Hindered Souls: Dark Tales for Dark Nights, page 13
While her mother-in-law studiously pretended not to watch Wanda, Wanda studiously pretended not to watch the stairs for signs of the child. Eventually, lack of sleep the night before caught up with her and Wanda drifted off.
When she woke, she was alone, but for the little girl in the red dress. Feeling like a criminal, Wanda looked around to make sure no one was watching, then struggled to her feet.
The girl took a step backward when Wanda started up the steps. Without taking her eyes off Wanda, she backed up the stairs as the heavily pregnant woman climbed them. At the landing, they both stopped, just feet apart, staring at one another. In a slow, deliberate movement, the little girl in the red dress turned to look down the hallway.
''What is it? Who are you? What's wrong?'' The questions poured out of Wanda in a rush. The girl didn't answer any of them. She raised one small arm and pointed toward the end of the hall.
Curiosity as much as concern pulled Wanda forward. She'd taken only a few steps when the door to her right opened unexpectedly and Anthony's mother stepped out.
''Wanda, what are you-''
Her mother-in-law's surprise was nothing compared to Wanda's own. She reeled backward, stumbled, and lost her footing. Arms swinging wildly, Wanda tried and failed to catch herself before she fell hard against the wall – and then through the wall, which collapsed under her weight. The last thing Wanda remembered before the darkness claimed her was the sound of splintering wood and the smiling face of the little girl in the red dress who stood behind her mother-in-law.
****
''Are you going to tell her?''
Anthony glanced through the window into the hospital room where we could see his wife nursing their newborn. Holding the child with the arm that wasn't in a heavy cast, Wanda was a little battered and a little bruised – but remarkably well for someone who had both fallen through a wall and given birth less than twenty-four hours before. The baby, luckily, was completely unharmed.
He rubbed a hand across his tired eyes before answering. ''I dunno, Mom. I mean... would it do any good?''
His mother gave him the kind of look that normally preceded the words, ''I raised you better than that.'' She raised her eyebrows.
The police had come and gone while Wanda was still in the throes of labor. Anthony's mother had handled all of the questions and the paperwork so her son could be there to welcome his baby girl into the world. She was the one who had watched as the police turned the farmhouse into a crime scene; who met the elderly couple that showed up at dawn, still in their pajamas; who watched in mute horror as the tiny, crumpled corpse of a young girl in a dusty red dress was carried from the gaping hole in the wall.
Anthony's mother shook her head. ''I still don't understand how you could move into a house and not know that it was part of the Underground Railroad. A house full of hidden corridors and secret cabinets...''
''We've been through this, Mom,'' he answered in a weary voice. ''If Mr. and Mrs. Jones didn't know, how were we supposed to?''
Shaking her head again, his mother disregarded his argument. ''You should have known. God,'' she said, ''what if it had been your daughter that had crawled into that awful thing and gotten herself stuck? What if-''
''Enough, Mom. I got the point.'' Anthony refused to let her see how much the thought frightened him. ''We know now and we'll get it all sealed up. Before,'' he added to silence her next argument, ''Wanda and the baby come home.''
The look his mother gave him told Anthony that she didn't agree with his decision but, for once, the woman held her tongue. Together, they stood and watched as a nurse helped Wanda settle the baby into a nearby cot.
''Has she finally settled on a name yet?'' his mother asked.
Autumn Leaves In Flames
by Mileva Anastasiadou
It did not take us long to notice the man falling, once we turned our heads. In the beginning, a big round burning mass caught our eye, flying into the night sky like a falling star, only brighter. We had been instructed never to open the window at night, but defying the rules, this time we decided to let some fresh air in.
“Have you ever seen one of those?” Mr. Smith asked me.
“I cannot remember, I thought they were part of the so called autumn conspiracy theory, to tell the truth,” I said, still not believing what my eyes were witnessing.
