Darker Than Night Read online

  Darker Than Night

  by

  O w l G o i n g b a c k

  Prologue

  Night came once again to the countryside. It moved over the land like a hungry beast, chasing away the fading embers of a setting sun. It filled the forest and covered the road with darkness, scurrying up the driveway to press its cold black nose against the windows of an old farmhouse.

  Vivian Martin stepped back from her living room window, fearful of the night that pressed against the glass. Afraid of what dangers the darkness might contain. She stood in the center of a room where lamps and candles burned brightly, pushing back the night with their bright amber glow. It was a room painted a hideous dark green by those who did not fear the darkness as she did, preferring instead to ridicule an old woman rather than help her.

  She turned away from the window and looked around. Somewhere in the living room were a sofa and two chairs, but they lay hidden beneath a cluttering of boxes and bags. The coffee table and most of the floor were also lost from view, leaving only a narrow pathway to navigate across the room from the windows to the hallway. The rest of the rooms on the lower level of the house were equally cluttered, as were those upstairs.

  A month ago, or maybe it was last year, she had sorted through dozens of boxes and bags, hoping to reduce some of the mess, but she just couldn't find anything that she was willing to throw away. Certainly she could not part with her collection of old newspapers and magazine, for they might be valuable one day. And it would be foolish to throw away the bags of clothing, because the scraps would come in handy if she ever decided to make a quilt for her son.

  A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. She could not make a quilt for her son, because he was dead. He had died in a car wreck many years ago. His wife had died with him. She couldn't make a quilt for the dead; that would be foolish. People would talk.

  Maybe she could make a quilt for her grandson. He was still alive. Her grandson lived in New York City, but she had not spoken to him since he was a boy. He used to live with her, but the authorities had taken him away. She lived by herself now, but she was not alone. No. Never alone. The night brought visitors. Unwelcome, dangerous visitors.

  Leaning her weight against a broken rake handle for support, Vivian slowly crossed the living room and stepped into the hall. She hadn't always needed a rake handle for support, but three years ago she had slipped on a patch of ice and broken her hip. Since then it had been painful for her to walk without some extra support. Even with the handle she could no longer climb the stairs to the rooms above. Nor could she go down to the basement stairs to turn on the furnace, which meant the house was always cold in the winter.

  Sometimes it got so cold in the house that she couldn’t feel her ears. She had to wear a stocking cap when it got that cold, and a scarf, and three pair of socks inside her rubber boots. She didn't mind the extra socks, or the scarf, but she hated wearing the stocking cap because it made it difficult to listen to the radio. Her hearing wasn't the best, and she had to hold her portable radio tightly against her left ear to hear her favorite shows. Talk shows mostly; sometimes late-night mysteries. The stocking cap always got in the way.

  Maybe she should try to go down into the basement to turn on the furnace, but the steps were terribly steep. And even with the lights on, the basement was always dark. She was afraid of the dark. Very afraid.

  There had been a time when Vivian did not fear the night, or the darkness it brought. As a young woman living in St. Louis, she had loved to take strolls through the parks after sunset, or sit outside and count the stars. But then she had moved to the country and things had changed.

  Using the money from her late husband's estate, she had bought a piece of property for a price far cheaper than the land surrounding it. She did not pay attention to the rumors associated with the property, nor did she mind that most of her neighbors had already moved away. With the money she saved on the price of the land she could afford to build herself a nice two-story house, and a barn to go along with it. She even had enough left over to plant an apple orchard. She loved apples, and knew that she could sell what fruit she did not eat.

  It had been a long time since she last visited her apple orchard. She no longer had the strength to get around much, and she was fearful of the shadows lurking beneath the trees. Her dog, Gypsy, had not been afraid of those shadows. Before she broke her hip, he had accompanied her on long walks though the orchard. Sometimes they even went into the forest together, but only during the daytime. Never at night. Not even Gypsy was brave enough to go into the forest at night. Nor would he set foot in the basement.

  Vivian stopped in the hallway and picked up a revolver from where it lay on top of a box, checking to make sure it was still loaded. She had never felt the need for a gun when Gypsy was alive, but the poor old dog had died last summer. Something had killed him.

  She had just picked up the revolver, when movement caught her eyes. A small shadow darted across the hallway, disappearing into the kitchen. Vivian made no move to chase after the shadow to see what it was. Instead she turned and fired the pistol, not even bothering to aim. The bullet struck the floor near the kitchen doorway, burying itself in the floorboard.

  Another shadow darted across the hallway. Vivian fired twice more, the smell of gunpowder stinging her nose. From somewhere in the kitchen came a strange whispering that sound almost like laughter. She had started to take a step forward when the lights went out.

  "Oh, no. Please, no." She looked around, terrified of the darkness that suddenly engulfed her. There were no candles in the hallway, nothing to keep the darkness at bay. There were candles in the living room, lots of them, even a few in the kitchen and bathroom, but none in the hallway. None at all.

  "I must have blown a fuse," she said, her voice sounding small and timid. Supporting her weight on the rake handle, she dropped the pistol into a box and hurried down the hallway to the living room. From the darkness behind her came the strange whispering, sending chills up and down her back. She dared not stop and look around, fearful of what she might see.

