9 Tales Told in the Dark 23

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “It’s how were going to kill that son of a bitch,” Megan stated.

  Megan and Marcus watched the coroner wheel Annabelle into the coroner’s van. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in Megan’s eyes when Marcus’s car passed, her heart and body aching for what Annabelle had suffered. At least now, she would be at peace.

  “Cindy didn’t have anything on her when the police found her?”

  “No but there is one thing.”

  “What?” Megan asked, the car skidding slightly along the wet road.

  “It’s footage before it goes dead off Cindy eating what appears to be something large.”

  Marcus’s face suddenly was fixated on the road ahead, Megan turned her head and looked at a figure just ahead, Cindy. Marcus stepped on the accelerator, the car plunging faster towards her when she disappeared revealing a car that was coming from the opposite direction, straight for them. Marcus swung the car left just missing the other car by inches. Megan and Marcus held on for dear life as the car flipped through the air due to the sheer speed and conditions of the road. Landing on its hood, Megan blacked out. Awakening minutes later next to an unconscious but breathing Marcus. Head pounding and the feeling of sticky warm blood oozing from multiple cuts and abrasions she had suffered. Megan undid her seat belt. Adrenaline and hatred flowed now the only things keeping her going. With great difficulty, she dragged Marcus from the wreckage placing him on the side street. Her head killing her she began to run.

  At this time in the morning, most nurses now depended on caffeine and energy drinks to get them through the rest of their shift. Megan counted on it. Luckily, her swipe card still allowed her full access to the hospital and pharmacy. Excellent she thought taking three vials of xorapha, a potent yet safe knock out drug, before drawing them up into three separate injections and placing them into her pocket.

  Pressing the button in the escalator Megan prepared herself for what she had to do. Waiting until the escalator door opened she knew one of her formal staff would come and investigate. Holding her breath, she waited till she heard the footsteps near. Getting down she pretended to be unconscious until she heard the familiar voice of Emma shout some name she hadn’t heard before. Agency staff she thought. Megan felt her shoulders being pushed back revealing her face to Emma who mindfully swore. Before she could shout, she plunged the needle into her neck, watching the drug take its effect immediately. A young man come running up watching Emma fall unconscious onto the floor. He turned to run to ring for help unaware that adrenaline still ran high in Megan’s system. Before he knew what hit him she was onto him, tackling him like they were playing football. They both smashed onto the floor. He was strong but Megan was stronger, diving the needle into his thigh, watching his eyes finally shut she heard sounds of laughter.

  Megan looked forward, her right index finger now around the third syringe.

  “Naughty girl,” Cindy said, in the inhumane voice. But it wasn’t really Cindy she thought.

  Her finger wagging like she was a naughty puppy.

  With a wave of her hand the syringe flung out of Megan’s hand darting across the room. Megan stood up. Black dots impairing her vison, she now felt immense fear. The flight system was now taking over her fight instincts in her body.

  “I know who you are Edward. I know how you tortured and killed those people. You’re nothing but a monster.”

  He laughed.

  “Girl you have no idea what torture is. You will though.”

  Megan watched as Cindy’s features softened when she heard her friend.

  “Megan,” she chocked.

  “Cindy, I’m so sorry,” Megan cried.

  “Megan, kill me,” she said, her features now hardening again.

  Stepping back felt the hairs on the back of Megan’s neck stand up. Megan turned to see she was surrounded by her all the comatose patients whose features bared rashes on their body and horrible cracked lips.

  “If you anger him he will play.” They all sang.

  Megan finally understood, they were all his victims possessing them. He still had a hold on them.

  “Megan,” Marcus shouted, from the other end of the long hallway.

  His gun positioned he started shooting, the bodies falling to the ground. All but Cindy who turned and started to walk towards Marcus who continued firing at her. The hospital gown had become loose allowing Megan to see the last few letters of the alphabet. Footage of Cindy eating something cardboard Megan remembered Marcus telling her. Somehow, Cindy had now become what was allowing Edward’s ghost to possess her. Taking the lighter she had acquired from Marcus’s pocket during their crash she ran watching Marcus shoot his last bullet.