According to the theory that poor people living in the basement have developed, there comes a time every autumn when people in flames are thrown down from the penthouse, if it gets too crowded up there. Our building, you see, is like a pyramid, constructed this way for safety reasons, to ensure better stability for those who manage to climb up the floors and enjoy the comforts that only advanced levels can provide. The spectacle is viewable for those down in the basement, as a means to discourage them from fantasizing higher grounds. Climbing up, though, ensures almost amnesia of the event, and necessary precautions are taken in order to avoid unpleasant incidents like this one. Some of us, like Mr. Smith, were lucky enough to be born in higher floors and escape the fate of even the slightest recollection.
“Is it supposed to be that time of the season?” he asked.
“I am pretty sure it is,” I whispered, as I remembered watching the falling autumn leaves, as they used to call them, during my morning break, when I was young.
Before we even had time to notice the details of the man in flames falling to the ground, a rather large part of him disconnected from the main body and entered our room.
Mr. Smith took off his coat in order to use it as a weapon against the fire. He jumped around for a few minutes to make sure every spark was extinguished. He then shook the dust off his shirt, closed the window and approached us.
“It must have been his hat,” he said apologetically, as if he had a reason to apologize for showing composure when everybody else panicked instead. Surely, none of us bothered to check under Mr Smith's coat, whether the remains of the burnt invader were actually an object or something else.
“Well, if it truly was a man falling down, he must have been very higher up, don't you think?” he asked jokingly, once he made himself comfortable again. All the players nodded.
“It is going to take lots of time then, before our turn comes”.
That was a thought consoling enough to make us forget about the incident and go on with our game. The winner would be lucky enough to climb up one floor next morning and enjoy the view and comforts provided as trophy for the most successful players.
Ashes
by Gareth Gray
Rob hunched his shoulders against the bitterness of the night. He swore as he slipped on a patch of ice, almost causing him to fall into the deserted road. The heavy snowfall of the last few days, which showed no signs of letting up, held the traffic at bay. His unsteadiness wasn’t just down to the weather, nor the copious amounts of alcohol he’d already consumed in ‘The Leprechaun’ before they kicked him out. Strange noises had kept him awake the last few nights. The ringing in his ears, too. It reminded him of prison before he shut them away behind the carefully constructed walls in his head.
The neon sign of 'The Shamrock’ glowed in front of him, giving the drifts of snow an odd, greenish tinge. Taking a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, he pulled open the door and ambled inside. Fiddle music assaulted his ears as the clichés continued – neon shamrocks, Guinness signs, and tricolor flags everywhere. Rob hated themed pubs, but these were close to home, and the drink good and cheap.
He took a stool by the end of the bar and ordered a pint, ignoring the boisterousness of the atmosphere around him. He preferred to keep his own company. His stint inside had taught him that. Unless of course, it was the company of a woman, but his pay packet didn’t stretch that far these days. Well, there were the skanks downtown, but he reckoned he was better off going home and doing the deed himself – safer too.
****
He downed his fifth pint and looked through the bottom of the beer glass at the distorted view of the woman at the other side of the bar. He laughed to himself, when the thought struck him that this was actually an improvement. Setting his glass on the bar, his gaze lingered on the brunette sitting a few stools away from him. She looked like she was pushing the wrong side of forty, but what the hell, so was he. She’d been putting away quite a few shots in rapid succession.
Nice, my kind of woman. Drunk and not choosy. And perhaps I won't even have to pay for it. Great long legs, short red dress, nice tits. He eased off the chair and headed in her direction.
The brunette threw her head back as she necked another shot. She turned to face Rob as he started to walk in her direction. She stifled a laugh when he paused to right himself before moving over; long brown hair pulled back in a scruffy ponytail which hung almost to his ass; his stained denims and a German army surplus jacket that he thought disguised his paunch.
He may have been fit once but it's all gone south. Still, slim pickings tonight. Who knows, he may be a gentleman, she thought as she stretched out a hand towards the empty seat beside her.
