Hawthorn Lane (from Sweet Little Chittering)

Matt Davies

The bus wound its way along the country lanes. It was crowded with too many people who, Veronica thought to herself, paid too little attention to their personal hygiene. She’d been unable to get a seat and was now awkwardly wedged between a fat woman and her awful children and an older man who seemed to lean into her a little more than was necessary as the bus rounded the corners of the narrow lanes. They’d had to stop multiple times for tractors crossing between the fields or sheep being herded from one place to another.

During one of these stops Veronica had spied the henge in the distance. The standing stones jutted out of the land like nails haphazardly hammered into a piece of wood by a child. As she peered at the henge, she thought she could see movement around the stones. Probably day trippers lured there by the gaudy advertising she’d seen online for the ‘Hartbridge Henge’, that the nearby town of Hartbridge splashed across the ad space of any website mentioning the area. However, Veronica, like any good journalist, had dug deeper and found that the henge had an older name, ancient even: The Chittering.

The bus pulled away and continued its journey. As The Chittering passed out of sight, Veronica slipped her hand into her bag and felt the leather cover of the journal. She ran her fingers over its worn surface, an act she found oddly comforting. A tablet or a laptop was, she knew, a far better way to keep notes, but there was something about the writing and drawing by hand and pasting clippings into the journal that allowed her to engage with her research, and the story that research revealed, on a far deeper level than she’d ever been able to before.

The heat in the bus had grown stifling and the passengers, Veronica included, breathed a collective sigh of relief as the bus finally pulled into the village of Sweet Little Chittering. As the passengers piled off the bus, Veronica paused to speak with the driver.

“What time is the last bus back to Hartbridge?” she asked.

The driver seemed to ponder his answer in the way that country folk sometimes do despite knowing the answer off the top of their head.

“We lay on extra services the day of the fete,” the driver said, somewhat unhelpfully.

“Okay, but what actual time is the last bus leaving?” Veronica politely pressed.

“Oh, nine, half nine, something like that.” The driver was clearly clueless.

“Thanks,” Veronica replied with a slight air of exasperation. She took her phone out of her bag and checked the time – 17:45. She’d have plenty of time to track down who she was looking for and still get the last bus back.

The rest of the passengers hurried towards the village green, from where Veronica could already hear the village fete in full swing. Veronica had no interest in the fete, so walked at a slower, but deliberate, pace.

As she walked, she took in her surrounds. Sweet Little Chittering was like the twee drawings on the lids of a biscuit tins brought to life. Quaint, neatly kept little houses packed along the sides of narrow streets, well-trimmed hedges and a row of small shops, including a family butcher’s and even a candle maker. Surely these people had electricity? A hint of a smile crossed Veronica’s face as she amused herself with the sarcastic observation.

As Veronica approached the village green, the crowd began to get a little denser and she had to weave amongst the people. Many clutched raffle tickets and Veronica wondered what prize could be so great, as to make people buy quite so many tickets.

An old lady stepped out and blocked Veronica’s path. “You’ve still time to buy a ticket, deary. The draw isn’t for another ten minutes!” The old lady held up a book of raffle tickets and stared at Veronica with a toothless grin.

“No, thank you,” Veronica replied politely and old the lady looked almost shocked. “Could you tell me the best way to get to Hawthorn Lane?” Veronica went on.

“Hawthorn Lane?” the old lady replied, a look of complete confusion spreading across her face.

“Yes. Hawthorn Lane.” Veronica pulled the journal from her bag and thumbed through it. “I believe it should be not far from here.” She held up the journal, open at the page of her hand drawn map of the village.

“Well, deary, I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never heard of no Hawthorn Lane. You must have the wrong village.” The old lady turned and shuffled back into the crowd, waving her book of tickets at anyone who wasn’t quick enough to dodge out of her way.

Veronica stood and looked at her map. The crowd swirled around her, as she tried to orient herself to the map and her surroundings. As she was doing so, she noticed an information board on the wall between the ‘Crusty Von Buns Bakers’ shop and ‘J.M. Cockcroft & Son Family Butchers’. She made a beeline for the board.

Veronica stopped in front of the board and saw, to her delight, there was a map of the village. It was badly faded and curled at the edges. The rusty drawing pins holding it in place testified to how long it had been there. She studied the map and compared it to the one she had drawn in her journal as she’d researched the village and the area.

“Looking for something? Or somewhere?” a man’s voice said from behind her.

Veronica turned to see an older man with a vacant smile staring at her.

“I’m looking for Hawthorn Lane,” Veronica said matter of factly and turned back to the board.

“Well, I hate to say it Miss. But I think you might have the wrong village. I’ve lived here most of my life and I’ve never heard of a Hawthor…”

“Here!” Veronica cut him off. “It’s here, on the map, look.”

The man peered at the map and then leant in closer. He wiped at the glass door of the notice board, as if this would change the map within.

“But…that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, that shouldn’t be there,” the old man turned and looked Veronica directly in the eye. “I mean, I’ve lived here for years and…and… that’s not been there.”

Yet, on the map, very faded, but definitely there, was written Hawthorn Lane. Indicting that it could be found in what looked like a relatively short walk from the village green.

Veronica left the man still staring at the map in disbelief. Perhaps he has dementia, she thought to herself. Why else would he have claimed to have lived in the village most of his life and then not know of a lane that was perhaps a few minutes’ walk from the heart of the village? She headed past the village school and away from the green and the festivities.

As Veronica walked, the noise of the fete faded away and the only sound was her footsteps on the pavement. As the houses began to thin out, the pavement did as well, until Veronica was walking on the edge of the road. As she walked, she looked at her hand drawn map and wrote in the location of Hawthorn Lane as it had been indicated on the map in the village. Yet still she walked and there was no sign of the lane.

Veronica checked the time on her phone; 18:20. She’d walked for twenty minutes! This could not be right. Certainly, there was no scale on the map in the village, but this was ridiculous. She tapped the screen of her phone to open the maps app. A blank screen opened with white text: No Signal. She held up the phone and saw that she had no data. Useless.

She decided to walk on but to turn back and head into the village if she’d still not found Hawthorn Lane after another ten minutes.

As Veronica walked, the landscape began to change. Overgrown hedgerows rose along the sides of the winding road, giving the feeling of walking through a maze. The sky turned from the bright spring day to a featureless milky grey. The air grew cold, there was a damp smell, and a bitter taste began to linger at the back of Veronica’s throat. She shivered.

Just as she was about to turn back, she noticed a street sign partially obscured by the hedgerows. Gingerly she pulled aside the foliage. Most of the paint had flaked off the sign leaving the bare metal, but the name was unmistakable: Hawthorn Lane.

Veronica took a step back and realised that the entrance to the lane was set slightly back so had been obscured by the hedgerows until now. She glanced back in the direction of the village. She stopped dead.

Looking back the way she’d come, things looked completely different. She could see the village green, but it looked much closer. How could she have walked for so long and yet looking back the route looked like it should have taken no more than a few minutes to walk. Also, the road had been narrow and winding, but she was now looking back in a straight line towards the village. The village that was bathed in spring sunshine, yet she stood shivering in the gloom, beneath a milky and overcast sky.

An optical illusion, perhaps? Like not being able to see the entrance to Hawthorn Lane until she was right on top of it. Veronica dismissed the whole thing. She was now wasting time and needed to press on with the reason for her visit to Sweet Little Chittering and the resident who she had come to speak with: Diana Drake. Veronica stepped through the hedgerow and into Hawthorn Lane.

She stopped abruptly as her eyes adjusted to the light, looking about Hawthorn Lane. The sky above was still the flat milky grey, but things were somehow brighter here, like a light shining through frosted glass. Hawthorn Lane resembled the other streets of the village Veronica had walked down but here things were fundamentally different.

The houses looked ramshackle. Roofs were missing slates. Paint work peeled and wooden frames rotted. The windows were grey from what looked like years of not being cleaned. Some had broken panes with filthy curtains barely visible behind. Gardens were choked with weeds that stippled out onto the lane itself. The dilapidation continued onto the surface of the lane that was pockmarked with holes and the asphalt was cracked like a dry lakebed. There was no sign of life. The lane was silent.

At the end of the lane stood a house that was larger than the rest and must have been somewhat grand in its day. However, in the same way that it was larger than the rest of the houses, its level of disrepair was also more pronounced. The structure seemed to be sagging and twisted. Held together by the climbing plants that spread from the ground up across the outer walls, obscuring many of the building’s features. Windows, of a similarly filthy state, were visible here and there.

Veronica flipped open the journal and pulled out an old photograph that was tucked between the pages. She held the photograph up, so it was in line with the house. The faded black and white image of a grand house bore the same outline as the building ahead of her. Veronica turned the photograph over – written on the back in pencil was: The Hawthorns. She tucked the photograph back into the journal and began to head towards the house.

As she walked, the crunching of her footsteps on the broken road surface was the only sound. Veronica wondered if the houses, perhaps the whole lane, was abandoned? Maybe her journey had been in vain?

Then she saw it. As she passed the second house, barely visible through the filthy window, a curtain twitched. Veronica saw the faint outline of a figure looking out through the gap. Looking out through the filthy glass, but unmistakably looking at her.

Veronica pressed on. Same at the third and fourth houses. Looming shapes at the windows.

As Vernonia drew level with the fifth house, she started at the sight in the window. The glass had been wiped from the inside and an old man’s face leered out at her. His heavily lined sallow skin, sunken eyes, and almost grey lips gave him a ghoulish appearance. Veronica made a small motion, not quite a wave, to acknowledge the man. A thin smile, more a grimace, spread across his face to revealing yellowed tombstone-like teeth. Veronica walked on.

As she drew level with the last but one house, the front door swung open. A man and woman stared at her. They were old, no, ancient in appearance. Bent backs, white wisps of hair and skin like rice paper. They stared at Veronica as they stood wavering and gripping the doorframe for support.

