Blackened

by Erik Henry Vick

  Owen put the rifle down and secured it to the floor of the trunk with a fancy little net. He slid into the back seat, loosening his belt as he did so. Brigitta slid onto his lap.

  LaBouche started the car, the purr of the little engine sounding like an anathema of everything good to Owen. He got them back on the freeway, headed south.

  As they got back up to speed, Mike Richard’s cruiser passed them going the opposite direction, but no one in either car noticed the other.

  11

  Scott stared into the blackness. It seemed to beckon him, to invite him to come on in and stay awhile. It tempted him in a way he’d never been tempted. He’d never have to think about what Jenny would say again. He’d never have to find out whether LaBouche killed Becky. He’d never have to learn Becky’s DNA was found in that torture chamber. All he had to do was drift away, stop making decisions… He let his eyes drift closed, relief soaring through him.

  Daddy. Daddy, look at me. It was Becky’s voice. Talking to him in his head? He cracked his eyes, head still pointed out into the night.

  Ten feet from the car was a luminous being—a luminous girl. It was hard to see her features with the bright light emanating from her pores. “Becky?” he gasped.

  Daddy, it’s okay. I’m not suffering anymore. I don’t want you to…to…to go to the dark place. It won’t help.

  “Oh, baby,” he breathed. “How can I not? You’re…you are…you’re—”

  Daddy, listen to me. These people you are with, these men…they can do something right. They can fight the demons that have tortured and murdered hundreds…thousands…I don’t know how many people. The whole town is…it’s a haven for the…the things that can make everyone see them as humans. For the demons.

  “What are you saying, Becky?”

  They need you, Daddy. They need the strong you, the decisive you. The you that stood up to the red thing back there at the shack. The you that knew bullets would do no good, but stood up and shot at it anyway, so Toby could get a little space. The you that is angry, Daddy. The you that is filled with rage that these demons may even exist here. They need you, Daddy.

  “I don’t…” How does she know Toby’s name? “I don’t feel strong anymore. Becky, I am weak, stupid. Your mother is—”

  Scott gasped when the images slammed into his mind. Images of blood, of death. Jenny lying across Mrs. Carmody as if she’d tried to shield her from something. Jenny’s back flayed to the bone, tears coating Mrs. Carmody’s face. LaBouche standing above them, leering down at them with a greedy expression on his face. LaBouche stabbing Mrs. Carmody again and again, never in a vital area, not stabbing her to kill her, but to hurt her more and more until she bled out.

  “No!” Scott screamed, bolting up in his seat. “Oh, you motherfucker!”

  “What is it?” asked Richards. “What?”

  LaBouche changing, fading away. What stood there afterward was crazy. A yellow gorilla with a V-shaped mouth. Long, strong arms. Wide mouth, rubbery lips.

  That is what LaBouche really is…what he really looks like. He’s a demon.

  Anger poured like hot lava across the surface of Scott’s mind. He wanted to be moving, fighting, killing. In his rage, he didn’t realize the last voice he’d heard inside his head had been Benny’s.

  12

  Shannon was thinking about washing her little blue car, about getting the exact right mixture of soap and water in her pretty pink bucket (not about the forest, not about the old man). Two squirts of soap, then add water from the hose—not too fast! Watch the suds, (don’t think about him—about them) don’t mix it so fast that all the bubbles form on the top of the water. Let the water do the work.

  She visualized the natural sponge she kept in water year-round so that it stayed soft (don’t picture the dog-things) exploring each nook and cranny with her mind’s eye. She thought of the chamois she’d bought from the specialty place on the internet and how it had special cleaning instructions that she’d always followed to the letter (not about the instructions about how she had to run…).

  She didn’t think about Mike (my love). Or Toby. Or even Benny (gross). She thought about cleaning and only cleaning. The rest of it was (the truth about her pitiful life) noise. No, she was the one in control.

  Shannon was in charge.

