Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology)

by Larsen, Christian A.

  Had something triggered his insanity? Didn’t these things usually begin as a result of some tragic circumstance that pushed a person over the edge? His life was nothing but structure and organization. Insanity held no place in the man’s day-to-day routine. He had no time for it, and found the possibility to be extremely frustrating. He went to the store and purchased a large variety of mouse and rat traps. If the rodents did, in fact, inhabit the unknown crevices of his residence, he would draw them out with bait and have them dead. In the attic, he set the traps. He placed several in each bedroom, focusing on the kitchen as a primary location due to its accessibility to food. Some of the traps were the type to snap shut and break a mouse’s neck. Others were the sticky type that would lure the creature by its tempting scent, and when the animal crawled onto the trap, it was stuck fast. After strategically placing the devices throughout his home, Oscar felt satisfied and hoped he would catch the evidence of home invasion in several of these traps.

  When he woke the following morning, he stopped in his tracks as he investigated the kitchen. Each and every trap had been tampered with. The spring-loaded traps were all broken in half while the sticky traps were flung against the wall. It was an obvious statement that whatever he was dealing with, it had more intelligence than he gave it credit for.

  Oscar looked at the wine rack. Each bottle had been removed and was lying on its side. The top of each bottle was broken off, and each was completely emptied. He immediately decided to make a trip to the library.

  He searched the non-fiction section for information on ghosts and poltergeists. A wide assortment of options was at his disposal. He sat at a table with a pile of books on the subject of supernatural occurrences, when a girl dressed in Goth attire, approached him. She worked at the library, and the two had exchanged words once or twice in the past.

  "Interesting subject matter."

  He looked up and smiled at her.

  "Whatcha researching ghosts for, anyway?"

  "Need some information to solve a problem."

  "You think you're haunted?"

  "I don't know what to think. I come home; the furniture is a mess, like someone broke in, with no sign of forced entry. The back door keeps flying open no matter what I put in front of it or how many times I lock it. The bookshelf crashed down and nearly crushed me. I heard rats and put out traps—found them all broken or flung against the wall."

  "Wow," the girl said.

  "Oh, and something drank all my wine. All the bottles had the top broken off, and they were empty, without a drop spilled."

  "You're doing the wrong research. I'll be right back."

  He looked at her quizzically, but waited until she returned with a thick book. It was entitled Goblore.

  "What's this?"

  "Ghosts are not the only explanation for supernatural mischief. Ghosts don't drink wine. A lot of people think goblins are fictional characters from the Tolkien novels or from Grimm fairy tales. If you know the true stories behind their legends, you might be more susceptible to believe. British pilots in World War II called them gremlins, but these are the same creatures. Different people around the world claim to have had different encounters with them and all describe them as small impish creatures that hate the light and music, but love drinking wine and causing havoc. They like to play tricks, rearrange things in your house, and do anything to make you worried. This amuses them. You claim you heard things scampering around. I'm not saying you have to believe. I am just saying it could be a possibility."

  "You think I have goblins?"

  "I think there are things in this world that exist, but most people do not believe in—things that would scare the crap out of some, so they deny the truth. Have you ever read Salem's Lot?"

  "No."

  "It's a book about vampires and people who hunt them, even though some don't want to believe in their existence. Totally unrelated but the concept is the same. You can choose to believe whatever the hell you want to, but don't ignore all possibilities. If you do that, and I am right, you're screwed. If you proceed on the bizarre possibility that supernatural monsters inhabit your house, and I'm wrong, oh well. But if I am right...they could kill you. They will kill you."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "You were ready to believe in ghosts. How much more of a stretch is this?"

  "I don't know. Ghosts I understand, sort of, but goblins? Do you believe in vampires and werewolves too?" asked Oscar.

  "That's not important. What you need to do is figure out how to get rid of them."

  Oscar did not take the girl seriously, but checked out the book, just to humor her, along with a copy of the vampire book she mentioned. He arrived home and found the sofas in the living room rearranged, on different walls than where he initially placed them. The television had been dragged to a different wall, as well, with the coax cable ripped out from the back of the set, hanging from the wall. He moved to the bedroom and found the mattress flipped off the bed frame. Once again, all doors were locked and windows latched shut, with no sign of possible entry. Oscar elected not to call the police this time, and sat on the sofa, opening the book.

  "Goblins," he said aloud to himself. For the next several hours, he read about the mysterious creatures, and all about the earlier legends behind the race. They are supposedly bald, brown-colored, and between two and three feet tall, according to Moldova's The Goblin Field.

  The Benevolent Goblin sheds positive light on the beasts as the title character shares drink with thirsty knights who are in need of refreshment—until one man robs the creature, and then it disappears forever. In The Boy Who Drew Cats, the goblin takes people away and they are never seen again.

  The goblin Erlking is known to have haunted the forest and led men to their deaths. The Goblin Market shows how the creatures can be visible only to those who have not tasted their magical fruit. When a person eats their produce, a spell is cast upon them, and they are destined to die from starvation. Finally, The Princess and the Goblin reveals their weakness to singing and to the light, and the fact that the creatures do not have toes.