“Hello,” Veronica said awkwardly.

The woman made a hoarse noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, by way of acknowledgement. The man remained silent.

As Veronica walked past, their heads moved as they kept their eyes locked on her. As Veronica reached the gate of The Hawthorns she turned to look back. The woman peered around the doorway of the house, still looking at her. Then Veronica saw them. At every house along the lane, faces peered out from windows and doors that were barely ajar. The whole lane was looking at her.

Veronica paused. A feeling of unease swept over her. She wanted to flee. To run out of the lane, out of this strange, decayed place, and back towards the village.

No. She had come too far to be put off by some backward locals. She lifted the gate and pushed, the rusted hinges groaning in protest. Pushing past overgrown plants, Veronica reached the front door and knocked. She looked back up the lane. Still, they stared.

The front door jerked open causing Veronica to jump. Another ancient face moved into the light. The man was similarly stooped and frail, like the man and woman Veronica had seen in the other house.

“Yes?” a rasp of a voice escaped the man’s lips.

“I…erm…I’m looking for a Diana Drake? I believe she lives, or lived here?” Veronica smiled, more to try to put herself at ease than anything else.

Without taking his eyes off Veronica, the old man let out what was almost a cry, “Diana! Visitor!”

Veronica heard movement from within the house. An old woman lurched into view behind the man. She limped heavily but stood erect and held her head up to look Veronica in the face. Long grey hair framed her lined face and piercing blue eyes met Veronica’s gaze. There was clearly quite an age gap between her and the man.

The woman pushed past the man who shrank back into the house.

“Hello?” the old woman’s voice was clear and firm.

“Diana Drake?” Veronica enquired.

“Yes. I’m Diana, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Veronica Jones. I’m a journalist. I was wondering if I might be able to ask you some questions? About something I’ve been researching?” Veronica held out her press card.

Diana’s eyes flicked from Veronica’s face to the card, and then fell upon the journal Veronica still held in her other hand.

“You’d better come in then,” Diana smiled, then her gaze moved past Veronica and her brow furrowed.

Veronica looked back over her shoulder, and she just caught sight of the other residents of the lane darting back behind their doors and curtains. She turned back to Diana, who still smiled.

“Don’t mind them,” Diana reassured her. “We don’t get many visitors down here. Come in.”

Diana turned back into the house and Veronica stepped after her. The old man was now nowhere to be seen. Veronica paused for one last look down the now deserted lane and closed the front door behind her. She followed Diana into a large sitting room.

The room was dated and dusty, a musty smell hung heavy in the air. Diana moved to an armchair and lowered herself, stiffly, into the seat. A slight grimace of pain crossed her face. She must have been very beautiful in her youth, Veronica thought as she sat down in the chair opposite.

“I’d like to ask about…” Veronica began but was cut off.

“A drink?” Diana asked.

“Oh, erm, no I’m fine. Thank you,” replied Veronica.

“Tea?” There was an odd edge to Diana’s voice.

“Well, yes, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble?” Veronica didn’t want to waste time but equally needed to engage with Diana.

“No trouble, dear,” Diana’s gaze was fixed on Veronica. “Terry? Tea for two!” Diana called out.

“Yes dear,” came the muffled reply from another room.

Diana settled back in her chair. “What did you say your name was again?” she asked.

“Veronica Jones. I’m a freelance journalist,” Veronica replied, “I’ve been researching this area and wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s okay?”

“Well, I’m not sure what I could tell you that would be very interesting, dear?” She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but Diana’s words didn’t ring true to Veronica.

Diana motioned towards the journal. “I thought all you young people used your technical gadgets now? No more writing things down?”

“Oh, this?” Veronica held up the journal.

“Yes. That,” said Diana.

“Well, this is part of the reason I’m here.” Veronica opened the journal to its front page and held it up for Diana to see. “I found this journal in an old bookshop. A journalist named Murray seems to have started writing this in the 1950s but the dates get progressively muddled.” Veronica turned the first few pages revealing handwritten notes in fountain pen ink.

“Murray’s mother was originally from Sweet Little Chittering,” Veronica continued, “and as a child he would come back with her to visit. Over the years it seems he got to know a lot of the children in the village. Later, when he was older and working as a teacher, he came back to visit again. What he found was very odd.”

Veronica looked at Diana for some sign of a reaction, but the old woman sat attentively yet without giving away a hint of emotion. Veronica continued.

“He found that some of the children he knew from growing up, who would at the time have been young adults, were missing…”

“Missing…” Diana seemed to be affirming the statement rather than asking a question.

“Yes, missing. They’d disappeared and seemingly without a trace,” Veronica explained.

Diana showed no sign of a reaction and silence filled the room.

“Ah, Terry.” Diana looked towards the doorway.

The old man, Terry, was shuffling in with a tray. Precariously balanced on the tray was a tea pot along with two cups and saucers. Terry was so frail that it looked as if he could barely hold up the tray and walk.

“Let me help you…” Veronica began to rise from her chair.

“He can manage.” Diana’s words cut through the air like a knife.

Veronica looked at Diana and then back to Terry who continued to shuffle through the room. All the time the tray looked like it would fall from his grasp at any moment. Finally, and seemingly with great relief, Terry set the tray down on a side table. He turned to Diana and motioned towards the tray.

“Leave it. I’ll serve.” Diana’s tone sounded like it would be better suited for a command to a dog, than to a human companion.

Terry shuffled out of the room. Diana watched him go and began to rise from her chair. Again, a grimace of pain crossed her face.

“Would you like me to…” Veronica began but Diana silenced her with a raised finger.

“I can still manage,” Diana said bitterly. “It’s not old age itself that will do you in. It’s giving into old age that seals your fate.”

Diana crossed to the tray and began to pour with her back to Veronica.

“Murray, you say, that was his name?” Diana asked, not turning.

“Yes. Murray. I think he’d have been about my age, mid-twenties, when he began the journal,” Veronica replied.

“I don’t remember anyone called Murray. Why have you come to talk to me?” Diana turned to Veronica and held out the cup and saucer. Steam curled into the air from the freshly poured tea.

“Because he mentions you, by name, in the journal.” Veronica let the words hang in the air and noticed, just for a moment, Diana’s jaw tighten and her outstretched hand twitch, causing the cup to shift slightly on the saucer.

Veronica took the cup and saucer, resetting the cup as she took it. Diana seemed lost in thought and then headed back to her chair.

Settling herself back into the chair Diana asked, “And what did this… Murray, have to say about me?”

“It’s not just about you,” Veronica set the cup and saucer to one side and leafed through the journal. “Your family, the Drakes, have been in this area since medieval times. Correct?”

“Some say maybe even before that,” Diana replied with a slight smile.

“Murray had researched back and found fragmented records of the Drake family holding a sort of ‘spring festival’ here. Over time I believe that’s evolved into the village fete that’s being held today.” Veronica continued, “Murray was starting to draw a link between some of the elements of the old ‘spring festival’ and the disappearances in the 1950s.”

Veronica looked at Diana, who stared back.

“What has this to do with me? You said I was mentioned by name,” Diana asked firmly.

“Yes, but this is where Murray’s dates seem to get muddled. Murray writes,” Veronica thumbed on a few pages in the journal and continued, “that he spoke with Diana Drake, and she told him that as part of the spring festival families in the area would be obliged to send young family members to work on the Drake’s estate. However, not all the family members would return. This bit is still unclear to me, but he writes that the families forgot their loved ones had even existed.”

“Forgot?” Diana questioned.

“It doesn’t really make sense and oddly this is where Murray’s part of the journal ends,” said Veronica.

“Murray’s part?” Diana asked.

“Yes, you see, I was so interested in this story that I carried on his research and his journal.” Veronica turned a page and held the journal out to Diana. The flowing handwriting in fountain pen ink gave way to a modern handwriting in ballpoint pen. “It’s been difficult to piece together as there are very few records, but I’ve been able to map out what look like regular disappearances in and around Sweet Little Chittering, going back hundreds of years. Mentions of the Drake family persist throughout but drop off in the early twentieth century. In fact, almost all references to your family seem to stop around then. Do you know why that is?” Veronica looked at Diana.

“Times change. The importance of landowning families dwindled as people moved to the towns,” Diana mused. “In a way, we’re a relic of a forgotten age.”

“Do you know anything about the spring festival or the history of the village that you think might be relevant? Do you remember any disappearances?” Veronica started to press.

“Wouldn’t there be police records of disappearances that you could check?” asked Diana.

“I’ve checked, there’s no record of disappearances, but there are a few scattered reports of the police following up on claims made by people outside the village. Murray included,” replied Veronica.

“And what do those reports say?” Diana asked.

“That when the police followed up, there was no record of the people who’d been reported missing. Nothing at all. Murray pushed for them to do house to house enquires and no one in the village remembered them. But Murray did,” Veronica said.

“Sounds like your Mr Murray was a bit of a crackpot, dear,” Diana replied with a smile.

“No. I don’t think so. There are records before Murray that have the same pattern. Not many, but enough. Someone from outside the village reports a disappearance but no one from the village recalls the person even existed! Murray claims he spoke to you, Mrs Drake…” Veronica was cut short

“Ms Drake,” Diana corrected with a steely gaze.

“Sorry, Ms Drake.” Veronica held Diana’s gaze. “Murray claims he spoke to you, and you gave him information about the spring festival. Do you know anything that might help me?”

“Why do you say Murray’s dates were muddled?” Diana asked

“It’s less his dates and more his timeline because he describes you as being in your fifties when he spoke to you, and I can’t find a record of another Diana Drake. Here or anywhere else.”

“I’m old, but not that old,” Diana chuckled. “I’m sorry I don’t remember any Murray. As for the spring festival, you seem to know more than me. Yes, the Drakes have been in this area for a long time, but as for disappearances, I really don’t know.” Diana started to get up. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go and powder my nose.”

