Echoes of Darkness

by Rob Smales

  That looks like it hurt, she thought. A lot. A part of her somewhere was trying to tell her that yes, it did hurt a lot, and it was important, but that part seemed far away, and she just didn’t want to listen right now. The wordless torrent of sorrow sounded closer, and she could make out some of the comforting words being murmured in response.

  “. . . Not your fault . . . none of this . . . sorry, honey, so sorry, but . . .”

  Hillary’s gaze wandered higher, crossing the man’s chest to his twisted shoulders, then higher still, expecting to see a face; but her curious stare ground to a halt before getting that far, riveted by the man’s throat.

  Or where his throat was supposed to be.

  Where his throat was supposed to be was a ragged open hole filled with mush, stringy things and bits, all of it reminding her of the first time she’d opened the top of a pumpkin to make a jack-o’-lantern. She’d been grossed out at the mess of stuff she’d seen inside, like the pumpkin was half melting, or gone bad already, with seeds and strings and goo, all slimy and disgusting; but this stuff here wasn’t orange like the inside of a pumpkin: it was red, bright red and dark red and just red because it wasn’t the inside of a pumpkin, but the inside of a person and—

  This was the real Hillary doing the talking now, the part that had been trying to warn her that the splintered hand was important, that had started so far away but had fought its way closer every second until now it was so loud she couldn’t ignore it; and though she tried not to look at the messy hole where the man’s throat used to be, she did look, understanding what she was seeing although she wanted so much to just ignore that too, understanding that this man was dead—

  She vomited: hot popcorn, soda, and the chicken she’d had for dinner (that seemed so long ago now was it really just earlier tonight?) spraying against the green dumpster with enough force to bounce off, spattering her sneakers. Her stomach clenched so hard she fell, slivers of pain driving deep into her battered knees, nearly landing in the puddle of her own mess.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

  The voice was louder, clearer now that Hillary had come back to herself and the foggy feeling had blown away. She recognized Mrs. Redfern’s voice, shaking with emotion, a slight hitch in the word sorry stretching the two syllables into three, giving the impression the woman was crying. The pavement bit into her knees even more than the cement dumpster pad had, and the moist stink of the dumpster’s contents mingled with that of the hot puddle between her hands in a way that made her stomach lurch again, the painful twitch of an already abused abdomen. She forced herself to her feet, the green metal cool beneath one hand as she leaned against it for support and turned to face the crying woman.

  They sat there, at the head of the man lying torn open on the ground, Mrs. Redfern sitting tailor-fashion, Valerie in her lap. The woman was comforting her daughter, cuddling her like a toddler, rocking her back and forth as Valerie cried. Hillary watched as sobs wracked her friend, her body shuddering with such strength her mother’s frame shook as well.

  “I’m sorry . . . I know you tried, honey, I know . . . I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

  Hillary took an unsteady step. The fog might have been gone from her vision, but a touch of it remained inside her head. She could see, tottering closer, it wasn’t Valerie’s crying that shook her mother so, but the sobbing of the woman herself. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she consoled her daughter.

  Hillary couldn’t figure out what was so wrong. The bad man who’d chased them, who had hurt Valerie’s mom, was dead, and that was yucky and awfully scary, but they were safe. The scary thing that had taken Valerie’s place was gone—and they were safe! She desperately wanted to go home, but Valerie and her mom were still crying so much . . .

  “Valerie,” she said. “You okay?”

  Her friend’s sobbing paused, just for a second, then resumed even harder. Mrs. Redfern spoke without lifting her cheek from her daughter’s hair. “She’s fine, dear.”

  “Why is she crying? Aren’t we safe now? I just . . . I just want to go home.”

  Mrs. Redfern’s back stiffened, but she still spoke in gentle tones, still pressed her face to the side of Valerie’s.

  “She’s crying because she’s sad, Hillary. She’s very, very sad.”

