we became anxious about turning out the light for fear of the monster under the bed or the fingernails tapping upon the window pane.
In all but the most severe cases it is something we grow out of as we move into our early teens much like other things, such as personal hygiene and listening to our parents. However it doesn’t go away, it just lies dormant within us waiting for its opportunity; a deserted multi-storey car park late at night perhaps or an evening home alone when a spouse is working away. The fact it remains is beneficial to the writer of horror and dark fantasy though, as it acts as a well spring that we can return to both for ideas and to remember the emotional and physical reactions it provoked.
The authors of these stories all take fear of the dark as a theme, but far from being twenty similar tales there are a vast diversity of styles and approaches in evidence. You will be taken back into the past, down to the depths of the ocean and across the borderline between our world and the next. You will see snapshots from the lives of small children, old-time cockney gangsters and aimless stoners. You will journey into the darkest house on the darkest street, wander hospital basements and take a flight in the comfort of first class. You will meet Mr Stix.
But remember through the horrors and dangers you encounter in these twenty stories, by some of the most talented writers at work in four continents, the dark is just an absence of light; an intangible thing that cannot really hurt you. Can it?
Ross Warren
Cheltenham, England
March, 2013
HIS OWN PERSONAL GOLGOTHA
—G. N. BRAUN—
gol•go•tha (n). A place or occasion of great suffering.
Darkness and dirt.
After he’d woken in the small, muddy cavern, he’d scrabbled uselessly for what felt like hours, but it was all still darkness and dirt.
He didn’t want to die today. He’d find out soon enough whether the choice was his to make.
His fingertips scraped against something unusual in the earth as he struggled in the direction he hoped was up. Smooth and rounded, it came free as he pulled at it. In the darkness, he couldn’t see what it was, but later, as he climbed back down to rest for a moment, he grabbed it from the floor. He scraped enough dirt from it to feel eye sockets and teeth. It was a skull, small enough to be that of a child.
He placed it back on the floor, and continued his journey to the surface.
He clawed at the earth, still hoping he was heading in the right direction. The longer it took, the harder it was to breathe, and the dirt around him seemed to draw closer. He felt the knot in his chest tighten as his lungs cramped and his heart pumped faster. He had to get out. He increased his effort, until he broke through to the world above. Still, darkness reigned.
He’d been without light for so long that he could see fairly well. Everywhere around him, nothing but gravestones.
Low hills surrounded the valley that held the graveyard, and the dead, ragged trees that crested the hills appeared as skeletal hands reaching for the stars.
He dragged himself out of the grave, and tried to brush the clay from his rumpled trousers, but the cloth was covered in it. He was shirtless.
Near him was a headstone.
Words were engraved upon it.
Unum Qui Patitur
‘One who suffers’
Suffers?
He cringed without knowing why.
He looked up at the night sky, unsure of just where he was and hoping the pattern of the stars would look familiar. No such luck.
A blood-red moon hung low in the sky, silhouetting the scraggly trees that lined the distant hills. He had a lot of walking to do, and wished he knew which direction to take.
All around him, decrepit gravestones lurked in the dark like
murderers, huddled and hunched, waiting for unsuspecting victims to stroll by. He could just make out the words engraved on the ones nearest where he stood.
Caput Mortuum
‘Worthless remains’
In Parva Mors
‘The Little Death’
This second phrase was engraved on a smaller stone than the others. He looked around and saw that most of the nearby graves were child-sized, covered in images of tragedy and loss. As he moved closer, he saw on one the image of disembodied hands from Heaven reaching down to pluck flowers from the earth; on another, small lambs, lost and alone. Cribs were carved on a third grave, one that was laid out in size as though for three children. The cribs on the edges held images of sleeping children while the third was empty. On the ground beneath some of the gravestones were toys: raggedy dolls and faded doll-houses; wind-up metal cars now rusted or with paint peeling; in front of one, an old-fashioned spinning top with a spiralled auger.
Ravens rested on some of the headstones, a glint of red shining in their eyes as they watched him trek through their home.
Gluttons. Harbingers of death. He could recall no more.
Why can’t I remember?
He looked behind him to the earth he had clawed his way out from under, and found another small grave. No image or text on this one. No toys at the base.
He shook his head, and followed a sudden compulsion to move on, to move away from where he was standing. He walked slowly forward, along a roughly-defined path that had to lead somewhere. He didn’t know where he was going; he just knew he had some destination in mind.
As he moved through the graveyard, he gradually found his bearings. Some hills lay ahead. They looked like a scabrous spine exposed in a shallow grave, the bony processes regular and symmetrical. Beyond the third vertebra from the left lay a light. It was a glow rising beyond the hill, a sign of life and a possible destination. He knew what it was, somewhere deep in his mind. A name floated up from the depths of his memory: Necropolis — City of the Dead.
Home. I think its home. A way to the truth. A place of knowledge.
He yearned to know.
Desiccated leaves littered the path he walked. Every footstep crushed more of them into dust; red, brown and gold. Slush-piles of dirty-white, half-melted snow lay here and there between the graves, a sign of impending winter. Sudden flashes of an image invaded his consciousness; a young girl, clad all in white, almost glowing, skipping though an orchard on an autumn day. The leaves scattered with every step she took; red and gold and brown, to match the leaves he walked through now. The vision vanished, yet something remained with him. Regret? Desire? He wasn’t sure.
Shaking his head and sinking back to his own reality, he lengthened his stride, heading toward the spinal hills and the light in the distance.
So far, yet too close at the same time.
The leaves fell behind him and the snow became more prevalent. Goosebumps rose on his torso, and he found himself wishing for more clothing. He wanted to feel warm, for once in his miserable memory.