As Diana limped from the room she called back, “Drink your tea, it will get cold.”

Veronica picked up the teacup and drank. Perhaps this was a wasted journey. Diana didn’t seem to know anything. But Veronica still had a nagging feeling that there was more to this. She stood up and stretched, the armchair was more uncomfortable than she’d realised.

Veronica looked around the room, a layer of dust covered everything. She walked over to some framed photos on the wall. One caught her eye because it had a handwritten note across the top. She looked closer.

The photograph was black and white, it showed the village green looking pretty much exactly the same as when Veronica had walked through it earlier, but the clothes of the people showed that it was taken in the 1940s or 50s. Clearly the day of the village fete. A woman stood in the middle of the photo but, oddly, she was out of focus, or rather, her face was. Veronica read the handwritten note and froze:

Ms Drake, thank you for all your help, Terry Murray.

Veronica held up the first page of the journal. It was the same handwriting, perhaps even written with the same pen! She stared at the woman in the photo, out of focus, but slowly the image became sharper. It was Diana Drake. Younger than today, but still maybe in her late forties.

Veronica stepped back and stumbled. The room began to spin as if she were drunk. She dropped the journal and steadied herself on the arm of the chair. Her legs gave way, and she shrank to her knees. She put her hand on the side table to stop herself falling further and noticed that Diana’s teacup was empty.

“I was worried you hadn’t drunk enough,” Diana stood in the doorway looking down at Veronica.

“What…?” Veronica tried to get the words out, but her speech slurred into nothing.

Diana walked across the room and picked up the journal, fanning the pages with her fingers. She sighed.

“What a palaver! Was a time when a tribute was just offered up. Now we have to lure you in,” Diana said, as if to herself.

“I didn’t think Terry’s idea would work, but here you are.” Diana drummed her fingers on the cover of the journal. “An enquiring mind will come, he said, and come you did.” Diana turned to look at Veronica.

“People will…” Veronica slurred.

“People will come? People know you’re here?” Diana laughed. “Oh, I’ve heard it all before, dear. From many tongues, in many tongues, over many, many years.” Diana allowed herself a moment for her mind to wander.

“If I can keep those weak-minded villagers from even knowing we’re here, I can certainly make them forget about you,” Diana snarled.

Veronica rolled onto the floor and lay on her back, unable to move.

Diana knelt next to her and took her hand. Raising it to her lips, she bit down hard, breaking the skin. The pain was excruciating but Veronica couldn’t even make a noise. Diana let Veronica’s bloody hand drop from her mouth. Diana was panting.

“It renews the body, as it will renew the land,” Diana exclaimed with a note of ecstasy in her voice.

Veronica’s vison grew dark.

***

Terry Murray busied himself arranging the glasses on the table in the garden, careful not to spill a drop of the precious liquid. He looked about him. He was sure he was alone in the darkness. He lifted a glass to his lips, letting the iron rich smell fill his nostrils. He drank hungrily.

“Greedy!” Diana’s voice cut through the night air. Murray turned to face his mistress, terrified.

Diana stalked from the shadows of the house like a panther. Her jet-black hair making her blend into the night. She stopped and ran her hands down her tight, lithe body.

“Still, I can’t blame you.” Diana looked out into the night.

“Thank you, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress,” Murray hissed.

Terry’s hair darkened and his skin tightened on his face as the blood was absorbed into his system.

“Have the others done as they were commanded? Spread this upon the land,” Diana asked.

“Yes. Mistress! It has begun!” Murray motioned to the house and the garden.

The structure of the house sagged no more, and the overgrown foliage had shrunk back.

“It renews the body, as it will renew the land,” Diana said to herself and turned to Murray.

“You did well, the journal worked. It lured a good tribute. Drink your fill and then fetch the others.” Diana walked away as Murray gulped down the rest of his glass and then grabbed another.

Diana Drake looked out into the night sky. She heard Murry scurry away to fetch the other. It had been a long time since they’d fed. She walked towards the pyre in the middle of the garden. The reporter’s remains laid upon the top.

A firework rose into the night sky and illuminated the macabre scene. The villagers were celebrating the end of their fete. Diana smiled – if only they knew its true meaning. Diana turned back towards the house. More fireworks rose and burst; the flashes highlighted the shambling mass of the ghoulish inhabitants of Hawthorn Lane entering the garden. They shuffled to a halt and bowed their heads as they saw Diana.

“A tribute has come and been taken. It renews the body, as it will renew the land,” intoned Diana.

“It renews the body, as it will renew the land,” wailed the assembled mob.

“DRINK! Drink and be renewed!” commanded Diana.

Aged, claw-like hands grabbed at the glasses as the feeding frenzy began.

The now youthful Murray stood beside Diana and surveyed the scene.

“What now, Mistress?” Murray asked.

Diana smiled.

Sweet Little Chittering is coming October 29th and can be ordered now for Kindle

Chapter One (Berserker: Green Hell by Lee Franklin)

Hell?

Why had I come back?  I asked myself for the millionth time. Because you’re a coward,  came the familiar answer. Because I’d returned willingly to this purgatory, and trudged up and down all nine rings of Dante’s Inferno. Trust me, I wish it was the pit of fire and brimstone the preachers all promised.

I wish it was a place you could leave, or a nightmare that would leave you—but it’s not. Hell is an endless green; broken only by deep shadows, white blankets of rain, and cesspools of bog and mud. It’s a thick, viscous heat that rots body and mind with incessant, stagnant decay and the odour of sweating men—and that’s so bad we can’t even stand our own stench. This is where we are: in Hell—or Dia Nguc  as they call it in Vietnam.

A lot of us blokes got the call up—but I signed up.

The first time was to win Jenny’s family’s respect. The second time was because that didn’t work and, well, I had nowhere else to go because I’d lost my place at University. Mostly, though, I couldn’t handle watching Jenny’s belly grow with my best mate’s baby.

Bullets don’t give a shit what colour skin you got, and for all its sins the military doesn’t give a fuck either; you’re just a number they will chew up and spit out regardless.

Swirling black spires of smoke could be seen from six klicks out—that’s kilometres for the civilians. Within two clicks it penetrated the jungle with long, reaching fingers and we could taste the oily ash of it in our mouths. Burning bamboo, rice paddies, gunpowder, and the subtle, distinct smell of burnt flesh thickened in my nostrils as we swept in from the outskirts of the village.

It was the rice paddies we saw first; black, smouldering ash with a sheen of oil marbled on top of the water—green crops wouldn’t burn without it. The Viet Cong didn’t have oil, or flamethrowers, to waste on crop fields. We spread out wide under Hammo’s instructions, close enough to see each other through the smoke, with bandanas pulled up over our faces so we could breathe.

We were a handpicked group of specialists—

unwanted oddities in reality—and we rolled in to do our job, which was to try and make sense of this shit storm.

The brutal, dry heat of the fire battling with the humid air sapped our strength as we sloshed around the edge of the paddies looking for the road in.

There’s always a road in.

We didn’t expect any action, of course; we were just The Ghosts, The Reapers.  We were unofficially attached to whatever grunt/infantry unit was in the area, and reported informally to some unofficial JAG team. Our job started after the bullets stopped flying; we went in to collect dog tags, MIAs, KIAs, and inspect for any potential war crimes. The whole fucking war was a crime if you ask me, but nobody ever did.

Lance Corporal Azzopardi dropped to his knees. We all followed like we were in a Mexican wave. Wog-Boy, like me, was into his second tour. You could tell by the lines of disgust and profound sadness carved into his face, the way his eyes narrowed in a perpetual squint of shrewd analysis—but mostly it was the trembling, always the trembling. As I made my way over, his fingers pointed toward the ground. “What is that, Pinny?” he asked me.

Now, I’d spent all my summers with my Mother’s mob—the Wardandi people of the Noongar Nation. My Uncle Miro taught me to track with my cousins, which became my specialty and my VIP invite to this particular shit-party. We Aboriginals aren’t known for much more, perhaps drinking and football.

Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I watched as the jumps and jitters ran down my comrade’s arm to the muddy earth as he pointed to a significant depression in the boggy ground.

Studying it carefully, I replied, “That there is a bloody large U.S soldier, Wog-Boy—see the typical GI boot tread? Going on the length of the print, he must be close to six or seven-foot-tall and maybe around one hundred and twenty kilos—weight is hard to gauge in this bog. Thank God he was running away from the village.” I cast about for further prints but was unable to find anything obvious in the smouldering marsh. “Are Yanks meant to be in this area?” I asked, “I thought they were further north?”

Americans made me nervous, and with good cause.

On my first tour, back in ‘66, I’d been detached to an in-country training wing to instruct the scouts on tracking techniques. I’d just come out of the latrines one evening when I heard shouting around the back. Being a nosey bastard, I poked my head around the corner to see some LT and a group of cronies surrounding some poor Negro who was kneeling on the ground.

The LT was forcing him to lick shit from his boot.

I didn’t have any rank to pull to stop it—but I did have a fist-sized rock.

I lobbed that rock over my head and heard it clatter on the tin roof of the septic tank. I called out grenade! and watched as everyone threw themselves to the ground. In any normal situation, nobody would fall for that ruse, but in Vietnam, everyone was twitchy. Hell, I almost dropped to the ground myself.

The LT, Karey, (I found out his name later) stumbled and fell through the roof of the septic tank—eat shit indeed, sir.

After that, LT Karey’s victim, one Sergeant Marcus Hawkins, and I became best mates—until he left the war two months later after friendly fire took a chunk out of his leg.

Karey, on the other hand, eventually went to prison for war crimes after taking the lead role in a village massacre.

Marcus and I would write letters to each other; he just loved to fill me on all the happenings back home. It was Marcus who told me that the year after, when the M16s got handed out, some three hundred yanks had been killed by friendly fire—that’s in one year! There’s the consequence of armed, untrained conscripts burning their boredom and demons with a heavy mix of drugs and alcohol.

