Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller

by David C. Cassidy

  And wasn’t it a bitch to breathe. God knew he had tried to ignore that horrible stink.

  But he couldn’t any longer.

  He didn’t want to—he had tried to convince himself that vile rot was just his imagination—but he turned to the sandwich on the seat beside him. The one he’d thrown together not a half hour ago. It had a few bites out of it, but he didn’t remember eating it.

  Sure as shit he didn’t eat that.

  The bread was green with mold. He peeled it back, barely pinching it between two fingers. The ham was an even darker hue of that sickly green. It stank to High Heaven.

  Ben groaned. In one quick motion, he scooped up the mess, wax paper and all, and tossed it outside. An unsettling pang struck his gut, his stomach coming. He barely made it out of the cab before he threw up.

  Still queasy, he unzipped his fly and relieved his bladder over the mess. He was carrying a full load already; he usually did whenever things got to him. And right now, things were crawling all over him. He hoped—prayed—that all of it was all in his head.

  What the hell?

  His eyes widened, and he pinched himself off and zipped up. He straightened his Yankees cap, then took a quick step back. Though his headlamps beamed away from him, the incidental light was enough as he took in a small patch of the cornfield. The dry summer had pretty well screwed everyone over for the fall harvest, but this? He was barely seventeen, but he’d seen his share of crop damage in those years, mostly from drought, a lot from hail and frost and disease. Two years ago it was stink-bugs. This was something else; something he was pretty sure nobody had ever seen, at least not in these parts. The stalks were streaked black, had turned brittle and rotten. The leaves were curled and gray and had hideous dark splotches that looked a lot like the worst leaf blight. The silks were all dried out.

  He stepped down into the depression beside the road for a closer look. When he bent a stalk, it folded with the gentlest pressure; the part at the break turned a fine brown chalk in his fingers. He splayed open an ear, found the inside brown and rotted and filled with dead earworms, and in a panic threw it down in disgust. He staggered back onto the road. His mind reeled. It was as if something had sucked the last drop of water from the entire crop, from its very roots. A single match would likely send the whole caboodle up in flames in an instant.

  It wasn’t like this … not yesterday, anyhow.

  His nostrils flared. He sniffed. Even the air stank. Kind of like a dump. It held a thickness, like the stale air in an attic … the deadness of years.

  Something had happened. Something awful.

  He knew that as sure as—

  Ben whirled round, his noodle-legs not liking the idea at all, and he hobbled as fast as he could to the cab. He reached for the radio and turned up the volume, just in time to hear the music fade.

  The DJ, Bill Hadden from KWMT 540 in Fort Dodge, started in on his rock-and-roll listeners about how he was feeling kinda jazzed, folks, a little out there, and as the radio man rambled, readying the spin of the next record, Ben realized that what he’d been thinking just had to be downright crazy. Deep dark bullshit. But everything in him told him no. This was all steak, no sizzle.

  He didn’t know how, it was crazy, but he knew. Knew what the old 540 was going to play next.

  He waited for it, and just when he thought that maybe, please, God help him, he was wrong—of course, he didn’t really believe that, not for a second—there it spun, a sweet one from Phil and Don, the brothers Everly … “All I Have To Do Is Dream.”

  Ben silenced them; switched the radio right off. His pulse quickened, and his throat dried up. He swallowed something hard.

  It was just like before … when he kept having all those nightmares about Beaks and the drifter … all those crazy things swimming around in his head. Like now. Like—

  Like a dream that was real.

  He backed up a step, his mind stirring.

  Was that shit with the Ghost really true?

  All this time he had wanted to believe it. It was easier than fighting it, trying to tell himself that those terrifying dreams—every night now—were nothing more. But when he got down to it, when the real Ben Caldwell had to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and stare into the black eyes of that sleepless zombie staring back at him, it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. Even if it was (and it wasn’t, it wasn’t), the guy was miles from here, so how could—

  He remembered … something. It was driving him crazy. Screaming inside his brain. He turned round and limped past the stop to the middle of the intersection, and not knowing what else to do, stared into the darkness, down the east road toward the Hembruff farm.

