From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set

by J. Thorn

  "They tried to kill me," she said afterward. "They killed my friends."

  "Who did?" Immediately, he regretted the question. The less he knew about all of this the better. But how was he supposed to play dumb when the victim of the atrocity had become his patient, and after Jack Lowell had told him his terrible story? "Never mind," he added. "We can talk about this later. Most important thing now is that you get some sleep and concentrate on feeling b—"

  He stopped. A rumbling sound registered from outside the house. It was coming closer. Wellman watched as bright white light spilled in through the window, washed over the ceiling of the room before crawling down the walls, then sweeping across them to the door and vanishing into the corner. Headlights. The rumbling sound stopped. He listened for footsteps and after a moment was rewarded with the sound of boots crunching gravel. Approaching the house.

  "You just relax now," he told the girl, alarmed at the quaver in his voice. "I'll be back in just a moment." He tried to think of something more to say, but his brain was scrambled, his thoughts lost in a fog of panic. He hurried from the room, bound for the kitchen and the cabinet where he kept his liquor, glasses, and an old tin box. Inside that box was a gun he hadn't used in over twenty years, an old military issue Colt .45 a veteran had given him instead of payment one winter when it was clear the diagnosis he'd been given was a terminal one. Wellman hadn't wanted the gun, but the look on the patient's face had told him it was less an offer than the last command the retired Colonel was ever going to give, and therefore needed to be obeyed. The doctor had accepted the gift, stashed it in an old filing cabinet, and for over ten years had managed to keep its existence a secret from his wife until he retired and forgot the gun was in a box full of medical forms. To his surprise, Abby hadn't demanded he get rid of it, but requested it be kept somewhere out of sight for the duration. He hadn't thought of it again since shutting it up in its little tin box, but he was forced to think of it now.

  It felt heavier than he remembered as he removed it and checked the magazine, which had been kept apart from the weapon at Abby's insistence. She didn't want that tin box tumbling down some night and blowing holes in the kitchen, or them. With five bullets still nestled in the clip, he slid the magazine home and cocked the hammer.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Wellman glanced toward the sound, or rather the complete absence of it, and held his breath.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  -10-

  "He ain't here," Aaron said, and Luke felt his guts plummet even though he had reached the same conclusion almost as soon as he saw the dead man downstairs.

  "Wait a minute, we ain't checked the barns yet," he protested.

  "I did," Aaron told him. "Nothing but a bony 'ol horse and a pig or two. Papa's out there now, inspectin' 'em, seein' if they're worth comin' back for."

  They were in what might once have been a large bedroom, but was bare now aside from a small table in the corner, upon which stood a fancy looking but dusty lamp without a bulb. Next to that was a chiffarobe. Both boys had viewed it as an ideal hiding place for the kid they were searching for, but all they found was a few old moth-eaten shirts and one faded dress. A window looked down onto the yard below and faced the large red barn, the interior of which was cloaked in shadow. Security lights glared in at Luke as he tried to make out his father's lithe form. But for now, there was nothing to be seen.

  Behind him, Aaron stood tossing his knife in the air. Luke could hear the swish of the blade as it sliced up, then downward, the fall intercepted by his brother's sure grip. He wished he'd stop. The sound of that blade only heightened his anxiety. But then he thought of something and turned, his shadow robbing the blade of its gleam.

  "Papa said see if they're worth comin' back for?" he asked, and watched Aaron's head bob in the gloom. "Why come back? Why not just take 'em now?"

  Aaron shrugged, and concentrated on the gyrations of his blade. "Papa said we ain't goin' home yet."

  "Where are we goin?"

  "He says that girl weren't gonna last much longer, shape she was in, so if she ain't here, then someone took her to get fixed up."

  Luke was almost afraid to hope. "That old doctor out on the edge'a town."

  Aaron grinned. "Yep."

  Luke felt a smile flutter over his lips.

  His brother snatched his blade from the air, sheathed it and headed for the door. As he passed Luke, he said, "I hope she's there."

  "Me too," Luke agreed.

  "Cuz if she ain't...if she's in some hospital somewheres, you're as good as dead."

  *

  Wellman was exhausted. The fear and adrenaline had drained him, and now all he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep like the dead. Twenty minutes had passed since the knock on the door, since he'd felt the kind of terror that threatened to disable him, leave him prone on the floor, victim of a heart that had taken pity on him and shut down, spiriting him away from whatever horrors lay ahead.

  Now as he opened the front door and slowly eased himself down to sit on the stoop, the night air muggy and suffocating, he felt like a shadow of himself, the sad result of a life only half-lived. His bones creaked and popped painfully as he settled himself, ass on the wood, legs outstretched, heels dug into the dirt and scattered gravel of the driveway. In one hand he held the bottle he had shared with Jack Lowell, who he figured was most certainly dead now, or as good as. In the other hand, he held the small picture of himself and Abby, thirty years younger and beaming, not yet educated in the ways of suffering and death, their faces unlined, eyes not yet dulled by pain and the realization that there is no control, no dictating of how destiny will unfold, no real choices. Everything is preplanned, a fact that might not upset humankind as much if they were let in on the secret, if they were offered tantalizing glimpses of what the future holds. But no such previews exist, and so man flails blindly through the dark, hoping to avoid the holes through which he has watched so many of his fellow man fall.

