The Marlowe's had been a middle-class family that lived a modest existence and their house was a reflection of their lifestyle. The Marlowe's domicile of domestic bliss was no Gothic structure as the stereotype goes for haunted houses with peeling paint and hanging shutters. The Marlowe house was actually a two-bedroom, one-story bungalow with peeling paint and hanging shutters. Ivy and weeds had crept up the front of the house over the course of the summer, but as autumn beckoned the plants had faded to brown. A ‘for sale by owner’ sign stood askew on its leaning wooden post, and some prankster had blotted out the ‘w’ in owner and had added a ‘B’ at the beginning.
“For sale by boner!” exclaimed Benji, who began to laugh a little too loudly and too long to be anything but nerves.
Someone had smashed a jack-o’-lantern against the rusted mailbox at the end of the driveway. Sal strode purposefully through the overgrown front yard, up the cracked concrete steps, and stopped at the front door. The realtor had installed a lock out on the house, secured with a heavy-duty padlock to keep trespassers out.
Seeing this, Benji brightened. “Well, looks locked up tight, Sal. Let’s go get some candy.”
“There’s a back door,” said Sal, heading around the side of the dilapidated home.
Benji followed him and fished a red flashlight from his otherwise-empty candy bag. He flipped it on and Sal looked at him with a strange smile creeping across his young face.
“What? My dad says you should always carry a flashlight when it’s dark out. It’s common sense, really,” Benji said and brought the light up to Sal’s eyes. The shadows fled from the light as it illuminated his friend's face and Sal was just Sal. Nothing weird here, just my mind playing tricks on me, thought Benji. Tricks and treats, Benji, my boy. Tricks and Treats.
A wind blew through the trees that stood like skeleton hands escaping the tomb, their elongated fingers swaying as if they searched for a thirteen-year old kid to grab a hold of and drag them back into the dirt with the worms. Leaves brushed against one another in a hushed whisper.
Ssssssaaaallll…
“Did you hear that, Sal?” asked Benji in a frantic voice.
Sal nodded. “The wind blowing through the leaves.”
“Huh-uh, Sal. Someone said your name. I heard it.”
“Calm down, Benj. It was just the wind,” said Sal as he grabbed the padlock on the back door.
“Jeez, what a shame. It’s locked too. Let’s go, Sal.”
Sal ignored Benji and yanked down on the lock, and it released from the hasp. “Nope, just a little bit rusty is all,” he said and grasped the doorknob. Sal gave it a quick twist it and swung the door slowly open on creaky hinges.
To Benji, it sounded like screams from the dead. “Was that really necessary, Sal? You could have opened it a little faster. I almost crapped myself.”
“C’mon,” said Sal, smiling.
In the dancing light of Benji’s shaking hand, Sal’s smile seemed to stretch and shorten, stretch and shorten. Truth be told, Benji was getting a little creeped out by all that smiling. Sal didn’t usually smile all that much.
Benji jerked the light into the house and the beam shone into a slightly dated kitchen. It smelled like mildew and urine. From the doorway, Benji slowly swept the light across the room. Kids had spray-painted all forms graffiti in various colors all over the walls. Most of the writing was names.
Jim and Kelly…
Stevie was here…
Carla is a fat whore…
Welcome to Hell House
Then, there was Benji’s personal favorite. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Very reassuring, he thought to himself.
Sal walked over to a pantry door and opened it. A large, furry rat darted past their feet, and Benji gave an awkward little jump backward. Only it wasn’t a pantry. There were bare wooden planks stairs leading down into the darkness—a darkness that seemed to reach its shadows out for them, but Benji noticed that Sal didn’t seem to mind at all.
“I’m not going down there!”
Sal gave a long sigh and shrugged. The wind suddenly gusted outside, creating a vacuum and slamming the back door shut.
Benji screamed, and the piercing sound echoed through the empty house.
Sal shook his head at Benji. “Well, I suppose you can stay up her by yourself, but I’m going.”