  There. Something happened there. Or—

  No. At Rye’s place.

  He whipped round. Yeah. He’d been heading that way. That’s when he saw it in the rear-view.

  The fire.

  He passed a truck—

  No. Wait.

  A car. He was sure of it. Or maybe—

  He didn’t know why, but he hobbled round his vehicle, checking the body, checking the paint. He came all the way around to the front again, and then, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, ran his fingers along the grille and the hood.

  Not a scratch on his baby.

  But … Jeeze-Louise … didn’t he hit a ditch?

  It came to him. And it nearly scared him to death.

  A black car.

  Cold gripped him. His arms and his neck ran with gooseflesh. His mind spun. He stood there, unable to move, unable to stand the horrors ramming through his brain. Then, slowly, not really telling himself to do so, he brought his throwing hand to his face, and with a trembling finger—terrified he might scream—touched that tiny soft spot right between his eyes.

  And screamed.

  ~ 2

  The mechanic set his cargo in the grass beside him, and as he did, something cold stirred him. He ran his fingers along the wood handle of the gas can. It was strange, but he didn’t remember carrying it. Damn strange.

  He felt strange.

  Was it this dark a minute ago?

  He hunkered down and peered out from behind the oak. Things were fuzzy. His eyes itched like a bastard. He rubbed them hard. A little better.

  The porch light was on. There were lights on in two of the bedrooms, but from the look of it, the drifter had turned in early. Either that or the cocky sonofabitch was inside with his wife. And if that were the case, well, Heaven help the both of them. They could watch each other bleed.

  He moved up in the gully but quickly drew back.

  The leaves on the oak were dead. All of them.

  But not just dead—not fall dead, anyway, it was still July for Chrissake—but strange dead. Strange as hell. Like how it shouldn’t have been so dark right now, the leaves shouldn’t be dead this way. Dead, period.

  Leaf blight? Not like any he’d ever seen. They were all curled up. Holes in them. Dark splotches everywhere. He reached out to touch one and quickly drew his hand back. He couldn’t explain why, but he was afraid of how it might feel to the touch. Besides, they were sick, and whatever had done this to them might do it to him. Still, he did brave the task, and instead of the thing crackling apart in his fingers as it should have, it crumbled to dust.

  He knelt. The grass was black straw. He snatched a handful, and it came undone in that same fine powder.

  He drew about, all around him. His eyes grew and grew as he took it all in. All the wildflowers, all the weeds … dead.

  The air was dead, too. There was something about it he didn’t take to. A kind of dump stink, a foul odor that was just at the edge of what he could tease from it. Garbage rot. Or plant rot, maybe. But it was there, sure as shit. He sniffed deeply. It was.

  He swallowed. His throat was a dry bone. He felt a little sick to his stomach. He never knew that his face was deeply sunburned, had turned a hideous mess of blistered skin. The tissue about his scar had peeled away and was now a long open sore.

>   His head was a jumble of rolling dice. He couldn’t focus. All those voices. All of them chattering at once, all saying different things. Crazy things.

  Do THIS, Ray. Do THAT, Ray—

  Walk round in a circle, Ray—

  NO! GET OUTTA MY HEAD!

  Yet he walked. He walked purposefully, moving about the trunk as if there were nothing more pressing, as if he were helpless against their will. Only when one of them screamed for him to hop on one foot did he stop, cupping his mouth in terror. He slipped down behind the tree and threw his back against it. His heart pounded as he broke a cold sweat; his body trembled. He shut his eyes and held his hands to his ears, and prayed to God they would leave him.

  Still he heard them.

  GET ON WITH IT, the Voice bellowed. There was only the one now, the one, angry as sin, as dark as the night around him. He almost cried, it scared him so much.

  And then it was gone.

  For now, he thought. For now.

  ~

  He kept low as he crossed the yard. The dead grass crumbled underfoot, as if he were walking on sand. He rounded the far side of the guesthouse, then drew his switchblade and splayed it with a flick of the wrist. All it would take was one quick slit—in his mind’s eye he saw the blade drawing across the drifter’s throat—and then he could really get down to business.