  “Because of him?” Hillary pointed toward the man, though neither of them looked at her.

  “Sort of, yes. This is my fault. Just . . . all my fault. The full moon was almost here. Not quite, but close. I checked, I double-checked, I mean, everything should have been okay. Then they had to come along. There was too much stress, it was all too close, and she couldn’t cope. She tried.”

  She leaned back, a hand stroking Val’s small dark head, smoothing the hair back from her face. Hillary could see Mrs. Redfern in profile, could see her smiling despite her tears. Her voice lowered to a broken whisper.

  “You tried so hard.”

  “But . . .” Hillary was confused. She didn’t know what to say, what to ask.

  “But,” Mrs. Redfern raised her voice, addressing Hillary, though she still stared into her daughter’s face. “She knows how it has to be. She tried, and she did so well, but she knows how things have to be.”

  “Is it the . . . that thing? Is that why she’s crying?”

  Mrs. Redfern was silent, the only sound in the alley the sobs still coming from Valerie. Quieter now, but still coming.

  “That thing is gone,” Hillary pointed out, starting to cry herself. She was exhausted, frightened, and she just wanted to be home in bed where her own mother would smooth her hair and tell her things would be all right. “And those guys are gone. You said we’d be safe. We’re safe, right? They can’t hurt us any more. Can we go home now?”

  Mrs. Redfern eased her daughter off her lap, sliding her gently to the ground.

  “Yes—that thing—that’s why she’s crying. I was supposed to lead those men away from you two. She tried so hard to stay calm. But she couldn’t.”

  Valerie sat facing away from Hillary, shoulders shaking. Her mother rose smoothly to her feet, standing over the girl on the ground as if talking to her, though her words were still directed at Hillary.

  “She was supposed to keep that thing away, but she didn’t.”

  “But that thing saved us,” Hillary said. “It was all scary and everything, but it saved us! They can’t hurt us any more, right? Why can’t we just go home?”

  “Because that thing needs to stay secret. Needs to stay hidden. No one can know.”

  “But that other guy ran away, and—”

  “He won’t get far. And we’re not worried about him right now.” Mrs. Redfern finally turned to face Hillary, tears streaming unchecked down her face. “I’m so, so sorry, child, but we weren’t trying to keep you safe . . . from them.”

  “But—” Hillary began, but the words stopped, breathing stopped, the whole world stopped as Hillary’s eyes widened and all the fear the fog had kept at bay was unleashed all at once.

  Mrs. Redfern’s face . . . changed.

  Stretched.

  Pushed forward.

  The breath Hillary had intended to fuel her words came out in all in a rush with a sound like a steam whistle. She stumbled back, away from the apparition that took a step toward her. Her foot slipped in the still-warm puddle of vomit and she fell, landing in the little space between the dumpsters once more, the cement biting and scratching at her hands and backside as she scrambled away from the advancing nightmare. Out in the alley Valerie continued to cry, louder now, as if trying to drown out what was going on behind her. In the mouth of the small cave formed by the dumpsters, the creature wept, tears streaming from the still-human eyes set in its misshapen, hairy nightmare face. Black lips skinned back from white teeth. Jaws cracked open and a black tongue writhed. Sounds issued forth from the terrible jaws: not growling, but four distinct sounds that might have been individual syllables had they been issued from a human throat.

  No one can kn
ow.

  The weeping nightmare crouched forward, crowding its bulk into the small space, easing in like a wolf into its den. Hillary began to scream.

  She did not scream for long.

  IN FULL MEASURE

  Eva stared in wonder at the man on her front porch, the smell of Father’s sickroom clinging to her clothes. She was still breathless from running down the stairs to halt the pounding that had begun and not stopped, loud enough to disturb Father even in his swoon.