  She imagined washing the car. Starting from the driver’s side front and working her way back (don’t remember having chickenpox, don’t visualize a crisp dollar bill). Short, circular strokes, that was key. She imagined turning the corner to the back of the car (STOP). She pictured cleaning the bumper, washing it twice, just to be sure (STOP! STOP!). She would clean the brake lights with the soapy water, and come back with the Windex and make sure they shined (STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!). She would move up to the trunk—

  The trunk. The trunk slamming shut with her inside. The mustiness of old rubber and rust and the acrid funk of gasoline and old oil invading her sinuses. The trunk.

  Her mind rebelled, ran away from those thoughts, as she’d spent years training it to do.

  She’d vacuum the cockpit (haha that’s a funny word) first, paying special attention to where the edges of the floor mats left that cute little dent (the boy ohmygod the fat boy). She’d put in her winter mats—yes, it might be too soon, but better too soon than too late (too late! Too late for the boy! Too late for old Mr. Thornd—)

  No. No, she was focusing on cleaning the car. Where was I? Oh, yes, the trunk.

  The TRUNK! I’m trapped in the trunk with the boy! The fat boy. I spent his last hours holding him in contempt, refusing him comfort because he was fat and might have smelled a little. We were all alone in the trunk!

  It’s okay, Shannon. The mental voice was male.

  No! It’s not okay! My-love and Babe kidnapped us, they kept us in the trunk! They…they… GROSS! I’m not remembering anything they did! I’m thinking about CLEANING!

  Shannon, I’m here. Hold on to me. Pretend I’m Mike and hold on to me.

  We didn’t know what the sounds were. We didn’t! I was nine! The boy was only ten! We’d never heard a rifle in our young lives. How could we know? And even if we did, how could we stop Babe and My-love? They locked us in the trunk!

  Shannon, it’s okay. You were a kid, you couldn’t have done anything, and no one ever expected you to do anything.

  I should have! I should have held the fat boy. I should have screamed and kicked and bit and scratched My-love! I should have—

  SHANNON. The voice roared through her mind like a screeching 747 on take-off. The force of it cut through her thoughts about the trunk, about cleaning, about everything. It shattered the walls she’d built around herself. It’s okay, I promise.

  That voice. It wasn’t the boy’s voice. It was…it was…

  Benny. I’m Benny. I was with you at the end.

  At the end?

  With Mr. Thorndike. He saved us from Herlequin—

  DON’T SAY HIS NAME!

  —and the dog-things. He carried us out of the forest and put us in his car. Mr. Thorndike—

  He hit the dog-things with his car.

  Yes, Shannon. He fought the dog-things to save us. I was so scared I thought I’d die. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. You walked beside him while I lay there in his arms and he ran. I thought I was already dead.

  But you didn’t die. Mr. Thorndike did. And…and the boy. He died, and he left me alone. You left me alone.

  I did, and I’m sorry. I had to work through it, to process everything. My mind shut down, like a TV after Saturday morning cartoons. It just went off. Herlequin—

  Don’t say it. Don’t say his name.

  —had me for a lot longer than he had you. He played such tricks, such vile tricks on me. He made me run and run and run and run and run. He showed me the kids trapped in the—

  IN THE TREE! Oh my God, how could I forget about the tree?

  You had to forget, Shannon. Or you’d have been with me in the mental institution.

 
I guess you’re right, my lo—oh my God no! My love, babe—that’s what they called each other! That’s what—

  Shannon, open your eyes.

  What? Why?

  Open them.

  And she did. Her walls had been torn away, and she saw the world—the real world—for the first time in years. She looked at the man slumped between her and Benny. He was beautiful. She looked at Benny and felt a pang. Did I really say he smelled like an elephant? She looked at the trooper in front of her. He was sitting bolt upright in his seat, hands up by his head, fingers splayed. His fingers were shaking.

  She looked at Mike. Beautiful Mike. Perfect Mike. But he wasn’t beautiful or perfect. He was an ordinary man. She knew he didn’t love her. He wasn’t even interested in her.

  Shannon didn’t believe Mike had ever had a girlfriend, serious or otherwise. She didn’t even think he’d ever dated anyone. Well, except for Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, and Sam Adams.

