Trinity of Darkness: The Darkness Unbound Collection

by Glenn Porzig

  "Police say they found the body of Edna Miller, the suspected killer's mother, mummified and bound to a chair in the kitchen. They have yet to determine the cause of death, but believe she died months ago and that her son had been cashing her disability checks."

  "Investigators also discovered, what they believe to be, items of clothing that belonged to Jenna Hutchings. Hutchings is the young woman who was recently found in a dumpster missing her heart."

  Vicki paused and looked directly into the camera, a somber expression on her face.

  "In a shocking note that hits close to home, I've been told that investigators have found a wall with pictures pinned to it in Miller's home—that included pictures of me. There has been some speculation that Miller may have been obsessed with me, or that I was a possible future target for his evil acts."

  "Now that Miller has been implicated in these recent murders, it seems that it should clear up any speculation that poor Mary Carver was anything other than a victim in those crimes so many years ago when she lost everyone close to her. Here's hoping that she can rest easy now, knowing that her family's killer has finally been brought to justice."

  Vicki turned to another camera as the shot pulled out wide to show the rest of the newsroom. The closing music began to play.

  "I, for one, am glad that we can all feel safe in our homes again. Thank you for joining us tonight, and God Bless."

  ***

  The door to the hospital room opened, and in walked Sister Marian with a vase of white roses. Sister Mary Francis lit up upon seeing her. She still looked weak, and frail, laying in the hospital bed, but her smile was as bright as always.

  "It's about time that you visited me," said Sister Mary Francis.

  "I wanted to come sooner, you know how busy I've been."

  "Flowers? You should always choose chocolates over flowers," she smiled. "Oh, you know I'm messing with you. They're my favorites... and they're beautiful."

  "I'm glad to see you in such good spirits," said Marian.

  "Don't you worry about me. I'm just fine. If only I could talk these doctors into letting me out, I'd be on my way!"

  "I feel responsible for what happened to you, I'm just glad that you're okay... that you were able to resist."

  "You know how I can be! Nobody's going to make me do anything I don't want to do! He may have been stronger than me, but no way he was stronger than my faith!"

  Marian smiled.

  "Don't you waste your time worrying about me another minute, I'm going to be okay."

  "I think I'm going to be okay now too," said Marian. She reached out and took the older nun's hand in hers and gently squeezed it as she looked into her eyes.

  "I'm going to be going away for awhile."

  "Anywhere interesting?" asked Sister Mary Francis.

  "I'm going to Rome."

  "Oh? Did the Mother Superior approve this vacation you have planned?"

  "It's been approved... by a higher authority. I've been summoned to the Vatican."

  ***

  Three weeks later. Officer De La Rosa walked into a bar. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar face, a man sitting alone in a dark booth. He walked over to him.

  "Drake, is that you?"

  "In the flesh," responded Drake.

  "I haven't seen you in nearly a month. Shoot a bad guy and you get a paid vacation—not bad if you ask me! So, how's suspension been treating you?"

  De La Rosa looked over the detective. He didn't look like a man on a relaxing break from work. He looked like he'd aged a lot in the last few weeks, he'd even developed a shock of white hair. In fact he looked like he'd been through Hell.

  "It is what it is," replied the detective.

  Drake lifted up his shot glass as if toasting the officer and then tilted it back gulping down the bourbon.

  "I thought you kicked the sauce," stated the officer.

  "You know... there are some things that can't be unseen—but I can try, can't I?"

  "Well... uh, it's been good to see you. When can I tell the guys to expect you back at the station?" asked De La Rosa.

  "I don't know if I'm coming back from this one..."

  THE END

  Darkness Unbound:

  Terror of Night

  Jill Tate woke up screaming. It was a miracle she had managed to fall asleep at all. If only it had been a nightmare—but the nightmare was real. The thin foam mattress beneath her did little to make her comfortable on the cold, hard, concrete floor.

  The darkness was unending, so deep she couldn't make out her hand in front of her face. She couldn't see, but she still had her other senses. The air felt dank against her skin, and had an acrid smell. She could taste the coppery flavor of blood in her mouth.

  She didn't know how long she had been here. Captive. She knew she was hungry, it must have been days since she had last eaten. It felt like an eternity. In the absolute darkness, there was no way to keep track.

  Nothing changed here, save the occasional creak of a small door opening, followed by a cup of water placed on the floor by a large gloved hand. She had learned the hard way that she had to quickly grab the cup before the door closed and it was lost in the darkness. The first time, she had knocked the cup over while scrambling to find it.

  Jill sat alone in the darkness. The only sounds were her rapid heartbeat and her own shallow breathing. Then she heard the familiar sound of metal scraping, but this time it was much louder. This time it wasn't the small door that opened. A large panel in the wall slowly slid open, the light blinding her.

  She quickly stood on shaky legs and ran toward the opening. This was her first chance to escape and she wasn't going to waste it.

  Jill was running as fast as she could when she slammed into a thick Plexiglas wall. It didn't give in the least—instead, she bounced off and was sent falling backwards. She was grateful for the little bit of cushion the mattress provided as she hit the floor.