"Be my guest. I'm Jen," she said.
"Rob. So, you come here often?"
"Really, that's it. I know we're in a dive but that’s the best you can do?"
"I was hoping you were gonna say 'no'." Rob grinned.
"And why would that be?"
"Because I know a place I could take you where you would..."
She stared at him in utter disbelief; derision rife on her face. If she hadn't just drained her last drink, she would have chucked it in his face. Instead, she turned, grabbed her coat and strode off towards the door. She looked back with disgust. "Fuckin' loser.” Then she was out the door.
Rob stood still for a second before following her out the door. The wind drove the heavy snow at him as he exited. He looked left and right, but no sign of the woman. The street was completely empty.
Huh, must have caught a lucky cab.
Rob turned to walk back into the bar, remembering he hadn't settled the tab. He thought about just buggering off home. But his limited conscience got the better of him. After all, it was his local.
As he turned back toward the bar, the ringing in his ears returned with a vengeance. It escalated into a high-pitched shriek and stayed there. He clamped his hands over his ears as if that could somehow stop the infernal, internal noise. He lost his balance and fell into a huge pile of snow that had been cleared by the side of the entrance to the bar.
The nerve endings in his skin began to scream at him, making him forget about the ringing in his ears. It wasn’t the cold. His hands were on fire. He smelled singed hair and burnt flesh. He sprang from the ground and looked at where he’d fallen. Just snow. Nothing else. He stared at his throbbing hands, numerous white marks pin-pricking the skin. They felt as if they were on fire. He plunged them deep into the built-up snow and the pain began to subside.
I must look like a fuckin' idiot.
After several minutes of squatting on the sidewalk, he decided to venture back into the bar. His hands still stung but at least the noises in his head had ceased.
First time in ages. I might even get some decent rest tonight.
He re-entered the building and walked up to the stool where the woman had sat and took the adjacent stool. He glanced wistfully at her stool and noticed a fine layer of dust over its surface - undisturbed dust.
Odd.
"One for the road, Rob?" inquired the bartender.
"Nah, had enough. Calling it a night. What's the damage?"
"Sure you wanna know? You might wanna sit down first," said the bartender with a cheeky smile.
"Yeah, yeah. Just wanna settle up and head on home. Enough of the craic."
"Okay, Rob. That'll be thirty-two fifty."
Rob put his hand in his right hand jacket pocket but couldn't feel his wallet. Something powdery was in its place. He scooped the grainy stuff in his hand and removed it from his pocket; cold, grey ash.
"What the fuck?" he shouted.
The bartender looked at him, "I told you that you might have needed a seat first."
Rob glanced up at the bartender in confusion. The soft ringing started back up in his ears. He looked back down at his right hand. The only thing it contained was his wallet, sitting, innocently waiting. His eyes wandered to the stool where the woman had been sitting, but that too was clean, devoid of any dust. He slowly turned toward the door, staring at it as the memory of the burning hit him again. The ringing in his ears changed to a low hum, like the gentle thrum of a generator.
"Sorry," he mumbled at the bartender as he extracted two twenties from his wallet. He walked from the bar without waiting for his change.
What the fuck is going on? I really need some sleep.
As Rob headed off down the sidewalk, the thrumming became more pronounced, affecting his equilibrium. He staggered home like the drunk he was. Rob shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket where thankfully all he felt was cloth. He hunched his shoulders against the wind, and driving snow, and hurried as best he could.
The weather made the eight block journey home feel more like eighty. The hum in his ears changed the nearer he got to home until it sounded almost like muted laughter. He stopped by Charles' Funeral Parlour. The soft glow from the discreet lighting was just enough for him to fish out his keys and select the right one.
Charles' Funeral Parlour. Or, as he called it, home. He lived in a little side room at the rear of the building. An old friend of the family, Mr. Charles gave him a place to live and a job when he got out of prison. Not many people would take a chance on a convicted sex offender, but then, Mr. Charles had his own reasons for keeping Rob close.