  Of course, he’s never dated a woman. Mike is gay. Duh. He told himself the lie that he’d kept it a secret, but everyone knew. Everyone except poor, dumb Shannon Bertram. But she’d known. That’s why she’d set her cap for him.

  She groaned. She’d pursued him because he was safe. Because he would never take her up on it. Never ask her out. Never want more of her than she was willing to give. Never love her. Never want her.

  Memories of pretending they were lovers flashed through her mind. Each imagined “my love” and “babe” made her want to vomit. The way she’d preened when he paid her the slightest attention. Why the hell would I play out scenes between the man and woman—no, fuck that—between Owen Gray and his girlfriend? Why would my mind hold that as an ideal? That’s…

  “Gross,” she said. She looked at Benny, his eyes remained closed, but he wasn’t asleep. He’d saved her from spending the rest of her life as a zombie. She owed him.

  She owed him a lot.

  Plus, under all that hair, he was kind of cute.

  13

  Drew dreamed:

  He was a boy, running and running from something. He didn’t know what was chasing him, but if it caught him, he would be d-e-a-d, dead. His feet felt mired in thick, sucking mud, and each step got harder and harder to take.

  Something breathed behind him. It sounded like the bear he’d seen on that show, Grizzly Adams. It huffed and chuffed, hot breath washing across his neck.

  Up ahead, a woman solidified out of the mist. He recognized her but who she was evaded him. Friend? Foe? He veered away from her, not seeing her fade back into the mist.

  He ran through Thousand Acre Wood, his feet throbbing, his ankles scraped and cut, his cheap K-Mart tennis shoes sloshing with blood. The small of his back felt like Muhammed Ali had used him for a speed bag.

  Up ahead, the woman solidified out of the mist again. She held up a hand, palm toward the sky as if inviting him to come to her. “Who are you?” he screamed. She recoiled as if he’d slapped her and disappeared with a pop.

  On he ran, ever forward, each step jarring his teeth together with a bone-aching clack. The thing behind him sounded like it was laughing at him, delighting in his suffering. Two tentacles shot past his head, one on either side and slammed together in front of his face, horn-like claws coming together with a sound like a hammer on stone. “Who are you?” he screamed, and the chuffing laughter got louder.

  The woman appeared out of the mist, this time off to his left. She beckoned him with one hand and pointed past herself with her other one. She looked so familiar it made his heart ache. “Toby,” she called. “Toby, dear, run faster.”

  The sound of her voice hurt him to hear, but at the same time, it felt like coming in out of a fierce winter wind. “Muh-mom?”

  She smiled at him, a perfect study of beatitude. Her eyes seemed to blaze with happiness. “Run,” she mouthed without sound.

  He veered toward the woman, sprinting with new-found determination, but once again, she dissolved into the mist. Why won’t she stay with me? his mind shouted. I need her help!

  “No one can help you, sport.” The new voice was also familiar, but instead of warm feelings, it invoked frigid terror.

  He ran on and on, abrading his skin on the bark of trees, vines with vicious thorns vexed his ankles, both drawing fresh blood. His lungs burned and ached. His eyes filled with tears. What’s the use of running? I can’t get away.

  “No, you run, Toby! You run for me!” It was the woman’s voice, he was sure of it, but he didn’t associate it with the loving, caring tone with which she now spoke.

  Ahead, the forest thinned. A murky gray light filtered through the trunks, washing out the dark shadows. He dug deep, into a reserve he didn’t know he had, and increased his pace, the muscles in his legs shrieking in protest, the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

  “No!” shouted the awful bear-like voice behind him. “Don’t you do it, boyo! Don’t you even think it! Not again! Never again!”

  A heavy tentacle slapped down on his shoulder like a dead fish. It reeked of sewer and decay and burnt meat. He swept it off his shoulder, counting on adrenaline for strength. He jigged to the right, juked back left, and, as he approached the edge of the forest, dove toward the gray light of dawn.

  The thing behind him screeched, the sound of it almost drove Toby insane, the volume of it tearing at his eardrums. “Not again!” the thing screamed.

  Toby wanted to laugh, to cry for the woman in the mist, to scream in triumph, to sink to the grass and fall asleep, all at once.