  Had it been, as she’d expected, some rude youth, perhaps with knocking fist still raised, she was fully prepared to offer up a sharp lesson in visiting etiquette. Yanking the door open to find an elderly dandy, barely higher than her own chin though dressed in (according to Sears and Roebuck) the very height of fashion, well, it quite took the wind out of her sails. She noticed he clutched a large, buff-colored envelope in both small hands.

  Now how in the world did he pound like that with both hands full? she wondered, then noticed the muddy streaks marring the bottom of her door.

  “I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please,” the little man said, his voice high, nasal, and imperious.

  Eva merely stared at his soaked and mud-covered (though still stylish) left shoe. Then at the single-horse buckboard in front of her house, right next to what had to be the only mud puddle left in the county. Then back at the marks on her door.

  “Did you kick my door?”

  “I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please.”

  The little old bandy cock had raised his voice, over-enunciating as if speaking to a thick-witted child; annoyance welled up in Eva, firmly pushing aside her disbelief. She spoke just as clearly as he had.

  “No. You won’t.”

  “I will,” he said, stepping forward as if to actually enter the house uninvited. Rather than retreating, as he’d obviously expected, Eva stood tall and folded her arms across her chest, physically barring entry to the door-kicking little savage.

  Devin nearly overbalanced, coming up on his toes to stop his forward momentum as he realized this little strumpet was not stepping back as she should have. He’d been thrown off-kilter by the mud puddle and had been venting his annoyance by kicking the farmhouse door when it had suddenly opened to reveal this . . . girl.

  He had gotten a description of Wilbur Clarke back in town: an older man with gnarled hands, broad shoulders, and a sunbaked face both creased and leathery. He had not expected beautiful, honey-blond hair and flawless, sun-bronzed skin. She was such a surprise he merely gaped, his reason for being there in the first place knocked clean out of his mind. Then she inspected the mud he’d left on her door, and a strange panic struck him—a youthful, confusing feeling—and he barked out the first thing he thought of, trying to distract her.

  “I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please.”

  He had to ask twice—something that had not happened for years—and then she refused.

  Refused!

  That slapped his confusion aside. Refused? Made to stand out in the sun by this mere slip of a girl?

  Me?

  He’d started forward, just as he would in any meeting, confident of compliance, knowing full well he was in charge out here in mud-flats Kansas, just as he was back in his Boston boardroom—

  —and the girl had barred his way. As she drew near he detected a strange, sour odor coming from her (apparently cleanliness was not next to godliness out here in corn country), and when she did not move he strained to avoid touching her. He tottered back onto his heels, retreating a half step to keep his balance.

  Unbelievable, he thought. She’s a pretty girl, yes, but there are limits, by God!

  Struggling to maintain his temper and at least a modicum of professionalism, something he could see these farm people sorely lacked, he drew himself up to his full height (such as it was), waved the envelope before her nose, and spoke in his most commanding tone.

  “I have here certain official bank documents that Wilbur Clarke is required to see and sign. You will either lead me to him or go and fetch him, girl, but either way, you will do it at once.”

  “No,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I will not.”

  Part of Eva watched the situation developing on her doorstep with a detached pride. Following her mother’s death the previous year, she had retreated from life and become nothing more than her father’s daughter—a fine, God-fearing woman who cooked, read, and went to church. It had been a good arrangement: she had wanted to be taken care of in the wake of her loss, while her father had needed someone to care for and protect, as he had not been able to protect his wife from the fever that had stolen her away.

  A few weeks ago, however, it was her father who had begun to require looking after, and Eva had stepped smoothly into the position, as if all she had been waiting for was the chance. She had taken more and more responsibility on the farm, and it was no mere farmer’s daughter who had answered this door. Standing tall and barring entry to this old popinjay of a bank messenger, Eva reminded herself of her mother, and her heart swelled at the comparison.

  Though it was also swelling with anger.

  “Not that I expect a drop of sympathy, but my father lies upstairs in a sickbed, thanks in great part to your boss and his banking practices.”