  Megan ran jumping on Cindy’s back.

  “I’m so sorry Cindy. I love you,” she whispered in her right ear.

  Her legs now around Cindy’s waist and right arm around her neck, the trachea digging into her skin. Megan flipped open the lighter and pressed down on it to which small bright flame danced. She could hear Marcus yelling at her in the background yet it was just white noise. Her clothes and most of her bare skin covered in the motor oil from the crash making her highly flammable. It wasn’t a sigh of bravery or sacrifice but love for those who had died because of her actions of letting this monster out into this world again.

  “Go to hell you bastard,” she said, letting the flame touch the fragile hairs on her arm.

  “Nooo,” Edward yelled, trying to release Megan’s tight grip.

  It was too late. The flames overwhelmed them within seconds, the same time police and fire fighters entered the ward. The hospital sprinklers now spraying the remains of Megan’s and Cindy’s burnt corpses. Marcus dropped to his knees taking the photo out that Megan left on his chest for him to understand what she had done. It was a photo of an old woman from back in the 1600’s by the look of the fashion placing a Ouija board in a burning fire. Written on the back were the words…

  To rid evil, we must burn it.

  That had been the key, Edwards ending, and Megan’s and Cindy’s peace.

  It was all over.

  Marcus sat in the chair, his palms sticky with his sweat. It had been over one year since Megan had sacrificed herself, ending the reign of terror that was the ghost of Edward. The police had marked it a cold case. Marcus had told them he got a lead so went to the hospital to check it out and that’s when he saw the body of Cindy coming to attack him. Now aware this made him sound crazy, the police saw the footage before it mysteriously burst into flames. Unware of how to explain it they demoted him instead to street cop. He didn’t care he was glad to be on the street, with people.

  “How are we today Marcus?”

  He watched a female enter, covered head to toe in white scrubs. Her hair blocking the view of any skin. Her voice sounded so familiar.

  “Good,” he lied, fidgeting.

  “It’s quite normal to be nervous. You’re not the only cop that I’ve had get nervous at the dentist. I assure you I’m very good with my hands. Nurse.”

  Marcus felt a prick in his left side of his neck, he tried to move but couldn’t. He was paralyzed. Panic washed over him like an unpleasant smell.

  “W... wh,” he tried to say.

  “The new advances of medicine in this age is unremarkable, now this won’t hurt much.”

  Removing her mask Marcus now saw the outline of Megan, her skin looked like melted flesh having healed badly from her burns. Rashes like the ones Cindy had on her had burrowed deep within Megan’s flesh. Her lips dry and cracked.

  “Nurse drill please. I’m afraid there’s no time to be numbed, but you will have the perfect smile,” said the inhume voice of Edward Jone.

  THE END.

  LET IT RING by Simon McHardy

  Upon his retirement John Neville, weary of the grey city in which he lived, moved to Penance and rented a small cottage in the village. Continuing his lifelong habit, he rose before dawn each day and took his morning walk. It was a bitter land; to the east of th
e coast road, along which he walked, lay the salt marshes, blanketed in morning mists and echoing with the cries of sea birds, to the west abandoned farms. Nothing grew in the salty soil of Penance but stunted misshapen trees. Lured by cheap land and confidence, many had tried to make it but after years of despair, they had moved back inland, cursing the soil of Penance.

  He stopped outside one of the farms; the family must have departed in a hurry, a tractor rusted on the lawn, a plough still attached, moldering white curtains floated like phantoms behind black windows and the unhinged front door had been cast aside to reveal a black and fathomless entrance. From the house's untold depths a phone tolled, its ring as loud as church bells in the silent air. John thought it curious that the phone company had not disconnected the line after so many years. He listened to the sound for some time, a desperate relative perhaps, hopeful after so many years that their loved ones would at last answer, ‘Sorry, Mother, we have been so busy with the golden fields of wheat and barley that I had quite forgotten to ring you.’ John smiled at the thought and continued with his walk, the phone's echo accompanying him until the road turned a bend and left him with only the cries of the seabirds and the distant sound of the ocean.