A tickle in the back of his throat caused him to cough. After a second, it formed into a hard lump, packed in his throat and blocking the air from his lungs. Gagging, unable to breathe, he dropped to his knees. Leaning forward onto his hands, he tried to hack up whatever it was, and grew dizzy from lack of air. Finally, with one harsh, wracking cough, he felt it move inside his neck and brush the back of his soft palate. He strained to open his mouth as far as he could and reached inside with a muddy hand. He managed to grasp something soft and fibrous. He dragged it out, inch by painful inch. White fabric; lacy cotton. At least fifteen or twenty inches of what seemed to be part of a dress. A few blowflies were caught in the material, buzzing weakly.
One last lump remained in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t shift. His lungs were bursting, and his head spun. Darkness started to seep into the edges of his vision, and he fell forward onto his hands once again. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t breathe. Darkness engulfed him.
He awoke in agony, his throat burning but now clear and empty. He was in the mud where he had fallen. His nose was filled with slime, and he could barely draw breath, but he had more oxygen than he’d had just before he blacked out. He lifted his face, and snorted his nostrils clear. Pain streaked through his neck, and his breathing was ragged and shallow. It hurt to breathe too deeply.
Gradually, his mind cleared and his heartbeat slowed.
He looked around to gain his bearings, and was taken aback by the changes.
How long have I been out? Where am I?
Red was everywhere. Red leaves now littered the ground, and lay over the gravestones that surrounded him. The blood-red moon had sunk lower in the sky, yet seemed to have grown. It looked so close he imagined he could reach up and touch it.
A childish giggle rang out through the still air, echoing amongst the graves and the crypts, making it impossible to identify its source.
“Who’s there?”
“Caitlin . . .” the wind carried a whispered name.
The smell of roses wafted through the air, underscored with the pungent aroma of musk. Potent yet seductive.
Another giggle rang out, more blatant than the last, from a different location. He whirled toward where he thought it came from, but again it was impossible to pinpoint.
The scent of rose and musk grew stronger, visceral and sweet. He felt a stirring in his loins. He looked down at his erection in wonder. It was a physical reaction, but to what, he had no idea. The combination of the innocent laughter and the sexual undertones of the perfumed air aroused him. His penis tingled and grew even harder, to the point where it became painful. He reached down and unzipped himself, freeing his engorged member. It throbbed as the cold night air hit, straining to grow beyond its limits.
The smell grew stronger, now infused with vanilla and the scaly smell of old semen, and swirled through the air, almost visceral enough to touch. The temperature suddenly dropped even more. Cold seeped into every inch of exposed skin, causing his erection to shrivel and die.
“No. Please. Stop. You’re hurting me . . .”
The voice was now distant and pleading, where before it had held a more mocking undertone. This part of his journey was nearing an end.
Where did that thought come from?
What journey?
Another peal of laughter, even more distant, tinkled like bells in the now-frigid air, followed by a fading voice.
“No more. Please, just let me go. I won’t tell . . . I promise.”
A sudden red desire ran through him in a wave, followed by a sense of regret.
Follow the voice!
He took a step towards the direction he guessed the voice had come from. Toward the hills. Toward the glow of Necropolis.
Toward the truth.
***
Hours later, the graveyard showed no signs of ending, yet the vertebral hills seemed closer, the glow more palpable.
His feet were beginning to ache. He’d need to rest soon. He’d hunted the girl more than halfway toward the hills, but the nearest he had come to finding her was bubbles of tinkling laughter floating through the air.
The landscape had changed as he neared the hills. Palm trees spaced here and there between the graves. Once, he had seen a bonnet spiralling in the wind, drifting aimlessly through the sky.
Soon he could walk no further. He slept for a while, exhausted.
He dreamt he sat inside a cage of bones.
Outside, a young blonde girl sat amongst dogwood trees, eating sweet, red berries and watching him.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am the victim of your desire,” she answered. “I am your lust, and I am death. I am named Caitlin.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, although he thought maybe he did, somewhere deep inside his heart. His mind rebelled at a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.
“You hurt me very much,” she said. “You took fro
m me that which I didn’t want to give.”
“What did I do?” he asked.
Caitlin parted her lips to answer, but no words came out. Instead, she closed her eyes as a fountain of deep red blood poured from her mouth and nose. Her jaw stretched wide, and then even wider, accompanied by the cracking of bones and the snapping sound of ligaments stretched beyond their limit.
He stared in horror as her chin bent down far enough to touch the lacy collar of her pristine white dress. A scream built up in his throat, but refused to be voiced.
The blood spilled down the front of her dress, soaking the fabric and turning it a vivid red. She opened her eyes. They were as red as the blood; no white of sclera, no black of pupil. Pure red.
He looked at her. She looked at him.
She leaned forward and passed something between the bones of the cage. He managed to break away from her gaze, and looked down to find that he held an old stuffed toy. An owl; tattered and torn.
“For wisdom,” she said. “For redemption.”
By the time he looked up, she was gone.
Everything was gone: the cage; the girl; the blood; everything.
He awoke, lying on his back and staring up at the stars. They still didn’t look familiar, but he had a sense of déjà vu that almost crippled him with its strength.
Why am I here? What have I done?
I’m sorry.
This last thought hit from nowhere. He felt a twinge of regret, but wasn’t sure he was ready to face what it was he regretted. He felt shame.
He stretched and sat up. Looked down. By his side was the owl from his dream.
He reached down and picked it up. It was old. Two worn and chipped buttons represented eyes. Rough stitches held it together, now ragged with age. There were spots the colour of rust here and there on its body.
Blood? It looks like blood.
He knew he’d seen it somewhere before.
Where?
He remembered an orchard in autumn. Leaves covered the ground between the rows of apple trees, and shrivelled pieces of fruit lay forgotten from the harvest. He remembered the red, the blood.
For The Night Is Dark Page 1
