9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #23
© Copyright 2017 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.
Edited by A.R. Jesse
Cover Art by Turtle&Noise
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First electronic edition 2017
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9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #23
Table of Contents
THE EIGHT OF CUPS by Erica Bogosian
THE MISSIONAIRES by Edward Ahern
PITTER by Sara Green
SMILE by Alison Whewell
LET IT RING by Simon McHardy
WISH HUNT by George Strasburg
THE FORGOTTEN FEAR by Shane Porteous
MY HAUNTED ROOM by Devin Strasburg
OUIJA by Anddre Valdivia
NEED MORE HORROR IN YOUR DIET?
THE EIGHT OF CUPS by Erica Bogosian
Amy halts her motorcycle outside the mechanic’s shop, her backpack a heavy weight on her shoulders, gnats humming around her in the golden late afternoon light. There are several cars and trucks in the yard, none of them new, and another in the garage. Key’s Automotive, say the large block leathers on the sign, and the air smells deeply of exhaust and hot metal. Despite listening intently, Amy hears only the faintest whispers of undead presence.
Wheeling the motorcycle into through the gate, Amy parks it near a battered pickup truck. Bright sunbeams stream down on what looks like an empty yard, but there’s music coming from the office, lilting and country. “Hello?” shouts Amy, and hefts her pack up.
No response. Amy walks into the garage, approaching the office; the Plexiglas door is open, dusty, and reflecting the setting sun. “Hey!” she calls, squinting.
“Sorry!” says a smooth Southern drawl. Chair legs squeak against linoleum, and a man appears in the doorway, smiling apologetically. “Didn’t hear you pull up.”
He’s tall and broad-chested under a smudged white tank top, his orange-gold curls pulled up into a messy bun. Heat rises in Amy that has nothing to do with the Georgia sun. “Hi,” she says, uncomfortably aware of the circles under eyes, the greasiness of her long black hair.
“Hey.” The man sticks the pen he was holding behind his ear. “What can I do you for?”
Amy nods back over at her motorcycle, its black and chrome looking particularly shiny in the present setting. “Do you do bikes?”
“Hmm.” He frowns over at her motorbike. “I can take a look at it, but I’m no expert.”
Amy squints up at him, an uneasy knot tightening in her stomach. “Can’t hurt, can it?”
He smiles, eyes crinkling, and holds out one only slightly dirty hand. “Darren Fairfax. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Amy stares down at his offered hand, debating for what feels like a very long two seconds whether to shake it. Eventually she does, feeling rough calluses and smooth burns under her skin. “Amy Bhan.”
His eyes linger on her face, and for a second she expects flattery, something inane like, “That’s a pretty name.” But instead, he releases her hand and says, “What’s wrong with the bike?”
“It’s all fucked, it won’t drive straight,” she says as they walk over. “Can’t figure it out, the wheels seem okay.”
Head tilted speculatively, Darren bends over the bike. Amy can’t help scowling in frustrated desperation; without her motorcycle working she is pinned down, immobilized. She counts herself lucky she was only a few miles away from civilization when it started having problems, but she can’t afford to stay put for long.
“It might be the handlebars…” he says, leaning over for a different view. “Well, I’ll take a poke at it tomorrow, and if I can’t figure it out the other mechanic’ll be here in a couple days, and he knows bikes a lot better. That okay?” Darren straightens and smiles down at her, easy and charming.
Amy’s pulse quickens traitorously. But as if in response to the warming of her skin, cold breath ghosts over the back of her neck. The spirit’s presence is too faint for words, and Amy does her best to ignore it, praying it’s not here for her –
“Sure,” says Amy, gritting her teeth, and hands over the keys. “That’s fine.”
The motel lobby is small, smells of cigarette smoke, and is wallpapered the color of dry, dry dust. Behind the counter, the clerk looks at her ID suspiciously. “Amy Bhan?” he says, pronouncing her last name like he thinks it’ll bite him.
“That’s me.”
The clerk can’t be much older than she is, with lingering acne and a scraggly goatee. “How long’re you stayin’ for?”
Amy hesitates, calculating what Darren told her. “Three days,” she says. “But it might need to be longer, I don’t know.” She really hopes not.
In her peripheral hearing, a baby starts crying, so faint she can’t tell if it’s a ghost or alive. Amy stiffens, praying it’s not Tucker, one hand white-knuckling on her backpack strap. She needs her room, needs to get inside so she can pull out the whiskey bottle and drink –
The clerk – Jason, by his nametag – is still watching her through narrowed eyes as he types her name into the computer one letter at a time. “All right, ma’am,” he says. “That’ll be ninety-six dollars. Cash or credit?”
The wad of bills she pulls out leaves her wallet depressingly thin. It does not make Jason regard her any more confidently, but at least he accepts the money and gives her the room key. She’s barely inside before she’s dropped her backpack onto the bed with a thump, digging out the bottle of cheap convenience store whiskey. It burns like penance going down her throat. For a long moment afterwards, she listens, waiting, but there is no sound of either Tucker or Travis.
Not yet, at least.