While I continued casting around for more prints, Taz squelched in behind us on his short, stumpy legs. He pushed his thick glasses up on his piggish nose, and I heard the click and grind of the camera as he wound on the film. It was a top of the range Minolta SLR—provided by the JAG—and thankfully the only kind of shot we’d heard that week.

Taz was a long way from shooting family photos at the local shops back home in Tasmania. Flat feet had him running errands for the Head Honchos back in Nui Dat until our last guy kissed a mine—then Taz got re-posted to the Reapers.

It’s a hard task out there for any desk jockey pogue, but Taz took it all in his stride. Pushing his mop of black hair out of his face, he had Wog-Boy stand next to the footprint for reference.

We were an odd mix, but it worked as well as it had to. None of us were sure what we were achieving, or even what we were really doing out there. But we were keeping someone up top happy, and I had a paycheck, so that was just fine with me.

There were no more prints, certainly nothing definite I could make out in the slush of ash and mud. I gave Wog-Boy the sign and we all continued moving on.

Even though that monster footprint was headed in the opposite direction, my hand gripped just a little tighter on my rifle. Why would a bloke that big run away from a fight?  I asked myself.  Because something bigger, or meaner was on the other team,  came the unwanted reply.

It didn’t take long for us to find the road in. It was not really a road, more of a wedge of dirt between the paddies that was just wide enough for a cart. We rolled in single file and approached the wrecked remains of the village. I immediately got to work and started casting about for any prints or tracks that could tell us a story.

Some huts were still burning, and amidst the normal miasma of death and fire there was a strong smell of bleach in the air. I had noticed it before at previous sites, but this time the acrid stink was that much stronger.

We didn’t normally hit a site so soon after the main event and it had us all on edge, so we moved fast. I cast about and indicated to Hammo and Taz the familiar GI tread in the churned up mud and mess around us. I estimated at least ten soldiers had been through the village, clearing out each building as they went.

“Hammo, Taz, come take a look at this,” I called over, confused by what I’d found.

“What is it, Pinny?”

“Are US Marines in the habit of taking their boots off and running around barefoot?” I indicated a clear trail of prints belonging to someone—or something—that easily reached over six feet tall and about one-fifty kilos.

Hammo removed his glasses and wiped them semi-clean on his filthy shirt. “What the fuck? This doesn’t make sense.”

“Look, there’s more,” Taz called out as he set his camera off snapping and grinding.

I followed the trail but there was no discernible pattern to it. While the GI boot prints were like following the yellow brick road—predictable standard operating procedure—the barefoot prints were chaotic and cut a winding, looping trail through the carnage of the village.

By now, I’d identified that there were at least two, maybe three different prints—each one running, jumping and walking sporadically. I chose one to follow and threaded my way through the village, trying to recreate the movements. I kept tripping up on arms, legs, and largely unidentifiable body parts that were strewn about the place. Corpses decorated with their own long, coiling viscera lay still in stagnant, muddy piles—one sat propped up against a pig’s pen, a dark black and red void where his jaw had been torn from his skull. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled up.

I followed the tracks into a hut. I felt a crunch under my foot and I gazed down to the hard-packed mud beneath my feet. A scream caught in my throat. It was the body of a baby, too small to have been born, its tiny head smashed open onto the dirt.

My stomach rolled and I turned to vomit in the corner of the hut’s remains. But I couldn’t stop myself before the bile arced in the air and splashed onto the body of the infant’s mother. Her stomach had been torn open and swarms of fat flies converged on the congealed blood in a convulsing wave of black. On her chest, there were two large, weeping red wounds where her breasts had been sliced off.

“Holy Mother of Christ,” Doc moaned as he stepped forward to close the mother’s glassy eyes—her poor face was contorted in terror. I watched as he scraped up the remains of the infant the best as he could and laid it gently in her arms. Doc had been a Priest back up in Queensland; he crouched next to the bodies for a few moments to whisper a prayer and pay his respects of sorts. Doc was a good man, gentle—an old soul, as my father would say. He clung to his God with a vice-like grip in the jungle, never once rising to anger or hopelessness. He had the same powder blue eyes as my old man, and that self-same anguish burning at their core. I recognised the grief. It was buried deep away to be dealt with another time—or perhaps, as in my dad’s case, never.

I put my rifle down and laid my hand on Doc’s shoulder in the way of support as I tried to find words to console him. As usual, I came up with nothing. As with most blokes of my generation, talking about our feelings just wasn’t a thing.

“I know in war people die, soldiers die—and die badly. I expected that. But this? This isn’t war, this is madness.” Doc spoke so softly I only just caught his words.

“It’s madness alright, Doc, and it’s getting worse the further north we head. This is the third village we’ve seen like this in as many months. Ain’t nothing much you and I can do about it—if this is what they do to their own people.” I tasted the bullshit in my own words.

Doc shot me a look as he stood up and peeled off his rubber gloves. The sweat that had pooled in them spat across the room. “You really think this was the VC?”

I couldn’t meet his eyes so I stared at the horizon instead. I recalled the scuffle of prints outside, and unless the VC were wearing size ten GI boots, or had doubled in size overnight, then no. “Fuck man, I don’t know.” I hawked a wad of smoky phlegm from the back of my throat out through where the hut door had once stood.

“Why would the US be doing this shit, man? It doesn’t make any sense.” Doc swung his arm out around at the village as he walked away. “This isn’t war. This is just mindless bloody slaughter.”

Our section head, Hammo, sent us out in pairs to clear what remained of the huts. I had seen enough and looked no closer than I had to. Puddles marbled with blood and mud told a story that was no fairy tale.

Everyone I found was dead—violently dead. It was not the kind of death that women, young children, and old men should suffer. It was a massacre.

What remained of the bamboo huts had been peppered with rounds. I pocketed a few casings that belonged to AK-47s, and some I didn’t recognise.

We cleared what remained of the huts. Doc followed through behind us, checking pulses—if there were places on their bodies left to check, that is. A few of the bodies had been shredded by gunfire, but most had been butchered.

Eyes burnt into my back, somebody—no, something—was watching, waiting. The mood grew dark and ugly amongst us as we all picked up on it. And, as usual, there was nothing we could do. Nothing we were meant to do, just gather pieces of a puzzle for some other schmuck to piece together.

An explosion from behind us made my guts lurch before I heard it. I was hot on Doc’s heels, all eyes out, as we swarmed towards the position. We found Hammo limping away from the dust and smoke.

“Booby-trap,” he grunted. He clamped his hands over his ears as blood trickled out onto his jawline. With his coke-bottle lenses cracked and knocked askew, he winced in pain as he showed us all the mangled flesh of his calf.

“Well, that’s a one-way ticket home, Hammo.” Doc sighed as he threw his medic kit on the floor and set to work.

A sudden rattle of automatic weapon fire broke out in the village; bullets whined, thumped and tore chunks out of the wreckage around us.

Launching ourselves into the quagmire of mud and gore, we searched desperately for any form of cover.

I saw a flash of blonde hair as Snowy popped his head up first. A bullet kicked up dirt in front of his face just before he rolled away. I watched him indicate two shooters: nine and eleven o’clock. I passed it along the line before I crawled towards a pile of bamboo to take cover.

Hammo and Chook were well back with Doc, who was bandaging Hammo’s gaping leg wound the best he could with his stomach flat to the ground.

Chook squelched and fired off into the radio.

Wog-Boy waved at me from the remains of a hut across the way; he had Stevo and Macka tight on his ass.

Snowy was behind the hut. Taz and Cam crouched behind me on my left hand-side, flat up against the side of a pig pen.

Stevo and Macka shuffled forward under our covering fire so they could use the M60s to full effect.

The SLR kicked my shoulder like a donkey in retort.

A blood-curdling cry broke out, and in the corner of my eye, I saw Snowy getting pulled in under a bamboo screen. He was kicking and ramming his rifle at someone behind him, but just couldn’t shake him. I started to make my move over to him when I heard Taz scream out, “GRENADE!”  over the  ratta tatt tatt of the rifles.

As I hugged the dirt, the explosion punched my insides, and I lay there unable to breathe. White dots flashed over my eyes as I watched Snowy’s mop of white-blonde hair get pulled below that screen. Helpless, I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t move. A hand grabbed my shoulder and dragged me back to the side of the building just as a bullet bit the dirt in front of me. My stomach unravelled, and I was able to grab a mouthful of air. Within seconds, despite my aching ribs, I was back to it, and I watched Wog-Boy and Taz scramble over to help Snowy.

I leaned against the hut, still trying to catch my air. I couldn’t believe my eyes when a mountain of a man sprung out of the haze of smoke. He screamed with bloodlust, and his lips peeled back to reveal a set of chipped, stained horse-teeth. The whites of his eyes glared as he tore towards us with his body jerking as our rounds slammed into it.

Without pause or hesitation, the big guy flew straight into Cam’s unsheathed bayonet. At close to six foot, and one hundred kilos of hard, rugby muscle, Cam was not a small fella, but this man—this aberration—bulldozed through him and his bayonet like they weren’t there. He drove them both into the ground with a massive thump of flesh.

Cam grunted in pain as I ran over to heave the other man off him. I could see the tip of his bayonet poking through the man’s lower back, and the multitude of red flowers blooming on his shirt where he’d been shot— but he was still trying to choke Cam to death with his huge, meaty hands. I lifted my rifle and fired two shots straight into the side of the big man’s head—that finally did the trick!

I wiped his blood off my face and checked on Cam.

Blood splattered, pale, and gasping for breath, Cam gave me the thumbs up as we stared in shock at the soldier.

He was Vietnamese, and dressed in rags like a farmer; as with any of the Vietnamese we encountered, he could easily have been from either side. He was ludicrously massive for a local—who would typically average five foot nothing and fifty kilos soaking wet.