He could hear the thrumming louder, but this time it wasn't internal. He looked up and watched the exhaust fumes wafting into the air behind the parlour. The wind gusted up another flurry of snow at him. Except it wasn't snow. A thick cloud of ash swirled around him, getting in his ears, his nostrils and his mouth.
What the fuck is going on? Is that coming from the furnace? It shouldn't be on. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm gonna be in the shit for this.
Rob fumbled his key into the lock, entered and let the door close to behind him. The darkness inside didn’t bother Rob. He walked past the desk and through the door into the internal corridor. The sound of thrumming louder still. He ran down the corridor towards the incinerator room. He broke out in a sweat as the heat rose with every step he took nearer the furnace.
It shouldn't be this warm in here. Something is really, really wrong.
He burst into the furnace room, almost breaking the door in the process. It smacked off the wall and flung itself shut behind him with a large bang. Rob stopped just as quickly as he had burst into the room. The room was totally quiet and still. The furnaces were off. Rob trembled. Sweat etching damp pictures on his face. He blinked the rank moisture from his eyes and spun round on the spot, swamped in confusion.
Is this all in my head? Bloody Hell, I really need some sleep.
Rob headed back to the door. As he reached for the handle, he realised that for the first time in a long time, there was no sound in his head, other than his own thoughts.
Well that can't be good.
He laughed at himself and the ridiculousness of the evening's events. He pulled the door towards him, but it didn’t move – not even a millimetre. He pulled again. Nothing. That's when he heard it. Not a ringing, not a low thrum, nor a high pitched shriek. Laughter. No, not a single laugh but many voices, blending into one.
He spun around the room again. Am I going fuckin' mad?
"STOP IT," he shouted into the empty room. His voice echoing, louder and louder as if aimed right back at him. The laughter stopped. He thought he saw something move from the corner of his eye. He slowly turned in that direction but there was nothing there.
“Over here.” A whisper from the other side of the room.
Rob tried the door again, but he was trapped, and apparently no longer alone. He moved towards the incinerators, placing a hand on the side of one of them. Cold, like ice. There should have been residual heat left in the housing but, no. He tried to bring his hand away but it was frozen in place. Coldness crept up his arm. He was couldn’t move. All reason left him then as his mind struggled to cope with his predicament.
A howling like an angry wind echoed in the room but it wasn't coming from outside. Rob pressed his ear closer to the metal housing being careful not to make contact. The howl came from inside. It was getting stronger, faster and, angrier. With a thunderous blast, the door of the incinerator exploded outwards, ripped right off its hinges. It flew across the room accompanied by a cloud of swirling, twisting, gusting ash. Rob's eyes widened at the spectacle in front of him, at the same rate his rectum did.
He wrenched his hand from the incinerator leaving behind swathes of skin, tissue and blood. The ash cloud ebbed and flowed. It appeared to be trying to solidify, to take form. Rob ran for the door again, screaming. He pulled, tugged, wrenched at the handle accompanied by hideous laughter. It echoed around the room, escalating in ferocity then stopping as abruptly as it began. Rob sank to the floor.
The cloud of ash rushed in his direction, like a swarm of angry flies. It pulsated in front of his face. Rob looked at it for the first time. Really looked at it. The things he could see, or was being shown, like watching clouds. Hypnotic and terrifying, he could not look away. He saw the things he had done; the women, and the children. He tried to hang his head, but he was transfixed. It didn't stop there.
The cloud ebbed away a short distance. It flew around the room several times, picking up every errant particle, its mass increasing with each pass. It dived towards the floor with great velocity and built itself from the ground up like some kind of supernatural jelly mould. And then it was there.
The rough semblance of a man inched forward as if unsure whether it could hold its form. It held.
"What? Why?" Rob managed to stammer out.