Amy wakes with a dull, pounding head and a mouth like ash. Money, she needs money – both for the motel and to pay Darren.
It’s a strange Southern town she’s stranded in. The windows and door of the church on the corner feel like empty eyes, watching her; the convenience store where she buys soda and chips is a liminal space, unreal in brassy sunlight; the nearby river is sluggish and the color of metal in between banks of golden-brown grass and brown-gray trees. The heat is damp and glaring; sweat gathers at Amy’s temples as she reaches the local cemetery and swings off her backpack. Just outside the entrance gate, she settles herself with her mat spread out in front of her, tarot cards ready to be dealt. Cemeteries tend to be lucrative; lots of people looking for guidance or to talk to dead relatives.
Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of passerby, and the few people who do come to the cemetery – a young couple with a bouquet of white lilies, an old woman with a limp, a brown-haired man holding the hand of his young son – steadfastly ignore Amy. Closing her eyes, she tips her head back against the wrought iron fence and listens to the hum of cicadas in the trees above her. They’re loud, loud enough that she can ignore the spirits at her back –
“‘Scuse me,” says a child’s voice, in front of her. “Are you a witch?”
Opening her eyes, Amy sees the boy who had accompanied his father into the graveyard. He’s older than Tucker would have been, b
y a few years, but Amy still feels the painful wrench in her gut. “No,” she says. “I just read cards.” Forcing herself, she adds, “And talk to ghosts.”
“Oh.” The boy has a knuckle in his mouth, round blue eyes, and mousy brown hair. He rocks nervously from foot to foot, and Amy waits for him to ask his question. “Can you talk to Mommy?”
Again, that awful twisted feeling. “Sure,” says Amy, keeping her voice controlled. “Is she here?” and points over her shoulder to the graveyard.
Still gnawing on a finger, the boy nods.
“All right.” Closing her eyes again, Amy takes a breath to center herself. Travis and Tucker can’t be here yet; there’s no way, she hasn’t been in one place long enough. It should be okay. Ignoring the sick feeling in her gut, Amy reaches out to the ghosts of the cemetery. They swarm fitfully around her, a couple reaching out desperately for human contact. Hey, says Amy, and concentrates on an image of the little boy. I’m looking for his mother –
“Sam?” shouts a man, behind her. “Sam!”
Coming back to her surroundings, Amy sees the father rush out of the graveyard, shoulders slumping in relief as he locates his son. He immediately scoops Sam up, and only then does he seem to notice Amy, a frown creasing his face. “What were you telling him?”
Amy stares back up at the man, stone-faced. “He wanted to speak to his mother.”
The man’s hands tighten convulsively on his son. “Look,” he says, with forced calm. “You’re very young. Someday you’ll understand why you shouldn’t give him false hope like that.”
A tight, unfriendly smile stretches Amy’s lips. “False hope,” she repeats.
The man’s frown deepens. “Yes –”
“Do you talk to ghosts? Do you hear your loved ones in the back of your mind, whispering your guilt at you over and over and over and over –”
Paling, he draws back a little, holding Sam protectively. “I’m sorry, I don’t –”
“Then shut the hell up.” There is a taste of sour iron on Amy’s tongue and a heaviness in her stomach. She’s tempted to spill everything, unload her entire dark past and make that someone else’s burden for once; he already hates her, she might as well deserve it. But it sticks in her throat.
The man looks as if he wants to say something, but then seems to think better of it, and hurries off with Sam in his arms. Amy watches him leave, ghosts dimly pressing against the back of her mind. She’s never spoken to Travis or Tucker, never caught more than a brief touch; she knows what she’ll find if she does. Souls that die in trauma never rest easy, and she’ll drive to the ends of the earth if it means keeping them at bay, drink herself senseless first…
She should have never come to the cemetery. Packing up her things, Amy gets to her feet and starts walking back into town.
By that afternoon, she hasn’t had a call from Darren, so she heads over to the mechanic’s. At first, she doesn’t see him, but then she notices the pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from under a jacked-up car. “Hey,” says Amy, walking over, and nudges him in the shin with her foot.
Darren slides out from under the car and – all right, he looks really good on his back, hair still pulled into a messy bun, dirt smudged on his face, wearing a faded blue t-shirt so worn it clings to the lines of his well-muscled chest. Amy swallows hard, hoping he doesn’t notice her flush. “Amy,” he says, and sits up. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“Did you find what’s wrong with my bike?”
“Ah, no,” Darren says, shamefaced, rubbing the back of his neck with one broad hand. “I can’t tell. But Todd should be here tomorrow, he’ll figure it out.”
“Shit,” says Amy, cold panic spreading through her. She can’t afford to stay any longer, they’ll catch up – “All right. Call me when he does.”
“Will do.”
If she can’t run, there’s the bottle of whiskey in her pack. And sex, too, drives the ghosts away. It’s hard to hear them through the pulse of blood in her ears and overwhelmed senses. The harder, the rougher the better, hoarse cries and hands fisting on sweaty sheets.
“So where are you traveling from?” asks Darren as he gets to his feet.
The question feels like an ice cube slipping down into her stomach. Amy forces a nonchalant snort. “Is it that obvious I’m not a local?”