The footprints must’ve belonged to him.

The man’s face was a picture of devastation. It was torn, shredded, and threaded with half-healed scars—those landmines were a bitch. It was the stink of him that turned my guts inside out, though. He smelled like someone had just shat in a bowl of straight bleach.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I helped pull the dead weight off Cam. I then raced off to where I last saw Snowy with Wog-Boy and Taz.

Snowy was curled up in a ball in the corner of the trench where he’d been dragged. He was soaked in blood, and I saw his bayonet slick with the stuff and shaking in his hand.

Wog-Boy lay exhausted with blood splattered on his face and massive welts on his forearms where his rifle sling hung around their attacker’s throat. It looked just like he’d had garrotted the Vietnamese guy until Taz could make the killshot with a double tap to the head.

As with the other guy, this one was unusually large for a Vietnamese; he was punctured with at least ten stab wounds from where Snowy had stuck him like a pig. His ugly-ass face also looked as if it had been kissed by the same landmine as the other big bastard.

“He wouldn’t die, he wouldn’t die,” Snowy repeated as his blue eyes blazed with shock in a stark contrast to the thick curtain of blood that coated his hair and face. I pulled him out of the hole. Wog-Boy wriggled the bayonet out of Snowy’s grip while I called out for the Doc.

“Wog-Boy, we gotta evacuate now! Let’s hustle!”

Hammo roared. “The bastards are going to light us up—the Yanks are coming in.”

Ice-cold sweat broke out down onto my back. With was no time for questions, it was time to haul ass. I grabbed Snowy by the shoulder, pushed him forward, and shouted at him to run. We then followed Hammo, who was draped between Macka and Stevo. Chook took the lead back through the paddies towards the treeline, and made it only about five hundred meters before we heard the roar of the F100 tearing through the sky.

Where the hell had they come from so quickly? Ragged and exhausted, our adrenaline kept pushing us deeper into the jungle as we prayed we’d make it.

The air was sucked out of my lungs moments before the searing heat engulfed our bodies. Skin tingling as my nerve endings were singed, I was encased in a ball of heat…

Pain was a good sign; any burn past the nerve endings in your skin was bad news. When you felt nothing,  your flesh was melting off your bones, your body was shutting down through shock, and you were seriously fucked up. I gasped for air like a drowning man, but found nothing but hot carbon monoxide that seared my lungs; all of the oxygen and moisture in the air was instantly vacuumed up by the voracious appetite of the napalm.

Stumbling, I pulled a shocked Snowy along through the undergrowth, as the black dots that swam in front of my eyes grew larger until they dominated my vision.

Finally, I fell unconscious to the floor.

I don’t know if it was seconds, minutes, or hours until I woke up, but when I did, my skin was wrapped taut and hot over my body, and every breath rattled painfully through my scorched lungs.

Moans of agony echoed all around me. I jerked my head up to see Woody, a tall lanky fella from Intel, wandering lost through the jungle. He was only fifty meters or so behind the leading group, and his clothes had completely incinerated. All exposed parts of his flesh bore a weird look of white leather as he stumbled around aimlessly before eventually collapsing on the jungle floor.

I heard Doc flitting about, his voice low and calm as he checked on each of us. I watched his shoulders slump as he walked over to where Woody had last been seen.

Struggling to my feet, I checked out my body as I converged with Hammo and the rest as they made their way in silence. With his injured leg, Hammo had pushed Macka and Steve ahead of him and had been closest to the back with Woody. Most of his hair was burnt off, and ugly blisters covered his back. Still, he was alive and incredibly high on Doc’s precious stash of morphine. He was one lucky bastard indeed! Thank fuck they hadn’t used phosphorus in that bomb, or none of us would have made it.

Chook was about one hundred meters in front of us and had to backtrack. Never had I seen the young fucker run so fast.

“Did you call that aircraft in, Chook?” I asked.

“No. I had no chance to. Only found out they were coming because I picked up some American channel.”

I saw that his radio was still intact, and he was already calling in a situation report. His face grew even paler as he relayed information to Wog-Boy.

With Hammo doped up on morphine, Wog-Boy had suddenly found himself promoted into a complete cluster-fuck. We were on the wrong side of the valley, and the area would be inaccessible for days. With a forty kilometre trek around, we would not be making our rendezvous.

It was time for a plan B.

“Okay, boys, we’re rolling out in thirty minutes. Get your shit sorted and see Doc if you need to. Macka, Cam, I need you boys to make a stretcher for the boss man here.” Wog Boy indicated the stupefied Hammo.

“Pinny, I need you on that map. Work with Chook to find us an extraction point—or at least a medivac for Hammo. Taz, you and Snowy run an ammo and ration check, and then try finding some water. Then we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

Chook and I managed to organise the medivac. The best access for a bird was ten kilometres North West through the scrub, and to a small plateau. We had twelve hours to get there for a pickup at 0700 the next morning.

It was Hammo’s best—and only—chance. We would then have thirty-six hours and a fifteen kilometres trek south for a vehicle pickup for ourselves.

Berserker: Green Hell is available here.

Check out Lee Franklin’s website here.

Autumn Leaves (from Monsters in the Dark)

Donovan ‘Monster’ Smith

A light breeze cascaded through the neighborhood, sending goose pimples up Leia’s forearm like rapid fire. She rubbed at it, trying to dispel the cold as she walked to the next house over. She’d wanted to go as one of the princesses from her favorite films but wound up being a pixie instead. It was her mother’s idea, a decision she wasn’t very happy with.

“Come on Eliah, hurry up,” chirped Leia.

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know.”

“Mom said we have to stay together,” she whined.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck babysitting,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m not a baby, Eliah,” she said, her feelings hurt.

This was Leia’s first time going trick or treating without her parents chaperoning. They had let her go with the promise that Eliah would watch over her the entire time. Unfortunately for him, he was tasked with babysitting his seven-year-old sister, although he’d much rather have gone by himself.

Eliah was fifteen years old and looking forward to starting his freshman year in high school soon. He felt he was old enough now that he shouldn’t have to keep tabs on his little sister anymore. He had his own life to live, and he would have preferred the company of his friends.

He followed Leia up to the last house on the corner of the street, escorting her to the front door. There were spookily carved jack-o’-lanterns lighting up either side of the front door, along with a bloody welcome mat for aesthetics. The owners had switched their normal light bulbs for black lights, to add to the eerie Halloween theme.

They walked up to the door, managing to avoid the flood of kids receiving their candy. One was dressed as a clown, another as a werewolf, and yet another was wearing a scary looking skull mask to compliment his jeans and plain white tee. Their buckets were overflowing with treats, and Eliah was insanely jealous.

He knew his bucket would be just as full if he didn’t have to drag his bratty sister alongside him.

They approached the door and Mr. Park opened it slowly, greeting the kids with a “Happy Halloween” and a smile.

He was an elderly veteran in his late sixties and had been a fixture in the neighborhood for nearly two decades — a lot longer than Eliah or his sister had been alive. He was stiflingly friendly and was extremely fond of the little ones throughout his neighborhood. He was always polite and willing to help with anything he could. He was slow on his feet, thanks to an injury he suffered back in his military days, and he strode with a limp, never going anywhere without his trusty old cane.

Leia smiled back. “Trick or treat, Mr. Park.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest little thing,” he said, all smiles. “What are you supposed to be, a fairy?”

“I’m a pixie,” she said enthusiastically.

“I see,” he said. “Well, you sure are the cutest little pixie I’ve ever seen.”

Leia giggled, and Eliah shook his head to express his displeasure at the small talk. He stuck his nearly barren pillowcase out for his share, thanking Mr. Park once they were finished. It was coming up on eight o’clock – almost time to call it quits but there were a few more streets to cover before they headed home, and Leia was excited to continue the quest.

As they journeyed to the next street over, Eliah happened to run into a few of his classmates, including Cari Worthington, the girl he’d had a crush on since middle school.

Oddly enough, she was dressed as a dancer, wearing knee-high black leather boots, a snug halter top, and the hottest skintight booty shorts he’d ever seen. His eyes bulged out of his head, like one of those old cartoon characters he used to watch on Saturday mornings when he was a kid.

He tried to play it cool, offering up a casual, “Hey, Cari.”

“Hey,” Cari replied. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Oh, nothing really, just getting candy.”

“Me too,” she said and held up her bag. “How did you make out?”

“Not too bad,” he said. “I’m about half full.”

“Yeah, me too. Jane over there, though, is making a killing. This is her fifth neighborhood tonight.”

Eliah glanced at the girl’s bag and was surprised to see it overflowing. She must have hit every neighborhood in town.

“That’s a killer costume,” he said, hoping not to come off as creepy.

“I like yours, too. What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a mafia hitman. You like the suit?”

“Yeah, it looks good on you,” she coyly replied, and shot a smile his way. “We’re going down to the old Potter Mill right now. Wanna come with?”

“I’d love too, but…” 

“Mom said you have to stay with me,” interrupted Leia. “I’ll tell on you.”

“Shut up. Go away,” he snapped, embarrassed and hoping Cari wouldn’t make fun of him for being out with his little sister.

“I’ll tell on you,” snapped Leia.

“It’s cool if you can’t come,” Cari responded, flashing a flask full of booze she’d copped earlier from her old man’s liquor cabinet at home. “Guess we’ll have to have fun without you.”

She winked at him, saying “We’ll see you later,” and disappeared into the shadows around the corner.

It was the first time she’d ever asked him to tag along, and he wasn’t able to because he was stuck watching over his snotty little sister. He was sick to his stomach.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” he barked angrily. “Sometimes I wish you were never born.”

“That’s mean,” said Leia, her eyes watery and red around the edges. “I hate you!”

***

Walking down the street after hitting a few houses, Eliah noticed a smattering of insects dancing under the streetlights. The air had grown a few degrees warmer and muggy, giving him a weird vibe as they neared the end of the street. There were only two houses left to hit on Clapton Drive – the Thompsons’ and the Wicks’.