Benji grabbed a handful of material of the back of Sal’s jacket. “Please, Sal. You got me. I’m scared, okay? Can we just get outta here? We don’t even have to get any candy,” pleaded Benji.
“I’m not trying to scare you, Benj,” assured Sal.
“Then let’s go, man.”
“Ten minutes, remember?” asked Sal.
Benji shined the light on his watch, but Sal stopped him. “Starting now. Ten minutes and you have to keep quiet. You’re giving me a headache.”
Benji slowly nodded his consent, but his teeth chattered convulsively.
They started down the stairs. Each stair groaned beneath the weight of every foot that pressed down upon it. To Benji, even with the flashlight, the bottom step always seemed to be beyond the reach of the weak beam.
“Wha…what’s down there, Sal?” asked Benji in a trembling voice.
“Dust and spiders, most likely,” replied Sal.
Finally, they reached the dirt floor of the basement. Benji shined the light on his watch. “Nine more minutes, Sal.”
“You’re doing good, Benj. Real good,” soothed Sal.
They crossed the cellar to the middle of the room. Sal crouched down and brushed dirt aside with the side of his hand. He felt in the dirt with his fingertips and found a pull ring. He lifted it up with some effort and the small square trap door opened. There was a wooden prop screwed onto it and Sal used it to hold the door open.
“What is it, Sal?” asked Benji from over his shoulder.
“It’s a root cellar.”
Sal climbed down a rickety wooden ladder and disappeared into the complete darkness below.
“Sal, my flashlight is dead,” whimpered Benji from above him.
“Well, come down here then.”
“I think there are only about five minutes left,” Benji lied.
“Benj…come on.” Sal said from the darkness.
Benji shuddered. “There aren’t any ghosts down there, are there?”
Silence.
“Sal?” questioned the nearly hysterical boy.
“I don’t see any down here. Now, would you just come on?”
Benji reluctantly climbed down the ladder, not because he wanted to come down, but because he didn’t want to be alone in the dark. He felt around with his arms stretched out in front of him until he found Sal. He wasn’t going to let go this time.
Sal got down on his hands and knees, Benji’s hand resting on his back for reassurance that he was still there with him. From upstairs, he heard the wind.
Ssssssaaaallll…
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it that time, Sal. It said your name.”
“Five more minutes, Benji.”
Sal’s hand bumped into something cold and hard. “Shine your light down here for a minute.”
“It’s dead. I already told you that.”
“Just try it, okay?”
Benji flipped the switch with his thumb and the bulb burned a weak yellow light. It flickered as if it were on the verge of dying again.
Sal brushed away the dirt, revealing a stained tennis shoe.
“Aww jeez, Sal.”
Sal continued clearing dirt away from the shoes, and he gently eased a leg covered in blue jeans from the dirt.
“Aww Jeez…oh Jeez,” Benji whimpered, his teeth chattering more violently now. He turned to grab for a rung on the ladder, and the trap door slammed shut. He whipped his flashlight around, and shined it on Sal’s face.
Benji saw it there this time. It had tried to flee from the light, like roaches scurrying away when you flipped on the lights. It was gone now, but Benji h
ad seen it.
“What are you, Sal?” Benji begged him.
Sal looked up at Benji, that strange smile long and wide in the shadows. He stood, pulling the rest of the body from the dirt. It was covered in plastic.
“That’s not plastic, Benji,” said Sal.
Benji wondered how Sal had managed to read his mind. He knew that he hadn’t spoken out loud.
“It’s rubber. See?”
Benji’s whole body shook violently “I wanna go home, Sal,” he said and squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming from them.
“Benji…”
Benji slowly opened his eyes. He looked and saw the mottled gray rubber mask—the zombie mask. He saw that one skeletal hand still grasped a red flashlight.
“It’s you, Benji,” said Sal reverently. “That’s why you asked me to come with you tonight.”
“No….n…nn…Sal. That’s a lie. I wanted to get some candy to eat, that's all.” Benji burst into tears again.