  It would be the same every morning, the phone's loud chimes greeting John on his morning walk. One evening he mentioned the old farm in the village's only tavern, ‘That would be Victor Moore’s house,’ an elderly man who had introduced himself as Jim replied, ‘A stubborn old fool he was, he made a go of it until 1966, much longer than the rest of them. Penance broke him in the end though like it did many a lesser man,’ he shook his head sadly. ‘I went out to visit him in the spring that year, hadn’t seen him in a while, thought he had holed up for the winter but the farm had long been deserted. Old man Moore must have slipped out of town quietly one night, too ashamed to tell us he couldn’t make it work and was going back to farm the rich soils of Vermont.'

  ‘The phone is still on at his house, I hear it every morning when I take my walk,’ John announced.

  The old man stared at him for some time, ‘The phones haven’t worked on the south side of town since the blizzard of '78 blew down all the telephone poles, what you heard was probably some old machinery or metal banging around in the wind, it gets mighty fierce out there, no trees or mountains for shelter. John smiled politely and nodded his agreement. #

  The next morning outside Moore’s farm the familiar chime of the phone resonated in the quiet morning air. ‘That’s a phone damn it, not some piece of scrap metal banging around in the wind,' John muttered to himself as he stalked across the yard determined to solve the mystery. The black interior of the house mellowed to half-light as he stood on the threshold, ‘Hello,’ he yelled, his voice was drowned out by the shrill bawl of the phone. The floorboards groaned under his weight, awakening from a long slumber as he took his first tentative steps inside. He was in a large room, the dust and sand from the yard carpeted the floor and filled the air like a fine mist, everything it had touched was colored a soft grey. The room must have served Victor Moore as a parlour he mused. A rocking chair faced an empty fireplace, its rockers buried beneath the grey powder; beside it was a small wooden table upon which squatted an open whiskey bottle. The amber fluid had turned muddy brown and dust choked the neck of the bottle, beside it lay an open book the pages yellowed and the words faded.

  The ringing was coming from the far corner of the room and through the semi-darkness he could make out the phone’s dim shape on the wall. Its cry escalated to an insistent holler as if it sensed he were near and the long wait nearly over. The wall began to tremble as John stepped closer and the phone's violent vibrations reached a triumphant crescendo. He reached out and picked up the hand piece, the metal was warm to his touch. A deep, drawn-out sigh ending in an orgasmic shudder breathed into his ears. ‘Hello’ his voice quavered with apprehension. A whisper was the response, unintelligible at first, then intensifying into the shrill shriek of three words over and over again. 'It’s your turn’.

  ‘What…,’ he did not finish, suddenly aware how peculiar he felt, formless, floating, everything black, the phone was ringing again, it was all he could sense, the sound felt urgent, it was all around him, inside him.

  Jim Craugh lowered his drink and watched the old man shuffle across the floor towards the bar, his eyes set on an array of whiskey bottles. ‘I’ve not seen you around here before,’ Jim called out. The old man stopped and stared, unsteady on his feet he swayed gently and looked slowly around the room until at last his eyes came to rest on Jim, ‘Sure you have, Jim, name's Victor, just been away that’s all,’ he croaked, ‘I need a whiskey if you're buying.’

  In the cool evening air as the mists formed in the salt marshes and the sea birds returned home to roost, the sound of a telephone could be heard, John Neville waited patiently for somebody to answer, the words ready on his tongue ‘It’s your turn.’

  THE END.

  WISH HUNT by George Strasburg

  Droplets of water paused on a tattered leaf. The furthest reach of a far of breeze jiggled the droplets, but they didn’t fall. Avery trained his scope upon the droplets, imagined picking them off one by one. Except he was aware his bullets would rip the leaf to shreds. Still, he’d spent hours imagining his accuracy, like a bored child staring out a car window.