The streetlight flickered above their heads as they made their way to the last house on the street, the Wicks’. As they drew closer, Leia saw a stuffed scarecrow sitting in a chair by the front door. Having seen those sort of things before, she knew what was about to happen.

“He’s going to jump out at us,” she whispered to her brother with a smirk.

“Duh,” said Eliah, still angry at his sister. “Mr. Wick does the same thing every year.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” she snapped back, her feelings hurt once more. “You’re no fun tonight.”

“Neither are you,” he replied snidely. “Let’s just get this over with. It’s almost time to go home.”

Suddenly, as they were arguing, Mr. Wick, dressed in his fake scarecrow costume, jumped out at them.

“Arrrggggghhhhh,” yelled Mr. Wick as he stumbled toward them.

Leia was caught off guard, and she just about flew out of her shoes. Eliah had been waiting for Mr. Wick to pounce on them and scare them, and he couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the expense of his little sister. She was such a scaredy-cat, easily spooked by her own shadow.

“Good one, Mr. Wick. You scared her good,” he said, laughing.

“Shut up, Eliah,” she screamed at him.

“Now, now, children,” said Mr. Wick through the latex mask.

She stuck out her bag. “Trick or treat,” she said, her heart still pounding from the scare.

Mr. Wick grabbed the bowl of candy he’d laid out for the trick or treaters and let them each grab a handful. He wished them a goodnight and sat back in his chair, sitting still, playing possum for his next victim.

As they finished and began toward the last street of the night, Leia tripped and banged her knee.

“Are you all right?” asked Eliah.

“My knee, it hurts,” she said with watery eyes, inspecting it.

“You’re so annoying. Get up.”

“You’re the worst brother ever,” she yelled. “I hate you!”

They were rounding the block, approaching the last street of the night before calling it quits, when they bumped into Henry Little.

Henry Little was the highly disliked neighborhood bully, who was always getting himself in trouble. He was known for getting into fights and causing destruction, occasionally spending some time in juvenile detention centers.

Recently, over the past few weeks, Henry had taken a strong disliking toward Eliah. Anytime he saw Eliah around, he made a point to pick on him, for whatever reason he could make up. Eliah had guessed the reason to be that Henry was simply jealous of him.

Tonight, Eliah was completely caught off guard when they rounded the corner and ran into Henry, next to the oleander hedge.

Bugs attacked Henry’s neck, and he smacked at them like a mental patient who just escaped a hospital. One of the bugs splattered on his neck and palm, and Henry rubbed the guts on his jeans.

He spat at Eliah, hitting his shoe. “Well, look who we have here,” he said, with an evil grin spanning from cheek to cheek.

Eliah didn’t know what to do; his main concern was getting out of there as fast as he could. He didn’t want his sister around a hoodlum like Henry. She didn’t need to be exposed to someone so vile.

“What do you want, Henry?” asked Eliah impatiently.

“Looks like I hit the jackpot tonight,” said Henry, laughing manically.

“What jackpot?” asked Leia, catching a nudge from her brother.

Eliah glanced down at her and shook his head slightly from side to side, subtly informing her not to say anything.

“Looks like I’m going to be elbows deep in candy tonight,” Henry chuckled.

“What do you want, Henry?” asked Eliah once more, waiting for a reply.

“I want your candy, dumbass.”

“You can’t have our candy,” blurted Leia, catching another nudge from her brother.

“I can take whatever I want,” he said, laughing as if he’d just said the craftiest thing ever.

“That’s stealing,” she chirped.

“And what are you going to do about it?” he snarled, glaring at Eliah.

Suddenly there was a grumbling noise coming from their right, amongst the oleander hedge.

Out of the blue, Eliah recalled a memory from when he was younger. He was around seven or eight at the time. His Uncle Jimmy told him a nasty, quarter-century-old story about a monster that lived in the oleander hedges around town.

He warned Eliah to keep an eye out and never get too close, “or the oleander monster will get ya,” he would say. Uncle Jimmy told him that the oleander monster fed on the souls of children and young adults. He said it would eat the bodies of its victims and absorb their souls for energy.

All those thoughts raced through his mind in a matter of seconds, and he took a step backwards, remembering what his uncle had told him. He never really believed in the tales his uncle told, often chalking it up to his warped sense of humor.

***

The air flexed with anticipation, and bugs circled in droves under the soft yellow glow of the streetlight. Henry paid no attention to the sounds coming from the oleander hedge, instead aiming his aggression at Eliah and his sister. The temperature had risen at an alarming rate over the last minute as they stood there sweating.

Henry noticed beads of moisture sliding down Eliah’s forehead, thinking highly of himself. “Either hand it over, or I’m going to beat you to a pulp,” he demanded.

“Henry, come on man,” said Eliah. “Don’t take our candy.”

“Hand it over or I’m going to smash you up,” he said with fire in his eyes.

Eliah handed his bag over. “Here, take mine, but let her keep what she’s got. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Hers too,” said Henry, puffing out his chest. “Hand it over.”

“No. You can’t take hers,” said Eliah.

“Your choice,” said Henry, and he swung at Eliah.

His fist connected with Eliah’s cheek, and immediately Eliah clutched at the side of his face. His cheek swelled instantly as his face turned bright red.

“What did you do that for?” cried Leia, concerned for her brother’s safety.

“Hand it over,” demanded Henry.

Leia lowered her head, disgusted at the bully, and stuck her bag out for Henry to take. There was nothing she or her brother could do about the situation. It was beyond them. Henry reached for Leia’s bag, when all of a sudden the bushes started moving.

Eliah let go of his face and watched as something breached the hedge, covered in leaves. It was thick and slimy, with dying yellowish green leaves plastered to it like some otherworldly sculpture. Henry had his back to the hedge and couldn’t see it stretching for him. Leia saw it coming and stood there slack jawed, staring at the thing in awe.

Without warning, the thing grabbed a handful of Henry’s shirt, yanking him into the oleander hedge. Henry screamed at the top of his lungs, but there was no one in sight to help. He kicked and punched at the thing, trying to get free.

“What the fuck?” he yelled. “Help me! Help me!”

The thing drug him into the oleander hedge, disappearing amongst the leaves. Eliah couldn’t help himself and just had to see what grabbed Henry. He parted the hedge and peered in, trying to get a clean look at the thing.

It was made up of gooey grey mush, with leaves stuck to it like skin. Deep crimson, vine-like veins twisted all over, just under a layer of leaves. Eliah watched as the thing opened its slimy, saliva-drenched mouth and bit down on the top of Henry’s head.

There was a sickening crack as Henry’s skull was split open by the monster’s powerful bite. It chomped and chewed on the skin and bone, smacking its mouth, enjoying the delicious meal. Eliah was mesmerized and couldn’t seem to pull himself away.

Henry’s left eye opened, looking right at Eliah, as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. Skin and tissue fell from the monster’s mouth as it continued to eat. Henry’s leg twitched, kicking out at the air, and Eliah knew he was almost dead.

Leia managed to get her head under Eliah’s arm, wanting to see what was happening. She saw the monster and instantly started screaming. It startled Eliah, breaking him out of the trance he was in.

“Get back, Leia,” he yelled.

“Oh my god,” she cried. “Is he dead?”

“Don’t look! Don’t look, Leia! Stay back,” he said in a state of confusion.

Henry raised his arm, a final attempt to reach for help, and the monster’s mouth snapped down like a bear trap, taking a bite out of Henry’s exposed brain. It looked like spaghetti smothered in sauce, and Eliah couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He let go of the hedge and bent over, putting his hands on his knees, trying to gather himself.

Suddenly, he heard Leia screaming and turned around just in time to see her feet disappearing into the hedge. The thing had grabbed her and drug her off into the oleanders. As scared as he was, he mustered up all the guts he could and parted the hedge, searching for his sister.

The monster was holding her in the air, its dripping, gooey claws clenched tightly around her waist. It looked at Eliah, almost smiling, like it knew a dirty little secret that he didn’t. It tilted its head, as if to get a better angle, and opened its mucky mouth, ready for the next course.

“Get away from her,” he yelled in a panicked frenzy. “Leave her alone!”

“Eliah,” she said, drowsy, half conscious, her eyelids drooping.

His mind was spinning this way and that, and he had no clue what to do. But he knew he had to get his sister. He summoned all the grit he could and forced himself into the oleander hedge.

It felt like a sauna inside the hedge, and Eliah quickly became disoriented due to the dense humidity. Henry’s body was lying on the ground next to the monster, half eaten, discarded like a chicken bone. Half of his head was missing, and his right arm was nowhere in sight. Blood and chunks of brain matter were sprinkled all about like cookie crumbs.

He made eye contact with the monster, catching its gaze as it paused what it was doing. It had shiny yellow eyes with black, vertical pupils, like a cat. Its eyes were hypnotizing and frightening, like the eyes of some unknown ancient race. Its mushy wet skin was crawling with worms, cockroaches, and various other bottom feeders.

Eliah wiped the sweat from his brow as the insects swarmed like vultures. The monster stretched its mouth wide, taking a bite out of Leia’s neck, splashing the surrounding leaves with blood. He could see the life draining from his sister, and knew he had to do something quick.

The monster munched another mouthful of Leia’s neck and instantly her head drooped as she slipped into a state of unconsciousness. It had a voracious appetite and continued to gorge itself on the body of his sister as Eliah watched in terror.

“Leave her alone!”

The monster raised its head, staring right at him, as pieces of flesh and bone tumbled out of its mouth. It continued to sloppily chew with its eyes firmly fixed on him, never once wavering. Blood poured from Leia’s head wound, washing her face with a mixture of grey mush and sticky red liquid.