Sal reached up and touched Benji’s hand. “ Remember when I told you that ghosts are everywhere? That you probably had one or two in your own house?” asked Sal. “This is your house, Benji. You need to sleep, now.”
Benji was crying harder, his sobs muffled beneath the latex mask. “My dad's gonna kill me...”
“Ghosts can’t hurt you. Your dad can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I know that Sal,” said Benji, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Just lie down and let the light go out, Benji, and you won’t be scared anymore.”
The flashlight flickered a few times then everything blurred into shadows, but Sal wasn’t scared. The shadows claimed him as one of their own on this hallowed eve and he embraced them.
Sal heard the wind moan his name and the leaves whispered it to him in a hushed chorus.
Ssssssaaaallll…
A frown crossed Sal's face.
Ssssssaaaallll...
Sal's head snapped around and saw the dead boy lurching toward him. “Benji?”
“I tried to tell you...”
“Benji...you were supposed to find peace...” Sal staggered backward and tripped over his shoelaces. He sprawled on the sidewalk, his eyes large with the light of jack-o’-lanterns chasing shadows across his face, contorting him into something new. Benji thought the new look suited his friend; it gave him an air of humanity.
“I didn't want to go in that house...but I was so hungry...” Benji lurched closer and closer and leaned over his friend.
“Ten minutes...then tricks and treats...sorry I tricked you, but that was the deal...”
“I was just trying to help you, man,” Sal cried.
“I know...” Benji said, clamping his teeth on Sal's neck.
Sal tried to scream, but all that escaped was a wet gurgle from his torn throat.
Benji Marlowe dragged his bag of treats behind him, leaving a trail of blood that trickled from a small hole in the plastic. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned in malign approval as he walked back to his home, chewing contentedly on a length of glistening entrails.
Benji was thirteen, and he always would be. He ripped a piece of flesh from the length of fresh red meat in his decomposed hand, and he savored the juicy goodness of Sal Wynn.
Benji plucked the rubber mask from his back pocket and tossed it to the ground. It stared up at him with hollow eyes, maggots dancing like druids, celebrating the solstice.
Benji Marlowe didn’t need to wear a mask. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Sal had taught him that.
Hob Gob
By Jonathan D. Nichols
They had him finally. He'd tried getting rid of them in every way possible, and failed. Now they were angry, and he was helpless. Bound in a crucifixion position with his arms outstretched and feet pointing straight, he waited with dread. He was unsure of his attackers capabilities, but knew they wanted to cause him extreme bodily harm.
"Can someone help me?"
"No one can help you now," an inhumane voice said in a tone of maliciousness.
* * *
Halloween is a time for monsters and creatures of the night—a time for the celebration of the scary. To most people, this is mere fun, nothing realistic to the legends and the stories of ghosts and goblins while others find truth to the accounts of fiction and cautionary tales.
When Oscar noticed the mysterious circumstances in his home a few weeks earlier, he chose to ignore them, thinking they were the results of natural causes. It began at the back door of the laundry room. He owned dogs—three of them. He would place the trio in the backyard to take care of their waste relief, and would find them in the house minutes later. With the rear door wide open, he knew the source of their entrance, and shut it all the way, hearing it click and then pulled on the handle; it did not budge. He never used that door, and there was no reason for it to be opened again, but the incident repeated itself continuously. He finally placed a laundry basket with clothes in front of the door, hoping this would solve the problem he attributed to the wind. Two days later, when he found it opened again with the clothes knocked over, his suspicions were raised. This was the beginning of events that presented themselves in accelerated frequency.
He was a single man, and for his own personal reason. A permanent woman in his life would disrupt his routine and lead to eventual young ones. He loved children, but in moderation. The house needed to remain clean, orderly, and in his control. He was a bit obsessive-compulsive and noticed things out of place. Children in his home introduced an element of chaos he did not want to deal with.
Two days later, he arrived home from work and turned on the light switch to the hallway, only to remain in darkness.