  Avery could wait for days if he had to. The forecast promised mild weather. He had also paced his hydration, so as not to incite a full bladder. He had a second tube that would deliver a protein shake, and caffeine pills were laced in his collar. Only the slightest dip in his chin and minor tongue action, and he’d be fully aware again. But he hadn’t trained for this. He hadn’t realized his mind would wander off—focusing on morning dew rather than the task. He admonished himself, biting the inside of his lip.

  He bit until he bled, welcoming the warm salty flavor. It masked the stale taste of halitosis and the onset of gingivitis—he had not considered dental hygiene in his preparation. Avery thought, my teeth will rot one day anyway. Everything rots away. Everything dies.

  Sometimes, things need help dying.

  I like to help.

  Avery exhaled, pulled his eye back from the scope, and let the cool air dry the sweat that had accumulated. His ears perked. Something heavier than a squirrel disturbed a patch of leaves nearby. It didn’t repeat the mistake. Avery needed to hear the sound again. He hadn’t been expecting it. He only knew that it hadn’t come behind him or in front of him, but the slight echo of the quiet forest around him confused him.

  Just walk in front of my scope.

  He dare not move it. The sunlight would flicked off the lens and potentially share his location.

  Avery kept quiet, still, and as patient as he had ever tried to be.

  He heard it. A sound so soft, it would be missed by any other ear. But the decompression of leaves was one Avery had trained to hear. A soft compression followed shortly after—a lowered foot with a held breath.

  Keep walking. You’re almost in my sight.

  Promise?

  Avery reeled back. The sound, it came from within his thoughts. His mind panicked, filling with betrayal and confusion.

  Avery, I asked if you promised to kill me.

  Avery didn’t respond—intentionally. His mind gave a dozen answers, each more vulgar than the last. But also offered his own questions. What are you? Do you want me to kill you?

  But of course, Avery, that is why I have walked before your sight.

  In his confusion, Avery had not been able to see what stood right in front of him. He squeezed the trigger—too much. His rifle was semi-automatic, and a second and third shot followed amid the recoil. His sight did not steady. His whole body shook as he tried to remember what he had seen, what he had shot at, and where it might’ve gone. The source of his vibration came from more than just his heart. It seemed as if every vein in his body rushed with a sharp piercing blood. His body ached as he strained to hold still.

  How many of you have sh
ot before? I have lost count myself.

  Jimmy Hopper and Fred…that Cynthia—Cheryl that was her name, and the…at least fifteen.

  Only fifteen? Well, I must be mistaking your ground with another’s efforts. Hundreds, Avery. Hundreds have sought me in these woods.

  Where are you? Avery moved his sight slightly. Wasn’t the shape he had seen just a tracing of light along a form that was perfectly camouflaged? He couldn’t remember… as if the recent memory was held hostage by the same voice taunting him in his own mind.

  Ah, but I see you know more than most that came to kill me. You know what I will offer you for my life. But like many others, you have stupidly ignored the detail… if you don’t intend to kill me, then you cannot offer me my life. Threats are threats and nothing more. I need a promise.

  I’m going to kill you!

  Oh, no! Please, don’t!

  A snickering ran loops around Avery’s mind.

  I mean it! I will kill you! Get out of my head! You demon!

  I still feel as if I have the upper hand. How old was the story you heard? I have not had to grant a wish in a hundred years. Because they all come like you—full of bark and a pretense of bite. But for my own curiosity? What was the wish you would bring to me?

  I want… no… I came for my people… my friends…forget them… I’m going to die…for me. Can’t you see we need something… we’re desperate… I want… no! They want…

  Torn. Two wishes you sought. One for you and one for the people who sent you. I have found the formation of both. The carefully worded one of your peers, and the hazy uncertainty of your own longing. I will tell you this. I will only grant one wish. Comparing the two myself, it seems either will cause you some form of despair. Does that worry you?

  I…

  Of course, it does, my poor Avery. Don’t be bashful. I’m in you. I am not some trickster djinn. I won’t take advantage of careless wording. I will heed your true wish—so far as you have imagined it. Nothing more, and nothing less.