  She entered the living room, thankful for the friendly glow of her candles. But as she stepped across the threshold, something darted out from behind one of the boxes. Something small, black, and very fast, flowing like liquid as it crossed her path. Startled, she stepped back, landing her full weight upon her injured hip.

  A cry escaped her lips as the brittle bone of her left hip snapped like a stale taco chip. She tried to catch her balance, but fell backward, crashing into the wall. A second pain shot through the left side of her body, bringing tears to her eyes. It was the fiery agony of a weak heart pushed far beyond its limits.

  Vivian placed the palm of her right hand over her chest and pressed hard, praying that the pain would ease off. But the pain only grew stronger, and she knew that her heart was about to give out. From the darkness in the hallway behind her came the whispered sound of laughter. She tried to look in that direction, but the pain was too bad. She could only lie there and clutch her heart, feeling the labored beating of a dying organ.

  More movement caught her attention. This time it came from above her. Lifting her gaze toward the ceiling, she looked upon the shelf that lined the far wall. On that shelf was her collection of Indian statues. As Vivian watched, those statues began to magically vibrate and move, turning around to face the wall — turning to face something that was trying to come through from the other side.

  "No," she whispered, feeling the beat of her heart beginning to slow. "No. No. No."

  Vivian Martin's heart gave a final beat then stopped, the angel of death coming to carry her away to a place without darkness. The tiny statues that lined her shelf continued to move.

 
Part One

  "There is nothing that man fears more than the touch of the unknown. He wants to see what is reaching towards him, and to be able to recognize or at least classify it. Man always tends to avoid physical contact with anything strange."

  —Elias Canetti

  1

  They say you can never go back, but sometimes you have to. Sometimes life deals you a surprise hand, forces you to turn back the clock and take a good look at things best left forgotten. Memories once buried deep in the subconscious rise to the surface like zombies from a moonlit graveyard. Old pains begin to hurt anew. Ghosts speak.

  Michael Anthony felt a shudder pass through him as he spotted the rusted road sign standing like a sentinel among the tall weeds. A shudder of fear? Nervous anticipation? Perhaps both.

  Over thirty years had passed since he last resided in Hudson County, Missouri; thirty long years since he last lived at the end of the narrow, graveled lane called Sawmill Road

  . He had left the area long ago, a boy raised in the shadow of his grandmother. A woman who was not quite right in the head. He returned now as a man, a successful author of more than a dozen dark fantasy novels, a husband, and the father of two healthy, beautiful children. But the ghosts that waited for him did not care about his career, or his family.

  "Are we almost there, Dad?" Tommy asked as his father slowed the van. "Huh, Dad? Are we?"

  "Almost." Mike nodded, a smile unfolding on his face. The trip had been long and tedious for all of them, especially Tommy, who, at the ripe old age of eight, had all the nervous energy of a bag full of bumblebees. The books and pocket video games they had brought along had kept the boy occupied through most of the trip, but now they were nearing the end, and he sensed release from the confines of the vehicle as much as a horse could sense water from half a mile away.

  If Megan hadn't assumed the big sister role, Tommy would probably have been bouncing off the walls by now. For several hours, the fifteen-year-old had kept her brother occupied with word games, trivia facts, and answering countless questions, giving Mike and his wife, Holly, a much needed rest.

  But five miles back down the road Megan had grown tired of entertaining her younger brother. She had slipped on the headphones to her portable CD player and resorted to staring out the window at the surrounding darkness. Mike thought at first she had fallen asleep, but she would occasionally lean forward to pet Pinky, the family tomcat. The seventeen-pound yellow tabby sprawled on the floor between the two rear seats, sleeping on his favorite tattered doormat.

  "How much farther, Dad?" Tommy asked, leaning forward in his seat, straining against the seat belt and shoulder harness.

  "Just down the road," Mike answered, as anxious to get out of the van and stretch his legs as the boy.

  "Good. I've got to pee," Tommy said.

  Mike and Holly both laughed.

  "You always have to pee," Megan chided, slipping the headphones down around her neck.

  "Well, I do."

  "I told you not to drink that orange soda," Holly said, smiling.

  "But I was thirsty," argued Tommy.

  "We'll be there in a few minutes, champ," Mike said, looking at his son in the rearview mirror. "Think you can hold it?"

  Tommy thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I can make it."

  "That a boy."

  Turning into Sawmill Road

  , Mike thought about the elderly woman who had taken care of him after his parents were killed in an automobile accident, before the state of Missouri decided he would be better off living with a foster family. He didn't remember much about Vivian Martin, or about the years they had lived together. The shock of tragically losing both of his parents, and being taken from his home, had erased much of his memory of that time, leaving him with only bits and pieces, images that had long since faded with the passage of time.

  The years he spent with his grandmother were now nothing more than a few dusty chapters in the filing cabinet of his life, as dusty as the house she once lived in. The house was now his, along with over forty acres of land.