Suddenly, Eliah heard voices coming from the other side of the hedge, and his heart raced at the prospect of help. It sounded like trick or treaters on their way to the next street over, probably the last of the night. He was already late getting home, and he knew that soon enough his parents would start looking for him and his sister.

“Help!” he cried out, but there was no response. “Someone, help me!”

He turned back just as the monster took another chunk out of Leia’s neck, dripping blood like gravy.

The thing was hideous, a forgotten obscenity, an abomination of mankind. It roared at him with an unquenchable, ravenous hunger that couldn’t be satisfied — no matter how much it ate.

There was nothing left he could do for his sister; she was already dead.

He turned to leave, fearing for his own life, not wanting to be the creature’s next feast. As he tried to exit the hedge, ruffling and squishing sounds drifted over him like a lullaby. He glanced over his shoulder one last time and saw the atrocious monster, two feet back. He grabbed at the hedge frantically. Just as his hands touched the leaves, he was yanked backwards into an infinite darkness.

***

Red and blues lit up the street as men in uniforms meticulously raked over the crime scene. Cones were placed at either end of the street, blocking any traffic, and yellow caution tape surrounded the oleander hedge.

“Hey Pranke, come take a look at this,” said one of the officers.

“Damn Jameson, I’ve never seen anything like that before,” replied Officer Pranke, parting the hedge.

“I’ve got a child over here; a female,” said Officer Jameson, inspecting the body.

“I’ve got two more over here; males, teenagers,” said Pranke, wiping the sweat from his face. “One’s missing a head. Anyone see a head around here?”

“Look at this,” said Jameson, touching a slimy grey spot on the shirt of the headless body.

Officer Pranke started toward the street, when suddenly there was a ruffling behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something coming at him, followed by a sloshing sound.

Monsters in the Dark is now available for Kindle and in paperback here. Coming soon to Audible.

CHAPTER ONE (The Vegas Rift by David F. Gray)

Road Trip

Tragedy brushed my family in the fall of 2013.

On the morning of October 7th, I left my house for school, coasting down the driveway of our tidy, red brick suburban home on my shiny, black Schwinn Sidewinder. It was cold that morning. My mother wanted to drive me, but I had been begging her for weeks to let me ride my bike. At fourteen, I was two years away from getting my license, but I was also only one year away from high school. All my friends were riding their bikes to school and I did not want them to see me getting a ride from mom. Besides, she had to take my younger brother Doug to his elementary school, which was six miles in the opposite direction. She finally gave in and spent the next several years blaming herself for what happened.

My name is Samuel Franklin Carr…Sam to my friends. I grew up in a small town called Independence. It might not have been as idyllic as Mayberry, like in the old Andy Griffith show, but it was a great place to be a kid. Nestled in the beautiful hills of northern Kentucky, it was surrounded by thick woods and lush farmland. The neighbors were good people who looked out for one another. My friends and I hung out at each other’s houses and if we trudged home a little after dark, the worse that happened was that we were scolded for being late for dinner. It was that kind of town.

I took off that morning, peddling down the sidewalk that ran next to Madison Pike. I remember waving at a few of the neighbors and getting waves in return. My school was on the other side of Independence, which wasn’t saying much. It took me all of five minutes to scoot through the center of town, which included a city hall, a couple of churches and a handful of small ‘mom and pop’ stores. I made it through to the other side, turned right at Maple Street, and burned rubber. There was now nothing between me and my school but open road and empty fields.

That’s the last thing I remember about that day. Later, my mom and dad explained to me that Fred Carson had been working all night at Brooks Dairy Farm a few miles south of my school. He had been pulling double shifts for several weeks to help defer his wife’s medical expenses. Fred was a good man in his late sixties with a weak heart. He had no business putting in those kinds of hours, but he loved his wife and was willing to do whatever it took to see to her needs.

He fell asleep at the wheel. His battered pickup swerved across the narrow two-lane road and smashed into a cluster of trees. In a perfect example of the worst timing ever, I was passing those trees at that same instant. He hit me head on and sent me flying a good thirty feet. It would have been further, but a thick, sturdy oak tree blocked my flight path. I smashed into the trunk and fell to the ground, unconscious and bleeding from dozens of cuts as well as a gaping hole in my abdomen, courtesy of a sharp, broken branch jutting out from the tree.

But for the fact that Ruth Foster had been following Fred after dropping off her son at my school, I would have bled out in minutes. Ruth saw the whole thing and pulled over immediately. She had her mobile phone with her and called 911. While she was telling the dispatcher about the accident, she pulled off her slip, wadded it up and pressed it against my gushing wound.

Paramedics arrived ten minutes later. I was airlifted to St. Jude’s where the trauma team went to work. Fred was not airlifted anywhere. The coroners arrived on the scene twenty minutes later. One of them took charge of Fred’s body, which was slumped over the wheel of his truck. It took them another fifteen minutes to find his head.

I did not regain consciousness for several weeks. My bodily injuries were bad enough; a lacerated liver, a collapsed lung, two broken arms and four shattered bones in my right leg. Far worse was the damage to my skull. The head trauma caused my brain to swell. I was placed into a medically induced coma while the doctors did everything they could to save my life. My mom told me that within twenty-four hours of arriving at St. Jude’s, my heart stopped three times. The third time I was gone for almost two minutes.

This was my first death.

The doctors nearly gave up but finally managed to get a heartbeat. Long story short, the swelling went down in my brain and they were able to repair my skull with several small metal plates.

It was a long road back. When I finally did regain consciousness, I could neither move nor speak. For that matter I could barely think. It was as if I was lost in a thick, swirling fog. Faces would appear in my narrow field of view. I felt as if I should know them, but they were strangers.

I slowly regained a little movement in my arms and legs, and bit by bit my mind started to clear, but two months later the seizures began. I was sedated and the strangers, who I now understood were my parents, were told that I could very well be dealing with these seizures for the rest of my life.

It took me six months before I could speak without slurring my words. It was another three months before I could manage to take a few steps with the aid of a walker. My memory slowly returned, but for a long time it was as if I was seeing my past life through thick gauze. I knew the faces of my friends and family. I could remember events like birthdays and holidays, but I could not feel them. Eventually I got it all back, but like I said, it was a long, painful journey.

My physical therapist warned me that I might never regain the full use of my body. I gritted my teeth and set out to prove her wrong. Months of work slowly paid off. I regained the use of my legs and managed to walk again. The seizures continued, but they slowly lessened until they finally disappeared altogether.

As I worked to get my body back, something wonderful happened to my brain. The specialist I saw on a weekly basis told me that sometimes, when injured, the brain can actually rewire itself. It can form new neural pathways and create new synaptic patterns. In short, the undamaged parts of my brain began to take over functions once performed by the damaged sections.

By the time I turned seventeen, I was running five to six miles a day. Seeing how driven I was, my dad bought a bench and a set of weights. Thanks to that, and the guidance of my physical therapist, I bulked up considerably. My hair grew back. My face had been relatively undamaged, and the rest of my scars were hidden by my clothes. As for school, I had to play some serious catch up, but I managed to graduate just one year late. Because of my grades, I even scored a full scholarship to Ohio State.

There were permanent changes. I understood that I would carry the physical, mental and emotional scars for the rest of my life. My legs ached when I pushed too hard or when the weather changed. I never rode a bike again, even though I could not remember getting hit. That did not bother me too much, since I had my license by my seventeenth birthday. Driving was never a problem.

There was something else. Every now and then, I felt the world around me grow…well, ‘thin’ is the only word that fits. It was as if the entire universe was nothing more than a heavy, theatrical curtain, and if I could figure out how to do it, I could pull that curtain back and see what was hiding behind it. I chalked those feelings up to the way my brain was now wired and got on with my life.

I graduated in 2017 and promptly left for Ohio State, where I studied structural engineering and architecture. I discovered that I liked designing and building things. Three years later Doug graduated. I came home that summer and we decided to take an old-fashioned road trip…one last fling before we ended up in different states and only saw each other for weddings, births and holidays. Mom wasn’t thrilled about us dipping into our savings and less than thrilled that we were going to be spending a lot of long days on the road. She had nearly lost one son to an accident and had no desire to tempt fate.

My dad shrugged and said something to the effect that if we did not do it now, we never would. Adulthood, that dreaded reality that included full time jobs, mates, children and mortgages was charging at us head on. And so, on a sparkling May morning in the year 2020, we packed the used but sturdy Subaru that had been my graduation present, hugged mom and dad goodbye and started driving.

I can’t begin to describe what we were feeling as we drove away from our house. The excitement, the sense of adventure and, above all, that feeling of absolute freedom was intoxicating. We were laughing like fiends and screaming like banshees. Any cop would have pulled us over on suspicion of driving under the influence. In time, we settled down and focused on our trip.

Doug had two passions…film and American history…in that order. Because of that we had spoken in front of our parents about taking a tour of some of the ghost towns that could be found in states like Arizona and Nevada. It sounded like fun and we honestly planned on hunting down a few of the more obscure locations. However, we had serious ulterior motives. As we put some miles between ourselves and our home, one single destination was on our minds…Vegas.

For years I had been fascinated by ‘Sin City’ and the chance to see it for real was irresistible. Doug was way too young to legally drink or gamble, and I was barely twenty-one, but we figured that there had to be some kind of trouble we could get ourselves into. If nothing else we would take in a few of the ‘safer’ shows, girl-watch by the pool and gorge ourselves at the buffets. To ease any feelings of guilt, we visited a couple of the lesser known ghost towns hidden away in New Mexico, but as soon as our consciences would allow, we put the empty desert behind us and set our course for Nevada.

Not long after that, on a hot, dry spring morning, we found ourselves cruising down Las Vegas Boulevard, better known as the Strip. We checked into our amenity-filled room at the big green MGM Grand, grateful to be out of the desert heat. We cleaned up, stuffed ourselves at the buffet and hit the Strip. As we walked, we gawked at the massive hotels like a couple of farm boys seeing the big city for the first time. We took it all in, passing the Bellagio, Planet Hollywood, the Flamingo and finally drawing even with Caesars Palace.