Crap, he thought to himself. The light from the adjoining room provided illumination, so he was not forced to stumble along in the shadows. He turned on his bedroom light, which did work, and switched on the television, or at least attempted to do so. The power was nonexistent in that outlet. He checked the circuit breakers outside, and none of them were switched off, so he reset each of them. Upon his entry back into the house, he witnessed his success. The hall light was on, and he heard the television from the bedroom.
Weird, he thought to himself, but considered it a bizarre fluke and nothing more. That evening, he opened a new bottle of Shiraz and poured the red drink into a wine glass. It was a Friday night, in the middle of October—his favorite month. He loved decorating his house for the festive occasion. When he decked out his front yard, he spared nothing and gave his home the perfectly combined look of fear and excitement. Inflatable figures towered over the children as they approached his door. Graves stuck out from the ground, and skeletal remains scattered across the green lawn. On the front door, he always included a life-sized witch, set to bellow a frightening cackle when a person approached. It was a wonderful experience for him, seeing the children’s faces, handing them boxes of good-quality candy. As long as they did not enter into his domain and disrupt the harmony within the home, he loved the experience of Halloween night.
After watching a television show and finishing off half of the bottle, he lay down for the night, ensuring he had corked the bottle before he passed out asleep. Normally, he would have put the bottle in its place on the wine rack, but this was a task he could accomplish in the morning. It could rest on the countertop for the night. He dozed and did not stir for any reason due the alcohol’s effect on his body. Morning came, and the sun shone through his window, giving him reason to finally step off his bed at ten o’clock. Stumbling into the kitchen, the first thing he saw was the wine bottle. It was uncorked, lying on its side, empty. He knew for certain he had left the bottle half full, but there was not one drop spilled. No red specks of the liquid decorated the sink, so he knew it had not been poured out. Did he sleepwalk? Where was the wine? Had he somehow drank it without realizing it? No, he always remembered details—what he did, how he did them. There was no excuse for this anomaly except for the presence of another individual, or him doing things while n
ot in his right mind. He grew afraid and confused, trying to brush the issue aside, but could not push it away. He had plenty more wine on the rack, so the loss of drink was no big deal. It was the strangeness of it all that got to him.
He decided to go for a walk to clear his head and get some exercise. Hooking leashes to the dogs, the man toured his neighborhood for a long while, going up and down side streets and passing the houses of many neighbors with whom he had friendly relationships. A few of the individuals outside of their homes saw him and waved. He must have walked at least two miles when he finally unlocked the front door and entered the house. He dropped the keys in his surprise at the scene before him. The furniture, big and small, was in complete disarray. Sofas were overturned, lamps pushed over, chairs broken—an overall display of utter chaos.
The police arrived, investigating the scene and determining no unauthorized entry into the house. All windows and doors were locked save the front door into which Oscar had entered. The scenario was bizarre and unexplainable. The perpetrator left no evidence of their presence, and Oscar did not feel safe in his own home. He had a feeling in his gut that whatever was going on, it was nowhere near over. He spent a couple of hours fixing the mess and contemplating how to make his home safe. A security system was the first obvious step, an action he intended on taking the following morning.
That night, he walked past the bookshelf in the den, when he heard movement.
"Who's there?" he called out, receiving no answer.
He heard a creaking sound coming from the ground near the base of the shelf, and within seconds, found himself diving out of the way as it came crashing to the ground. He breathed heavily as he looked up from where he lay. He saw nothing that could have pushed the shelf, yet somehow, after years of standing firm with not problems whatsoever, it chose to collapse when he happened to be standing directly in front of it. This could be no coincidence. Something or someone was out to get him. He did not know what to do, and could not sleep that night. As he lay in bed, he could swear he heard scurrying in the walls and ceiling, perhaps rats inhabiting the attic. In the morning, he walked to each room of the house, and found everything to be exactly as he left it. Perhaps he was truly losing his mind, and there was really nothing there.
Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology) Page 28