  He crept round the front and stayed low. He regarded the cracked window. Huh. He never did get around to fixing the damn thing. Not that he gave a crap. Fuckin’ shack.

  He risked a peek inside. The bed was slept in but empty. Disappointed but not disheartened, he turned to the farmhouse.

  A chill rippled through him.

  Champ sat not five feet from him, dead still. His coat was all matted. The porch light shimmered in his glassy golden eyes. Dark, crusted pus clung below them. He looked sick. The thing just sat there, dumb as a stump, staring at him.

  No. Through him. As if it didn’t even see him.

  He shooed it silently with the knife, but the thing didn’t so much as twitch a whisker. It was barely breathing. Its eyes were all shiny, creepy as creepy got. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought it dead.

  He watched it a moment, praying it would run off, and when it didn’t, he moved up apprehensively. He nudged it with his boot, then backed off as if it might explode.

  Nothing.

  He leveled it with a solid kick to its head. The animal squealed an awful sound, something so shrill it both scared and delighted him. Still, even lying there on its side like a log, all it could do was stare that dead stare. It creeped him out. Either its brain was fried, or it didn’t have one.

  “Crazy fucker,” he whispered, a little anxiously, and crushed its skull with his heel. It was a fine sound.

  Ray Bishop looked up, into the dark. It had always scared him, the dark, and it scared him now, more than ever. He feared he might slip into that abyss, lose himself to the night. He wanted to go, but it wanted to kill.

  He rubbed his burning eyes. Things were still dull and gauzy. He turned to the farmhouse. He folded his knife and slid it back in his pocket. And then, like the good little boy that he was, he listened to the Voice … and headed back for the gas.

  ~

  He skulked along the gully and made his way round the house. He slipped behind the tool shed, and as he placed a hand upon it, remembered fondly how he had taken Marge Bonner over his wheelbarrow, those huge jugs a-jiggling (they grew to fucking pumpkins), gagged so she couldn’t scream. He also remembered, quite fondly, how he had taken his little girl the very same way. Right here in this fine shed.

  The light was on in the kitchen. Dishes littered the table, but there was no sign of that wife he knew as bitch. No sign of lover boy.

  —sing us a song, Ray, sing us a song—

  He strangled that voice; killed it dead. Killed it before it took him and drove him insane.

  Fuck. The damn mutt was out. It stood below the window, sniffing the air, shaking its head as if the stench sickened it. It sneezed twice. It clawed at a patch of grass. The stuff turned to dust, and it sniffed the remains. It was an old dog, sure, but there was nothing wrong with its sniffer. Still, the game soured quickly, and so it squatted down for a grand dump. Ray waited for it to finish. Already he had rock in one hand, knife in the other.

  He whispered for the animal. The shepherd’s ears perked up as it backed off.

  “Here, Beaks.”

  The dog raised its head as he slipped out from behind the shed. It remembered him; it drew back. He put out his hand and offered the prized rock.

  “Here, boy. Nice juicy bone for y—”

  The animal turned away, just enough for its eyes to catch the light from the window. They were piss-yellow globes, scarred all to shit with bloodshot. The thing looked as fucked up as the cat. Maybe worse.

  The dog looked like it might bolt, and when it started to turn he whispered its name sharply. The harsh tone was enough; the tough lessons of the past had been imparted well. The animal whimpered weakly, then turned and lumbered toward him with its head down. As if it had simply accepted its fate.

  Maybe it knows, he thought. But that was just crazy.

  He led the beast with his hand, coaxing it behind the shed. That familiar rush swept him like a great wave; he was almost giddy. He dropped the rock, and as the shepherd sniffed at it, at that moment—the moment—he let the current take him, and drove the blade into its spine. The animal yelped pitifully, staggering on its old and tired legs, and just as he drew the knife free it managed to lash out with open jaws and snap its fangs into his left leg. The pain screamed, he wanted to scream with it, but the Voice screamed louder, told him NO; the other voices fled. He fell hard on his rear, the razors tearing into his flesh, and in one flourishing charge that opened his heart and lifted his soul, he impaled the beast through its brain.