His laugh is quick and sharp. “I know it’s a cliché about small towns that you know everyone in them, but… it’s true.” Darren gives her a wry look. “Especially when it comes to people in your age group.”
She focuses on Darren, on his fiery hair and broad hands. “Not much of a social life, huh?”
Darren groans in mock-despair, tilting his head back. “Listen, there’s only so many times you can go to the same bar with the same four people before it starts getting really old.”
Back home in their little trailer park community, Amy had all of two friends she hung out with on a regular basis, not counting Travis. “Yeah, I can imagine.”
She drinks herself to sleep, flushed and uncomfortable in the sticky humidity. But when she wakes in the early morning with a gasp, sure, she heard Travis calling her name, it’s in a cold sweat.
“Stop it,” mutters Amy frantically, reaching for the whiskey bottle. “Go away, go away, please –”
Amy –
Her fingers seize around glass and she brings it to her lips, drinking straight from the bottle. Her throat burns, heat going straight to her head, and she gasps a little, vision going briefly out of focus. The lightheadedness passes and she waits one breath, two breaths, three… and there’s no sound of ghosts, no whispers or murmurs.
Breath shaky, Amy pushes sweaty hair out of her face before dropping her head into her hands. “Fuck,” she says softly, and groans, rubbing her eyes. She’s half-tempted to grab the hotel phone and call Darren, demand he fix her bike right now, but judging by the greyness of the light it’s still before dawn. He’s probably not even awake.
But by the end of the day, Amy resolves, she needs to see him.
She still needs money.
Amy spends the morning in front of the local supermarket, reading tarot card fortunes, until a cop shows up to chase her away for “soliciting without a permit.” She knows better than to resist; if he decides to arrest her, there’s no escape from Travis and Tucker.
Well, she’ll try her luck at the local gas station, then. But on the walk there, Amy swings by Key’s Automotive.
When he sees her, Darren’s face creases apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says, almost as soon as Amy’s asked about the bike. “Todd’s been delayed, he won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Sorry,” he adds quickly, as Amy can’t help grimacing. “I really am. Let me make it up to you?”
The sun gleams on Darren’s hair, glints off the stubble on his jaw; even with the heat he’s barely glistening, something Amy, who has sweat collecting under her armpits and breasts, bitterly resents. He probably smells of grease and aftershave and maybe salt and Amy wants him to take her so thoroughly she forgets her own name. “Sure,” she says, cautious. “How?”
Hands in his pockets, he shrugs, looking around the yard in a blatant attempt to appear casual. “I’ll take you out for coffee?”
“I’m not really a coffee drinker.” But before his face can fall, Amy continues, “I’ll take something stronger, though.”
Darren smiles like the sun rising, his grin widening, laughter lines around his eyes crinkling. “I finish work at seven,” he says.
And so that’s how they end up sitting in rusty lawn chairs by Darren’s office under a silver-disk moon, drinking beers and passing back and forth a bag of popcorn. It is cooler than the days have been, but not by much, and the air is heavy with humidity. There are scattered ghosts, but the beer is good, some kind of foreign brew that goes down smooth and keeps her body warm and her head fuzzy.
“I saw you by the gas station, earlier,” says Darren. His profile is silver-edged in the moonlight. “Is
that how you make a living? Reading fortunes?”
Amy takes a swig of her beer. “Yeah, mostly. Sometimes I talk to ghosts.”
“Oh.” Darren looks down at her, wide-eyed. “That sounds difficult. Emotionally, I mean.”
A hysterical laugh almost bubbles out of Amy and she chokes it down. “Sometimes it is, yeah.”
“How long have you been able to do that?”
“Always? Or at least, as long as I can remember. Was talking to ghosts before I even knew they were ghosts.” And it was fine, mostly. She liked it. Until she became the reason two of those ghosts were there.
Darren chuckles into his beer. “So you’re like the kid from The Sixth Sense.”
“Sure, just not as cute and way less whiney.”
The moon drifts higher in the sky as the levels in the bottles and popcorn bag dip lower. Darren’s knee nudges against hers, and then again, and Amy’s almost positive it’s intentional. She nudges back, and is rewarded with a smile pulling up the corner of Darren’s mouth as he takes another sip of his beer.
It’s on.
“So, do you have a destination, or are you just wandering?” asks Darren.
“Just wandering.”
His knee bumps into hers, and this time doesn’t move away. Darren looks over at her, eyes and stubble glinting silver. “Any particular reason why?”
Amy shivers involuntarily, fingers clutching her bottle, and hopes Darren doesn’t notice. “Nah, no reason. Just like to travel.”
“I’d love to go on a trip,” sighs Darren. “Somewhere exotic, like Rio or Tokyo. Just get far away from here. Be somewhere completely different.”
“So why don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Money, mostly. And it never seems to be the right time.” She can feel the warmth from his leg gently radiating onto hers.
“I hear you on the money thing.” Amy drains the last of her beer, holds the empty bottle out towards Darren. “You got any more?”
9 Tales Told in the Dark 23 Page 1