  Jill looked up at the opening, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light. There was a man, seated. The bright light was coming from behind him. His features were totally enveloped in shadow.

  An intercom activated, filling the room with static. A voice came out of the static and echoed loudly off the damp stone walls.

  "This is your lucky day. Your tests came back negative. You won't have to spend another night in that room."

  Jill couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was she really going to be set free? For the first time since she woke up in this prison, she allowed herself to hope.

  She heard metal grating against metal as locks were slid open and then the heavy metal door creaked open on ancient hinges. A large man stood there, filling the doorway. He was wearing a dark rubber suit that covered him from head to toe. His face was concealed behind a gas mask. In his hand was a rusty machete.

  The intercom sparked to life again. The voice seemed very pleased with itself.

  "I didn't say you'd be alive, did I?"

  Jill screamed uncontrollably as she began pushing backwards, scrabbling away from the large man lumbering toward her. Finally, her back hit the cold stone wall. There was nowhere to go.

  The large man in the rubber suit reached down with one hand and grabbed her up roughly. He slammed her against the wall. She tried looking in his eyes, but only saw the light reflecting in the lenses of his mask. The machete lifted up and hovered at her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, ready to die.

  "Careful, we don't want to kill her too soon. She needs to be good and scared. Take your time—have fun with it."

  Jill wet herself. She was terrified beyond belief. The large man hurled her across the room. She hit the wall hard and slid down to the floor. She was sure she had broken an arm from the impact, or maybe worse.

  Shock had set in. Biology's safeguard to protect her from the worst of the pain. She tried to will herself to stand, but she couldn't manage it. Not that it would have mattered.

  The large man reached down with his gloved hand and
easily lifted her. He tossed her on the thin mattress in the middle of the room. He bent over her and slid his machete under her shirt, slowly slicing it and her bra open. He looked up at the man in silhouette, like a gladiator looking to Caesar for approval.

  The distorted voice echoed from the intercom once again.

  "Bring me her heart."

  The machete tore through her flesh and cracked through her sternum with a sickening snap. He tossed the bloody blade aside, reached down, and pulled her ribcage apart. Her heart was still beating when he thrust his hand in and yanked it free from her gaping chest.

  The giant in the gas mask held up the prize in his blood-slicked glove. Light glistened off her heart as it beat its last.

  "Hurry, bring it here—I want to eat it while it's still warm!"

  ***

  The annoying buzzing wouldn't stop. Drake waved his arms around to shoo away whatever pesky insect was disturbing his slumber.

  The buzzing continued. Again his arms flailed. This time they struck something. There was a clink and a thud as suddenly he felt something wet. His bloodshot ice blue eyes popped open to see that he had knocked over a bottle of bourbon. Luckily he had finished most of it the night before. It was already dripping onto the floor, welling up around his toes, and was now snaking its way across the table towards the pile of books he had fallen asleep reading.

  "Dammit!" he exclaimed as his shaking hand reached out and snatched up the bottle, returning it upright. The amber liquid had almost reached his books as he scrambled to find something—anything—to mop up the mess. An old T-shirt would have to suffice. At the last moment he pushed the books back away from the approaching liquor and dropped the shirt on it to stop its advance.

  His books. He'd been reading a lot the last six months. But not for relaxation. He was studying. They say it pays to know your enemy, and he was preparing for the worst. The books were on topics of Spiritualism, Occultism, Satanism and Cults. Not a good combination to be mixing with alcohol.

  The buzzing returned. In all the excitement over the spill he'd forgotten about it. He looked around incredulously, mind still groggy from the deep alcohol induced slumber he had been enjoying only moments before. He started furiously shuffling the books around, lifting them to look beneath, until he finally found the source of his irritation. His phone was set to vibrate. The screen said Underwood. He cleared his throat before answering.

  "Chief, sorry, you—uh, you caught me in the shower. What can I do for you?"

  "Drake, I'm putting you back on active duty."

  "Uh, just like that? After all this time?"

  "Are you alright? You don't sound like yourself…"

  "I, uh, I just woke up."

  "I thought you said you just got out of the shower?"

  "Well… I did, but I had been asleep… previous to the shower…"

  "Never mind. You do want to go back on active duty, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Okay then. Get your ass over to the Coroner's office, Russell is expecting you. When you finish up there, drop in the station and pick up your badge and gun—and one more thing…"

  "Sir?"

  "Welcome back to the grind—Detective."

  The line went dead. Drake sat staring at his phone a moment then got up. He stacked all the books on the table into neat piles, then picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured the rest of it in the sink. When it was empty he held it up, and rotated it in the the air staring at it from below. He watched the last few drops as they raced around to gather at the bottom, turned and tossed it in the trash. Then he stood up straight and went to take a sorely needed shower.

  ***

  The auditorium was filled with people, and Solomon Price had their complete attention. He stood with perfect posture, his hair slicked back and a broad smile across his suntanned face. His expensive suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle to be seen.

  The spotlight followed him as he paced across the well-lit stage. He scanned the audience, stopping and placing his fingers to his lips in contemplation before moving on. His viewers were caught up in the moment, wondering if they would be the next audience member to be singled out to speak to a loved-one from beyond the grave.