  He lay back on the sofa and fell asleep. That night he dreamt of little monstrous creatures with brown skin and bald heads. They smiled and laughed, displaying sharp teeth and ugly black tongues as they danced around his house and destroyed his home. He attempted to ward them off, and found himself bound and tied to a chair. Finally, he woke up to the sound of his alarm on his phone. It was Monday morning—time to get back to work.

  He came home with several new bottles of wine and expected the worst, but his house was not in ruins. The mattress was still flipped over, and the living room still rearranged, but nothing new or unexpected. It was time to test the theory. If he truly had little monsters inhabiting his house, he would find a way to prove it. He set the bottles on the floor in the middle of the kitchen and positioned a video camera pointing at the bait. Sprinkling baby powder all over the floor, he ensured there was no way to the drink without stepping on the white mess. That night, he listened for hours and heard nothing until unconsciousness finally took over and he slept.

  Upon opening his eyes the next morning, he hurried to the wine to see if his bait had actually attracted his unwanted guests. To his surprise, the camcorder lay on the ground, not smashed, but knocked over, pointing toward the wall. The powder surrounding the bottles was disturbed, with small footprints leading to where the wine had been. The alcohol was no longer there. This time, it was all gone, bottles and all. The footprints led to the wall, where they stopped. The size of the tracks was no larger than what could have been made by a small child, but while they maintained a human-like quality, there were no toes. Oscar took the video recorder to the bedroom to view the film.

  He watched with interest as sounds of tapping and scurrying could be heard, but no visibility of the source. There was a sound of whispering, although the words were not understandable. Something shoved the camera on the floor and then deliberately rotated it to face the wall. Af
ter that, he heard what could have been hundreds of feet tapping and stepping on the floor, running around.

  "Crap," he said aloud.

  Oscar went to work and came home, knowing he would have a mess of baby powder to clean. When he walked in, it was all gone—the mess, the rearranged furniture, and even the mattress was back with the bed made. It was as if it all never happened.

  Okay, he thought to himself. They are obviously happy with the wine, but I am not going to keep buying wine so I can live a normal life.

  He left the situation alone, and everything remained fine, for a while. Five days before Halloween, he came home to a wrecked house. This time, it wasn’t just one room. Everything—the bed and dresser in the bedroom, the kitchen dishes, the den and bookshelf, the living room with the sofas and the television was not only moved around, it was destroyed. They smashed the TV, ripped open the fabric on the couches and mattress, broke the legs on the kitchen table, and even tore pages out of the books in the den. It was horrible and terrifying for the man. He set out to clean it all, and did the best he could short of replacing everything. That night before he went to sleep, he ensured all the lights in the house were on, and he played music loud enough to echo throughout the house. Placing earplugs in his ears and pulling on an eye mask on, he fell asleep without too much difficulty. The next day, he kept the music playing while he went to work and ensured all of the lights remained on. He hoped everything would be fine all day, and knew he could not tell anybody the details behind the situation. Who would believe him? Only the girl at the library would. That day he chose to stop by and see if she were working. To his luck, she was there, smiling as he walked in.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asked.

  “How is your problem going?”

  “It’s bad,” he said.

  He told her everything, and she listened intensely.

  “I have never dealt with the creatures, only heard of them. They are obviously pissed, and may leave if you anger them, or they may retaliate.”

  “Well, I doubt if drawing pictures of cats will help. What else can I do?”

  “Move?”

  “I’m not moving.”

  “It might be in your best interest to appease them. At least they would be on your side.”

  “And what, keep giving them wine for the rest of my life?

  “It could work to your benefit,” she said.

  “No, I want them gone.”

  “Then I guess, try to drive them away, but be careful. I would hate to see anything backfire and for you to get hurt.”

  * * *

  He walked into the house, and it was all the same—no new disasters, but the same mess remained. The music echoed throughout the house. Every light was on. He entered his bedroom, where the door was already partially opened. When he pushed it, he was greeted with a terrifying surprise. A pile of heavy books placed on top of the door came crashing down as he opened it. He collapsed to the ground with the booby trap covering him. The weight was not enough to break any bones or cause any serious damage, but it did manage to give him a few bruises. He groaned as he pushed himself up, and grew angry as he stood to his feet.

  “So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

  He called an exterminator and requested emergency service. They told him he would have to be gone for the day, and spend the night somewhere else due to the usage of chemicals. He did not know if it would work, but he told them he did not know what was there, and that he constantly heard creatures moving around in his walls and attic. They told him to relax, and assured him that whatever was there would be gone when he arrived back home. He believed them and spent the following night at a motel, feeling victorious and smarter than the devilish monsters. The exterminator may not be able to kill the goblins, but at least they should manage to send them away…but Oscar was deceived by his own pride.