  Six weeks ago he had received a registered letter from an attorney in Braddock, a small town five miles east of Sawmill Road

  . Attached to the letter was a copy of Vivian Martin's last will, naming him as her only living heir. She had left him the house, property, and all of her worldly goods. A gift from a woman he had all but forgotten.

  Mike had arranged a trip to meet with the attorney in order to sign the necessary legal documents, take possession of the house keys, and put his grandmother's affairs in order. Her funeral had take place several days before he arrived, a simple service and burial paid for with the money left in her savings account. Pressed for time, he had done little more than give the house and grounds a quick look. The old farmhouse was still in good shape structurally, but it needed a thorough cleaning. A very thorough cleaning.

  He could have refused the inheritance, or could have sold the house and property for a considerable sum of money. But he didn't need the money. What he needed was an escape from New York and all the madness that went with big city living.

  He used to love the city, having lived there for almost eighteen years, but during the past two years he had become painfully aware of just how crowded the Big Apple really was. Where he used to love the hustle and bustle, the throngs of people, the lights, sounds, even the traffic, he now longed for a quieter, slower way of life. Despite having a spacious apartment a few blocks north of Central Park, he felt as if he were being squeezed by the masses of humanity surrounding him.

  Nor did it help that he was suddenly worried by crime in the big city, a realization nailed home when one of his best friends, also a writer, was shot and killed during a robbery late one night after a publisher's party. Michael had also been at the party, leaving just a few minutes before his friend had. It could have been him the robbers picked out, could have been his body lying dead and cold on the sidewalk in a pool of blood.

  After the murder of his friend, Mike had taken to watching the evening news more than he had in the past, horrified by the number of rapes, robberies, and murders taking place on a daily basis in the city he called home. With each broadcast he felt the city closing in on him a little more, squeezing him a little tighter, making it harder to breathe.

  A knot of fear had formed in his stomach. A tiny seed which blossomed and grew, gnawing at his insides like a hungry rat. He worried about his family, taking extra precautions to ensure the safety of his wife and children. His work had also suffered, as he found it almost impossible to write novels of dark fantasy and horror when the world was filled with far greater fears than those he could compose from his imagination.

  Far more frightful than zombies and vampires were the crack dealers who stood on street corners, selling their poisons to children on their way home from school, or the gang members who set fire to elderly homeless men just to watch their flesh sizzle and burn.

  How could you feel sorry for someone pursued by a slobbering beast in a fiction novel when thirteen-year-old girls were being forced to work as prostitutes? Robbed of their childhood dreams, they were the victims of fiends far more dangerous than any ever created in the black forests of Transylvania.

  His grandmother's gift had provided an escape for Mike and his family from a city grown dark and dangerous. It was a reason to finally leave, to get away from the things he had begun to fear. A chance to start over, shake the cobwebs from his mind, and begin anew as a writer. And if a few ghosts of his past turned up in the process, then so be it.

  A few ghosts never hurt anyone.

  The house was not visible from the road, for it lay hidden behind a clustering of oak trees and cedar bushes. The foliage had been deliberately planted to shield the two-story farmhouse from prying eyes, even though few people lived in the area. Fewer still had reason to travel to Sawmill Road

  , which dead-ended about half a mile beyond the house. Pulling into the driveway, Mike brought the van to a h
alt and sat staring at his family's new home.

  The farmhouse sat quiet and brooding in the pale moonlight, its faded paint more gray than white. Dark green shutters framed each of the windows, and a large wooden porch ran across the front of the building.

  Beyond the house was a sagging barn, and an apple grove which came to an end where the black waters of Bloodrock Creek twisted their way through the surrounding forest. According to local history, the creek had earned its name from a minor skirmish fought at the beginning of the Civil War. Men had fallen dead along the banks of the creek, had probably been buried there as well, their names forgotten with the passage of time.

  Mike experienced a feeling of being watched as he sat there looking at the house. He could almost imagine his grandmother peeking at him from one of the windows, as she often had when he was just a small boy. Always watching, peering out from the safety of her home. A prison created by neurosis and fears.

  Shaking off the feeling, he switched off the engine, grabbed a flashlight out of the glovebox, and climbed out of the van. He took a moment to stretch the kinks from his body before starting toward the house. Leaving Pinky in the van, his family followed him as he crossed the porch and slipped a key into the front door. No one spoke, even Tommy was quiet, which made the sounds of the night all the more noticeable. Country sounds. A nightly chorus of crickets, tree frogs, and a boisterous whippoorwill.

  The door opened with a sinister creak, releasing an array of unpleasant odors into the night. Mike stepped back, coughing, as the reek of mothballs, bug spray, and Lysol assaulted his nostrils.

  "Phew... it stinks," Tommy said, wrinkling his nose. Megan also coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. Holly looked at him questioningly.

  "It's not that bad," Mike replied, trying to catch his breath. "It just needs to be aired out, that's all." He remembered that his grandmother had always seemed to be spraying something. Not that she was an excessively clean woman. In fact, he didn't remember ever seeing her cleaning. Spraying yes, can after can of aerosol bug spray and Lysol, but never cleaning.