  Solomon Price was a man at the top of his game. A world renowned spiritualist with his own television show. Being in front of a live audience gave him a feeling like no other, it was a rush he couldn't get enough of.

  "I'm getting a letter—an R—does your name begin with an R? Is is Robert?" he said as he pointed at a man with a straggly beard wearing an old work shirt in the audience.

  "Y-yes," stammered the man.

  "I'm getting a sense of loss from you—did you recently lose someone? Someone close to you?"

  "I-I did," he replied.

  "I'm sensing a woman, she was close to you. Was it your mother? Yes, your mother, she recently passed?"

  "T-that's right," he said looking astonished.

  "Your mother—she's here now—she wants you to know that you did right by her—that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself." The audience reacted with an awed murmur at the minor miracle that was unfolding before their eyes.

  "Your mother wants you to reach out to your sister—you do have a sister—Rebekah, isn't that right?"

  The man nodded his head in agreement.

  "She tells me you need to talk to your sister, reconcile with her. Your mother wants you to be a family again."

  The man with the beard smiled.

  "How does that make you feel Robert?" asked Solomon.

  The man stood up and his demeanor abruptly changed, he pointed an accusing finger at the spiritualist.

  "I wouldn't know, because I'm not Robert! He couldn't make it tonight and gave me his ticket! You're nothing but a fraud!"

  There was a collective gasp and then a hush fell over the audience. All eyes turned towards the spiritualist. Noticing the crowd's stares Solomon turned beet red and began stammering.

  "Uh—I, uh—I was channeling Robert's mother, she was here tonight."

  "Your name isn't even Solomon Price, I looked it up online. You're really Edward Goldberg! How can you expect us to believe you when you don't even use your real name?"

  "Look, a lot of people use a stage name, there's nothing wrong with that."

  "What you're doing to these people—it isn't right! Preying on their hopes..."

  A voice came from over Price's shoulder.

  "Shut it down, Solomon."

  Price snapped back to reality, he reached up and touched the screen of his tablet pausing the video.

  "I don't know why you torture yourself like that," said his friend and mentor, Bernie Kingmaker.

  Bernie had been his manager for nearly twenty years. Naturally, 'Kingmaker' hadn't been his given name. He'd changed it when he first got into the business. An important sounding name was a good start at being memorable. It's show business, and you needed to be larger than life if you wanted to make a splash on the scene.

  "It's all over, Bernie. They say the video has gone viral, 'Solomon Price exposed as fraud!' has over five million hits!"

  "Hey, don't let it get to you."

  "Don't let it get to me? Have you seen the things they're saying about me in the comments section?"

  "You know people have a short attention span these days. We just need to give them something new to think about—something big!"

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "You heard about that missing coed in Pennsylvania?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, they found her this morning. That's the second one in less than a month! They're calling this a serial killer. They already got a name for him 'The Heartbreaker'! This thing is going national."

  "And?"

  "And? And you need to get over there and get some of that free publicity!" said Bernie with a glow that lit up his seventy year old face.

  "What do you expect me to do? You know I can't really talk to the dead... not anymore," lamented Price.

&
nbsp; "Just show up! Offer your help, be seen around the case. Feed 'em some really generic descriptions that match the typical serial killer and then, when they catch the guy—Wham-o! You get all the credit!"

  ***

  Angela Russell was bent over the pale corpse when she heard him come in. Detective Alexander Drake—her ex-husband. It had been months since she had seen him and she was shocked to see his hair. It wasn't the unkempt sleek-black mop that usually sat on his head. Now his hair was white, solid white. He wasn't even thirty-five yet. This would take some getting used to.

  "Angela," he said.

  "Alex," she replied, trying not to stare at his hair.

  "What do you have for me?" he asked coolly.

  "I'm glad to see you back on duty. I had asked for you on the last one, but the chief finally gave in when this second victim showed up," she said nodding towards the dead girl.

  "I didn't hear much about the first one, Beth wasn't it?" he said.

  "Dixon. Beth Dixon. They were keeping it low profile—that's why he didn't want to bring you in—too much publicity. Things still haven't entirely died down from your last case."

  "I doubt they ever will..."

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "Uh, not since I've been back on duty…"

  "And, how long has that been?"

  "I'd say—about an hour."

  "Well, welcome back from suspension—and back on the wagon," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "You may want to stop for some eye drops before you head into the precinct."

  "What's her story?" Drake said, getting back to business.

  "Coed, just like the last one. Beaten pretty bad, arm broken, trauma to her spinal cord. Neck shows bruising, looks like from a large hand wrapped around her throat," Angela said as she gently turned the dead girl's head to show the size of the bruise.

  Turning the head back, she reached out with her blue gloved hand and pulled down the girl's lower eyelid. "You'll notice petechiae in the eyes. Looks like she was alive when he strangled her."

  "One thing that has me baffled," she said as she slid her hand down the dead girl's arm and stopped with her finger pointing at a small dot. "I noticed this puncture wound on her arm. I went back and checked, the other victim had a similar mark that I had overlooked."