  He went through the motions, allowing the pest control specialists to do their thing, spending the night away from home. He went to work as usual, and came home, two days before Halloween, expecting positive results. The first clue to a lack of success was the presence of a van belonging to the extermination company parked in his driveway. They should have left yesterday. He tried the door handle, and it was open. Walking into his house, he searched for the presence of any living human being. A tapping echoed in the ceiling, and Oscar stopped in his tracks. Listening, he could swear he heard demonic laughing in the walls. He walked to the kitchen, and found the last thing he wanted to see. It was the one thing he suspected, but didn’t dare to allow himself to admit. The exterminator was dead—killed by something unknown. Oscar had not choice—he had to call the police.

  The cops were unwilling to tell him anything, but he was not worried about being a suspect. He had an alibi for the time of the murder, and so the person or thing causing the death was unknown, although Oscar knew the truth, and they were going to be pissed. Perhaps he should find a new place to live. This would be the logical choice. There was no getting rid of them. Deep inside of himself, he knew this, but he was a stubborn man. This was his home. He took care of it. Everything was supposed to be in its place, and he was supposed to be in control. In a matter of weeks, these things had changed all that, and let him know they were running the show. He knew fighting back against them was probably a feeble attempt, but he did not want to relinquish his home to a bully of an enemy so easily. He would fight them, and deep down he knew this could be a fatal attempt.

  That night, he continued with the lights and the music, and after nothing had happened the following day, he performed this act again. The creatures seemed to be keeping away, and he managed to clean his house before Halloween. He went to the store and bought boxes of movie theater-style candy for the trick-or-treaters. His house was decorated, and he had a costume ready. It was a red devil costume with horns he could actually attach to his head without the use of a headband. That night when he looked in the mirror at his costume, with his black goatee and professionally attached demon horns, he smiled and forgot about the little bastards terrorizing his home. He greeted the trick-or-treaters with a grin, and managed to frighten a few of them. One child appeared scared out of his wits when Oscar kneeled down and whispered “Happy Halloween” to the young man. The vampire-clad child ran in fear after his friends. Oscar closed the door and walked to the kitchen. He tripped over something and fell to the ground. Before he could stand, something hit him over the head, and he collapsed.

  When he regained consciousness, he could see nothing, but could feel intense pain coming from his eyes. They were open, but something was terribly wrong. It took him a few seconds, but once he felt the oozing coming from the ocular region, and he closed his eyelids, he knew the truth and cried out. His eyes were gone—removed. He felt the hollowed emptiness left behind in the cavities. He attempted to move his arms, but they were held fast, outstretched. He heard evil laughs and the tapping of small feet walking around him, seemingly dancing in their victory.

  "What do you want from me?"

  "Nothing anymore," a soft, scary voice whispered into his ear.

  He called for help while small feet tapped his chest as they walked atop his body. He did not know what they would do next, but he prayed they would end it quickly. Suddenly, he screamed. Little clawed hands burrowed into his belly and chest. He felt slimy, snake-like materials being dragged across his body out of his stomach. He cried in horror as they continually eviscerated him, savagely ripping out his internal organs.

  "This is our home now," the goblin whispered as Oscar exhaled his final breath.

  Neighbors From Hell

  By J.R. Roper

  Karl studied his aunt’s dusty photographs displayed along the top of her piano. This was the tenth time he’d looked at them and still he couldn’t find a clue about her death. The real reason for her death.

  The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He answered it.

  “Karl, where are you?” Mom asked.

  “I’m at Aunt Je
anie’s and—”

  “Not again. The house is up for auction next week." She paused. "You might as well forget about your conspiracies.”

  “I know,” Karl replied. “I’ll be home before dark.”

  “Love you, boy.”

  The phone beeped. One bar disappeared to none. He pushed the phone back into his pocket and made his way toward the door. The wooden floor creaked beneath each step, sending an eerie bellow throughout the dark and dusty house. Karl pushed open the screen door and strode toward the neighbors.

  Margret, his aunt’s neighbor, was her best friend, at least as far as Margret was concerned. She knew his aunt better than anyone.

  The short path through the forest was already beginning to fill in. Whoever bought his aunt’s house wouldn’t even know it existed. Movement on the path caused Karl to stop. Directly in front of him, sat a cat. He stepped toward it, and the cat hissed.

  "Move it." Karl kicked at the cat. It leapt into the woods and bound away.

  Margret was rocking in her chair on the front porch, a cup steaming in her hand. She glanced at him and then into the forest behind him.

  Karl picked up his pace and looked back, expecting to see the feral cat, but found the forest to be its normal quiet.

  “How are you, young man?” Margret wiped her nose with a handkerchief, and a smile tightened her lips.

  “Fine.” Karl glanced at the forest. “Everything okay?”

  Margret nodded and placed her cup on a side table. She folded her hands in her lap and continued rocking. “I miss Jeanie.”

  Something about the words didn’t match her tone. “That’s why I’m here.” Karl stepped onto the porch and rested his hand on the gray-wooded pillar. “Her house will be sold next week, and I’m still not convinced her death was an accident.”