  Ray Bishop sat in the dark, bleeding. Gently, he stroked the dog’s fur.

  He was humming.

  ~ 3

  Lynn Bishop opened her eyes. They still itched, still burned just a little.

  How dark the room was; she would have sworn she’d been lying down for only a few minutes. She found the lamp switch and checked the clock on her night table. It was only now getting on half-past nine—that seemed just about right—but as she sat up and regarded the window, it looked more like midnight. She thought she had dozed off and that the clock had wound down, but when she listened closely, heard the muted, steady tick of its inner workings.

  She called for her daughter. The poor thing hadn’t been the same since Jimmy Long’s disappearance, they all hadn’t, really, and for some strange reason, she had to know she was close. There was no reply, and she called out again, and when the girl responded through the wall, she felt an inexplicable gush of relief. Lee-Anne asked what she wanted, asked her twice, in fact, and she told her to never mind.

  Her muscles ached. She still felt queasy. She had made herself a refreshing lemonade after dinner, taking up in the swing to enjoy it (hoping a certain someone might join her if she waited long enough), and the discomfort had come. At first she had ignored it as gas, but it had persisted, turning and churning in her stomach. She had thrown up, yet even at that it was the splitting headache that had forced her to lie down … for what she was certain could not have been more than five minutes.

  She went to the window. The sky was black and lovely with the glitter of stars. She could see a light on up the road at her parent’s home. The guesthouse was dark.

  She grimaced. The room was rank, strongly mildewy, not unlike the stench of water in a vase that has grown old and dead from neglect. She turned to her dresser.

  The flowers in the bouquet there were dead.

  She had changed the water just this morning. Now it was a thick, green-brown soup. The rose petals were wilted, dead of disease; dark black spots had taken them, had made them look so old. The stems and leaves were streaked black. Even at their worst, she had never seen plants s
o … so … poisoned.

  It was the only word she could think of.

  She moved to the dresser. Hesitantly, she poked one of the petals with a delicate touch. It left a small impression in the petal. A trace of dark brown powder speckled the tip of her finger. She studied it a moment, quite uncertain of what it was, and then, in a mild panic, blew it off. Suddenly, she didn’t want it touching her.

  —Now’s the moment, Now’s the time—

  She couldn’t remember the rest. Why it had popped into her head like that, she couldn’t know. It was as if—

  A sharp rap at her door. A second. A third.

  “Ma?”

  Lynn opened it, just a crack. She wanted nothing more than to lie down until morning. The dishes could wait. The world could.

  “What is it, honey.”

  “Rye wants you. Didn’t you hear him? Ma? Ma.”

  Ryan called again. His voice was cold and hurried, and this time she heard.

  “Coming.”

  “You okay?”

  The truth was, she didn’t know. Her mind was a jumble. Something stirred in her, and yet she could not place what it was. Thoughts—images, really—were there and gone, as if swept away in a whirlwind—

  —a storm—

  Her eyes widened as she opened the door. She brushed by her daughter and headed for the stairs. As she put her hand on the railing, she stopped. She saw the steps and fell dizzy. She saw herself falling, tumbling head over foot. The sensation was overwhelming.

  “Ma?”

  Lynn grasped the railing. Slowly, she started down.

  ~

  She met her son in the kitchen. He stood over the supper table with his back to her.

  “Ryan?”

  He shifted uneasily. Motioned with his hand.

  Lynn followed his lead, and her heart skipped. She had served up a fine meal of corn casserole and some ham, the main dish a delicious saffron blend of corn and bacon with onions and peppers. But what they hadn’t finished was now a tray of slick green slime. The small slab of ham was hideous and discolored rot. The unfinished foods on their plates were dark and decayed, and the bread she had baked just yesterday was now a half-eaten loaf of mold. The milk in their drinking glasses, so too the contents of the one-quart bottle in the middle of the table, had turned bitter and yellow and as thick as cream. The room reeked of spoil.