  The Colt was a cold unyielding lump against his spine, held in place by a waistband three sizes bigger than the one the younger, happier version of himself was wearing in the picture. Those forgotten youths, bursting with love and high on the promises they intended to fulfill together, as one, forever and ever amen, smiled up at him, attempting to convince him that happiness did exist, while at the same time torturing him with the truth that he would never know it again.

  A droning sound echoed in the distance, bouncing against the hills and passing through the longleaf pines like gossip among old women.

  The fear coiled inside him, but he was too weary to swim against its current, instead choosing to focus on the smiles from that handsome couple and their sepia world, as if wishing enough might enable him to travel back in time, to that place.

  Headlights appeared on the horizon, twin moons punched in the canvas of night. The car was coming fast.

  Wellman brought the open whiskey bottle to his lips, took a mouthful, swished it around to burn away the taste of bile, and swallowed. Then slowly, he rose and stepped outside. He monitored his breathing, regulating it in an attempt to steady his nerves. Then he reached behind him and untucked his shirt, letting it fall loose over the gun. In his left hand he still held the picture, the frame slick in his sweat-moistened grip. Give me strength, honey, he thought as he brought the picture up to his lips and kissed the dusty glass.

  Then lowered it.

  Give me strength.

  *

  Luke's head felt like a honeybee's nest. Ill-formed thoughts and paranoid suspicions bounced around his skull like smoke-addled drones protecting their queen. His palms were soaked with sweat, his brow beaded with perspiration, and not for the first time in his life, he cursed his lack of education. Papa-in-Gray had yanked his children out of what passed for a school in Elkwood as soon as Momma fell ill and was re-christened to suit her new permanent quarters. At the time, Luke hadn't cared one whit about being taken away from that low-slung series of prefabric
ated shelters. They'd been too cold in winter, too damn warm in summer, and the other kids had treated them like they'd fallen off the back of a circus wagon that had passed through town. Since then however, there had been occasions and developments in his life that had made him regret not picking up his schooling, even if it was restricted to their home, and even if Papa taught them. But Papa, though plenty sly, wasn't all that smart himself. He could trap a deer, a fox, or a man a thousand different ways, but when it came to things like numbers, or geography, he just scowled and spat and threw a fit to cover his ignorance.

  Luke wished for smarts, especially now when he knew without a doubt they would help him sort out his thoughts, align them into some kind of orderly formation so they could be inspected, studied, and understood. So he could use them to engineer his escape.

  But brains couldn't save him now. The window of opportunity had slammed shut ten minutes ago when they'd left the Lowell farm burning behind them. Papa had set the lone horse free, but it hadn't moved from its dark stable, so he'd left it there, figuring if it stuck around and burned, it was probably too dumb to be of much use to anyone anyway. And as stringy as the old mare looked, they wouldn't be losing much of a meal even if it wised up and took off. The pigs were a different story. Lowell had kept them plump, but even if he hadn't, swine are resourceful sonsabitches and will eat each other before they'll die of starvation. A thin pig was about as common as balls on a scarecrow. With Aaron and Luke's help, Papa had cornered the animals and deftly cut their throats. They were now bagged in burlap sacks and bleeding out in the bed of the truck as it reached the bottom of the hill and swung around a short hairpin bend. Doctor Wellman's place, old as the Lowell farm, but a lot less neglected, was dead ahead, waiting at the end of a long ribbon of gravel.

  "Someone's there," Aaron said, unnecessarily, for they could all see the man standing before the open door of the house, silhouetted against the golden light from within. He had something in both hands. Luke guessed one of them might be a small thin book. The other item caught the light from the house and mangled it, making the bottle seem like it held aggravated fireflies.

  "Looks like he's aimin' for a fight," Aaron said, and Luke looked at him, caught the relish on his brother's face. Ordinarily he'd have shared his sibling's excitement at the thought of what was going to happen here, but not tonight.

  "Looks like he's aimin' to die," Papa mumbled, as the headlights washed over the old man, forcing him to squint and raise the hand holding the bottle to shield himself from the glare. Papa eased the truck to a halt, but kept the lights blazing. Then he killed the engine, and sat for a moment, staring out at the doctor.

  Luke could feel his heart roaring. Could feel where his bare elbows touched his brother's. Aaron was trembling too, but for different reasons.

  From the small space between the front seats and the cab window, the twins were electric balls of energy, their impatience making the truck rock slightly. Joshua's fingers were clamped on the back of Luke's seat. He could hear his younger brother's rapid breathing in his ear.

  "What're we waitin' for?" Aaron asked, sounding just a little annoyed.

  Around them, the night was uncannily quiet.

  Wellman stood bathed in the stark glow of the lights.

  "Search the house," Papa said at last, still watching the doctor, as if he knew more than any of them possibly could just from the look in the old man's eyes.