  She heard a slight tremor in her voice, but managed to hold herself to a raised eyebrow as the only physical manifestation of her anger, looking down at this messenger-man with an imperiousness to match his own.

  “I will not disturb him for one such as you. I will, however, give you a message to carry to your master.”

  Despite her intentions of iron control, she loomed over the small figure, her voice rising a notch in volume, her finger pointing at his nose.

  “It is his fault you cannot deliver your missive. My father dealt with Mr. Henson for more years than I have been alive, and Mr. Henson always dealt squarely. Farming is a variable business, and sometimes there were extensions, but my father always came through; always paid him, eventually. You can ask him, if he hasn’t been run out of town yet.”

  The old man on her doorstep shifted slightly, fanning himself with the oversized envelope still clutched in one knobby hand.

  “Then he sold the bank to your Mr. Capshaw, and everything changed. All those foreclosures! Father started to worry. Little messenger-men—just like you—running about with their documents and papers, while good, hard-working people lost their land. Their homes. I don’t know your Mr. Capshaw, but he’s forcing people from their homes for some reason I do not understand; but understand it or not, I find it despicable.”

  She straightened, folding her arms once more. “My father’s worked himself into a sickbed trying to bring the harvest in, trying to ward off the foreclosure he saw coming—worked harder than both our young field hands, and he is not a young man. So you take that envelope of yours and you bring it back to your Mr. Capshaw, and you tell him to bring it back himself if he has a mind to. I doubt he will, but if he does, then at least I’ll have the chance to give him a piece of my mind as well.”

  Eva was breathing hard, her head hot with righteous anger. The messenger-man held up a palm.

  “Before you go on,” he said, in that irritating, nasal way of his, “please allow me to introduce myself properly.”

  He offered her his hand.

  She stared for a moment before good manners took over, and she reached out to take it.

  “Evangeline Clarke?” he said, raising an eyebrow. Startled to hear her name upon the stranger’s lips, Eva gave only a quick nod. The little man tightened his grip on her fingers.

  “Wonderful to meet you. My name is Devin Capshaw.”

  Eva froze.

  Devin was pleased when his revelation shocked her into silence. Being upbraided by a woman no older than his daughters was almost more than he could bear, though he had to admit the young lady possessed a certain fire his own progeny lacked. He nearly smiled as he considered his real reason for coming out into the middle of nowhere to se
rve papers personally. Though he did want to see all the property that would soon be his, and he would never admit it to them, it was the gossip from his process servers that had really goaded him out into this world of dirt and sun and mud.

  Bedroom adventures. Haybarn romps. Grateful widows and farmers’ curious daughters. To overhear the men who worked for him, to listen to their talk, you’d think every farmhouse in the plains was home to at least one woman of dubious morality, if not two.

  Maybe even three.

  It had been enough to spark even his old imagination.

  He’d paid little attention to her words, wondering instead what all that passion would be like when translated into action. He watched her bosom heave with barely suppressed emotion, and imagined it heaving for completely different reasons. Butterflies fluttered about in his guts. He faltered. He wondered how he could possibly dare. Then, gripping the papers that gave him legal and financial authority over this young woman, he took advantage of her stunned silence to launch into a little speech of his own, one that had been at the back of his mind each time he’d approached a door out in this godforsaken land, only to forget all about it when the door was opened by a leather-faced farmer or his even more leathery-faced wife.

  This was his chance.

  “My dear Evangeline,” he said, showing every one of his teeth. “It is not a matter of my wanting to do ill to you and yours; it is a simple matter of the facts. Fact: you owe the bank a debt. Fact: I own said bank, so, fact: the debt you owe is mine to collect, and I am collecting—in full measure. The paperwork I have here is all aboveboard and legal, according to the laws that govern this country and separate us from the beasts of the field. Now I could be like your Mr. Henson and offer extensions left and right, but that is not my way. It has always been my practice to collect the full measure of what is mine just as soon as it becomes mine, and I see no reason to alter that practice today.”