  Instead, Toby woke up.

  14

  Beside him, Benny sat up straight and cleared his throat.

  “What’s happening?” Toby asked in a blurry voice.

  “Mike knocked the demon out,” said Benny.

  “With a lot of help,” said Mike.

  “He’s in the trunk,” grunted Trooper Lewis, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

  Toby turned in his seat and looked at Shannon. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Toby Burton.”

  “Shannon Bertram.”

  “You remember now?” asked Benny, voice cracking like an excited kid’s.

  “Yeah. Well, I remember Oneka Falls. Not sure what other goodies my mind is hiding from me.”

  Benny shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing.”

  Toby glanced at him. “I had a nightmare—or whatever you call a nightmare when you’re knocked out by demon poison.”

  Benny nodded and looked out the window.

  “What was it about?” asked Shannon.

  “I was running through Thousand Acre Wood. Being chased by a demon. A woman—” His voice cracked. “I think it was my mom. She kept appearing out of the mist, guiding me. Helping me. When I got away, I woke up.”

  “I, uh…I had a dream, too,” said Lewis. “I was…well, I was circling the drain that leads to the nuthatch.” He glanced back at Benny, blushing. “Sorry.” Benny didn’t appear to have heard either comment. “I saw…” His throat worked, and his jaw muscles clenched. “Maybe I dreamed it?”

  “No,” said Benny. “It wasn’t a dream.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in everyone else’s mind,” grumbled Lewis. “Anyway, my…my daughter, she…she was…She…she was made of light—warm, golden light. She told me…things, showed me things.” He turned in the seat and pinned Toby with a glare. “Tell me what LaBouche looks like.”

  “What he wants you to see or what I see?”

  “What you see.”

  Toby took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Well, he’s what I call a ‘weird.’ He’s yellow like a—”

  “A weird?” asked Shannon.

  “Yeah. There are three main kinds of demons—at least from what I’ve seen. There are your ‘traditional’ demons. They look like what you hear about in the bible or religious paintings. Then you’ve got your ‘undead’ demons. That’s self-explanatory, black, rotting skin that hangs loose, claws instead of fingers, weeping pustules, dry hair.
Ugly as—”

  “And the weirds?” asked Lewis with an edge to his voice.

  “Yeah. Well, they are…weird. Their appearance is truly alien. Like LaBouche or Red Bortha back there. No two of them look alike.”

  “And LaBouche?” demanded Lewis.

  “LaBouche is a big, yellow gorilla. Chartreuse eyes; wide, V-shaped mouth; gross, rubbery lips, two slits over his mouth for a nose; teeth like a shark’s that stick out of his mouth.”

  “Gross,” said Shannon.

  “That’s what I…what Becky showed me. It must be true, then. All of it.” Lewis slumped in his seat, facing forward.

  Toby glanced at Benny, but he was still staring out the window. “All of what?” Toby asked.

  “The bastard murdered my Jenny after we left,” Lewis said in an emotionless monotone. “Mrs. Carmody, too. He killed them all.” Shannon leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Thanks,” he said. “Buh-Becky also said you four needed me. That I had to stick around.” He said the last sentence at just above a whisper, but even so, everyone in the car heard him.

  “We do,” said Shannon with another squeeze of his shoulder. “Each of us,” she began, looking at Mike’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “We’re all broken in our own way. Each of us used our own methods to forget, to keep the horror of 1979 at bay.” Mike glanced at her, and she smiled. “I was the worst. I built an entire fantasy world around myself to keep me safe from the memories.” She shook her head. “I incorporated parts of my kidnapping into that fantasy, though. It was sick.”

  “It’s okay, Shannon,” said Benny. “We’re here with you now.”

  She glanced over at him and smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Above his matted beard, Benny blushed.

  “One of you will have to tell me what happened to you as kids,” said Lewis. “But first, what are we going to do with Red Bortha?”

  Toby cleared his throat. “It isn’t pretty, but I’ve learned through trial and error how to kill one of these things. Or at least how to make them leave our plane of existence. I’m not sure they ever really die.”

  “Tell us,” said Mike.