  Luke moved, much too slow for Aaron's liking, and barely had the door open before his brother scrambled over him, knife drawn. The doctor may as well have been a cigar store Indian guarding a store full of free candy for all the attention Aaron paid to him as he hurried into the house.

  "Go," Papa grunted, and Luke flinched, then obeyed.

  The twins slid over the seats and followed.

  Luke took his time, and heard the truck door slam shut as Papa stepped from the vehicle and drew abreast of him. The doctor looked on as the twins shoved past him, their feet thundering against the wooden floor as they disappeared inside. Then silence fell, and to Luke, it may as well have been an axe descending on his neck. His brothers knew better than to waste time. If they'd found the girl there would have been whoops and cries of delight, their way of letting the others know the chase was over, the day—and Luke's life—saved.

  But now the quiet that held the night by the throat had infiltrated the house. The only sound was Wellman's unsteady breathing.

  Papa did not look at Luke as they stopped in front of the old man, and Luke was thankful. He could not bear to see what remained of his increasingly dwindling hope being swallowed by the cold in his father's eyes.

  "Where is she?" Papa said, and slowly withdrew his handmade blade from the lining of his preacher's coat.

  Wellman was trembling, and as they watched, he slowly dropped to his haunches and set on the ground what Luke now realized was not a book at all but a picture. He straightened and tossed the bottle into the darkness.

  "Bring that here," Papa said, nodding pointedly at the picture. Luke moved forward but Wellman shot an arm out, his palm mere inches from the boy's chest. Luke looked from the splayed fingers to the doctor's eyes, and what he saw there was not fear, or anger, but pleading. It was a look he knew well.

  "Don't," Wellman said quietly. "Leave it alone."

  From inside the house came the sound of something heavy falling then smashing against the floor, but Wellman's eyes stayed fixed on Luke.

  "I said bring it here," Papa commanded, and Luke bent to retrieve the picture. He had just managed to get his fingers around the edge of the frame, the gravel biting into his knuckles, and was starting to rise, when the old man's bony knee loomed large in his vision. He lurched to the side just in time to avoid having his nose broken but caught the blow in the cheek before he rolled and got to his feet, face throbbing.

  The old man was breathing heavily, shoulders forward, head low, as if he was waiting for retaliation. Behind his spectacles, his eyes burned with cold fire.

  Papa laughed.

  Luke, one hand massaging his cheek, didn't find anything humorous in what had just occurred. Their prey fought, punched, kicked, scratched, and bit all the time. It was nothing new. But the prey was always young, and strong, sometimes stronger than all of the brothers combined, so when they fought back it became a welcome challenge, an accepted part of the process. Sometimes they laughed about it later. But this was a sad old man who looked like he could be snapped like a twig. The twins wouldn't have trouble subduing him, and yet he'd taken advantage of Luke's distracted mind, just as the girl had used her sexuality against poor dimwitted Matt. But Papa had not laughed at that. No, because it had cost Matt his life, and he had loved Matt. He'd laughed at the sight of the doctor driving his knee into Luke's face because he didn't care. Because he was going to take Luke's life himself. Anything that happened between now and the moment he took his blade to his son's throat meant nothing in the larger scheme of things. If the girl were found, they'd take care of her. If she eluded them, they'd pack up and move. But either way, Luke wasn't leaving Elkwood. At least, not with all his parts intact.

  "You're not takin' Abby," Wellman said in a low growl. "You don't have no right."

  Luke drew his glare away from Papa to reappraise the old man. Old, weak, he thought, and crazy as a goddamn loon. Why else would he be talking about a dumb old picture as if it was his wife they'd tried to steal from him? Far as Luke knew, Wellman's wife was cold in the grave, but it didn't seem as if the old doctor had been let in on the secret. Either that or he'd somehow managed to forget it. Crazy's a shithouse rat, he thought. No wonder Papa found it funny. But justified or not, Luke felt the resentment colonizing him, and he took a step back from the doctor. To Papa it might have seemed as if the boy was doing nothing more than turning the show over to him, but for Luke it was an act of defiance, denying his father the opportunity to laugh at another thwarted effort to retrieve the doctor's beloved picture. The humiliation ended here. Over the y
ears Luke had said goodbye to whatever dignity he had come into the world swaddled in, but if nothing else he still had a sense of pride, the latter instilled in him by the same man responsible for the erosion of the former.

  Off to the right of the house was Wellman's old, green Volkswagen Beetle. Luke made for it, watched by the doctor, who made no move to stop him as the boy used his knife to jimmy open the hood, cut the cables and wrench out the plugs. Then he bent low, and slashed the tires. If by some miracle the old man managed to make a run for the car, he wouldn't get very far now. Luke stood, brushed dirt from his knees and rejoined his father.

  Aaron appeared at the front door, face grim. In his hand he held a bloodstained ghost. With a flick of a wrist he tossed the sheet out into the night. It settled at the doctor's feet.

  "She were here all right," Aaron told them. "But she ain't now."

  Something else was knocked over inside the house—the twins, having their fun, high on adrenaline and compensating for the absence of their intended victim.

  Papa-in-Gray stepped close to the old man. Aaron remained in the doorway, the gleam of excitement returned to his eyes now that he was watching his father at work.