We were about halfway past Caesars when I sensed a sudden blur of motion to my left. I heard a sharp ‘snap, snap’ and someone shoved a laminated flyer into my stomach. I had been staring at the fountains in front of Caesars. I had seen them in a dozen different movies and had to admit that seeing them in person was something of a letdown. They were a little smaller than I had imagined. 

I took the flyer out of sheer reflex. I glanced down at it and saw that it featured a nude female model named Brandy, along with a toll-free number. Doug snickered like a grade school kid who had just found a stack of Playboys in his dad’s closet. With a righteous glare I dropped it. Brandy joined flyers for Sky, Sparkle and thousands of other um, professional ladies carpeting the pavement.

I glanced at the flyer’s source and saw that it was a tiny, stoop-shouldered Hispanic woman who had to be in her seventies. A second look revealed a line of people not unlike this woman, all of them handing out flyers. They were a mixed bag; Hispanic, Caucasian and African American. They were men and women, tall and short. Most of them had seen the other side of fifty and all of them had the same beaten down look that spoke of a hard life bereft of hope.

Ignoring me, the old woman took another flyer from a stack in her left hand and flicked it twice with her right thumb, producing the snapping noise that had caught my attention. She practically shoved it into a middle-aged man’s ample gut. Like me, he took it and gave it the once over. Unlike me he shoved it into his back pocket.

It was my first glance into the darker side of Vegas and I found it deeply disturbing. We were surrounded by some of most opulent hotels and restaurants on the face of the earth and yet here, across the street from one such hotel, stood this line of broken human beings. I grew up in a middle-class bubble, insulated from hunger and homelessness by hard working parents. I had dealt with my share of pain and setbacks, but looking at the faces of those people, I realized that I had no clue what it meant to experience true hopelessness.  

“You should’ve kept her,” said Doug, oblivious of the dark turn my thoughts had suddenly taken. He nudged me with an elbow, forcing my attention away from the line of people.

“Huh?”

“I think that she was your type,” said Doug with a smirk. “I could see the two of you settling down and starting a family.”

“Shut up,” I growled. That earned me another smirk and a chuckle. Doug elbowed me again and we moved on. He knew better than to push it. I was still hurting over Marcy. I haven’t really said anything about my love life, mainly because there’s nothing to tell. Rather, there’s a story, but it’s a short one, and it goes a little something like this.

Boy meets girl while a senior in high school. Boy dates girl. Boy falls head over heels in love with girl. Boy goes to college. Girl goes to college. Boy waits for girl. Girl hooks up with college senior. Girl dumps boy.

Anyway.

We walked as far as the Treasure Island, did an about-face and headed back to the MGM. We were not used to the desert heat and by the time we passed Harrah’s we were both drained. I could feel my skin drying out and my lips starting to chap. I made us cross the Strip before we got back to Caesars, ashamed that I did not want to see that line of broken people handing out their flyers. We were within a block of the MGM when Doug nudged me again.

“Stop that,” I snapped.

“Check it out, Sam,” he said, pointing across the strip to our left. “There’s a multiplex back there.” I followed his finger and saw an opening between the Grand and a line of shops. Through the opening I could see a wide walkway that ran maybe twenty yards or so away from the Strip. From there it made a sharp left. On the wall opposite the Grand was a multi-colored sign that read ‘Cinema on the Strip’. “Come on,” said Doug. He jogged to the nearest crossing, waited for the light and then headed toward the opening.

“We come to Vegas and you want to see a movie we could probably see at home?” I wasn’t really surprised. Doug was a film buff of the highest order, leaning mostly toward the fantasy and science fiction genres. He loved it so much in fact that he had been accepted into the film school at UCLA. I had a strong hunch that I would be reading my brother’s name on the credits of some Hollywood blockbuster not many years hence.

We entered the walkway and moved away from the crowded strip. I took a deep, grateful breath. The shade provided by the high walls on either side fell over us. It was a good ten degrees cooler and I shivered as the sweat dried on my back and neck.

I glanced at the sign as we walked past. There was no arrow pointing the way to this theoretical multiplex but since there was only one way we could go, directions were not needed. The only other point of interest was a pair of Styrofoam cups, like the kind you get at Starbucks, lying on the pavement below the sign. They somehow looked lost and forlorn. We turned the corner and followed the walkway to yet another ninety degree turn to the right.

“I don’t see any theater,” I said as we walked. It was weirdly quiet. My words felt muffled. The high walls on both sides made me feel small and insignificant.

“Probably just ahead,” said Doug. We turned another corner and he pointed. “There.” Sure enough, there was a large marquee bolted onto a wall over four sets of double doors. The glass was tinted dark enough to render the interior invisible. Doug read the list of offered movies quickly.

“Yes!” he cried out in glee.

“What?” I growled. I wanted to get back to our room and make plans for the evening.

“They’re showing Forbidden Planet,” said Doug. I followed his eyes and saw the title of the movie in question glowing in bright red LED letters. Next to it in smaller letters, I saw ‘Limited Engagement …Today Only’.

“So?” I asked. Doug shook his head, exasperated at my indifference.

“You liked it when I showed it to you in the hospital. Forbidden Planet; MGM, 1956, starring Leslie Nielsen, Walter Pigeon and Anne Francis in some of the sexiest outfits to come out of that decade.”

“I remember the outfits,” I said. “They were the best thing about it…that and the guy from those God-awful Airplane movies.”

“They’re hilarious,” said Doug, affecting a lofty attitude. “You’ve just got no taste.” He waved at the marquee. “I’ve been dying to see it on the big screen for years.”

“You’ve already seen it,” I said. “In fact, you’ve seen it more than once. Why waste what little time we have here in Vegas?”

“Hello? Big screen,” said Doug. “To see a classic like that the way it’s meant to be seen will be a treat!” I pointed back to the Strip.

“We’re in the middle of America’s playground and you want to waste time watching a movie from the fifties?”

“It’s got Robbie the Robot,” said Doug.

“Oh, well that’s different. I mean it’s got Robbie the Robot.” My mockery phased him not at all.

“It’s a serious science fiction movie,” said Doug. “You don’t get many of those. Come on, watch it with me.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I liked movies just fine, but my tastes were decidedly different from Doug’s, running more toward the action/adventure genre with small doses of horror on the side. My brother snorted, disgusted by my lack of culture. He scanned the marquee and glanced at his watch.

“The next showing is in ten minutes,” he said. “It’s cool inside. We can see the movie and then figure out what to do this evening.”

“No thanks,” I said. “You want to waste your time, go right ahead. I’m going to head back to our room and see what shows are available tonight.”

“Anne Francis,” said Doug. “Miniskirts. That alone is worth the price of a ticket. You might actually enjoy yourself. Stranger things have happened.” He was so earnest that I almost relented, but the long days on the road had taken their toll. I was ready for a short nap in a cool, quiet room followed by a good show accented with a little bit of Vegas nightlife. The PG-13 version of course.

“You go ahead,” I said, reading the marquee. “This thing is a little over ninety minutes long. Have fun and meet me back in the room as soon as it’s over. I’ll find us something to do tonight. You got any preferences?”

“Boobs,” said Doug, smirking. “Whatever you find, make sure it has a lot of boobs. And I mean a lot…like twenty-five at least.” My brother could never fail to blindside me with his sense of humor. I barked a laugh and headed back down the corridor.

“You’re too young for boobs,” I said over my shoulder.

“I’m exactly the right age for boobs,” he replied.

“I don’t think mom and dad would agree,” I said.

“Mom and dad aren’t here. I’ll see you back at the room.” I waved and he disappeared through the darkened doors.

I threaded my way back to the Strip and rejoined the massive parade of tourists as they gawked at the sights. Curiously, we had not encountered anyone else from the moment we entered the walkway. There had been no one coming in or out of the theater and I had not seen anyone through the darkened glass doors. I put it down to the fact that, like me, my fellow tourists did not come to Vegas to go the same kind of multiplex that they could find in their hometown.

I got back to our room and thumbed through a magazine that listed a gazillion shows. I settled on a pirate themed magic show at the Treasure Island. It looked like fun, although unfortunately for Doug there were no boobs. Rather, there were plenty of boobs, but they were properly covered. Not that it mattered. Doug could not have gotten into any of the more risqué shows. Even if he had a fake ID his boyish face screamed ‘underage’. He would just have to settle for the skimpy but tasteful costumes worn by the showgirls of the Treasure Island.

I used my trusty iPhone to secure two tickets for the early show. As soon as I got the confirmation I stripped down and took a long, hot shower. Pulling out a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, I fell into one of the full-sized beds and turned on the television. The long day and the cool room conspired against me and within minutes I had fallen into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

The door slammed and Doug shouted at me. I jerked awake, annoyed and a little angry at his thoughtlessness, but when I rolled over I saw that the room was empty. My head ached and I rubbed my temples. That feeling of thinness is always strongest when I first wake up and this time was no exception. I sat up, blinking my eyes, and for a few moments I felt as if I could almost reach out and touch that curtain. I got up, stumbled to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. The thinness faded but did not disappear. Like the bedroom, the bathroom was empty. My brother was nowhere in sight. The light coming through the window had that late afternoon feel and when I glanced at the clock, I saw that it was nearly six.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I shuffled back to my bed, grabbed the remote and turned off the television. Whatever police procedural was playing disappeared. I figured it was something from that show that had jolted me awake.

I wasn’t worried. My kid brother was probably wandering the Strip, taking in the sights. The idea that anything might have happened to him did not cross my mind. Despite the fact that he had a marginally decent head on his shoulders, he was easily distracted. In my mind I saw him leaving the theater, heading back toward the MGM and something, probably one of the many free shows that dotted the Strip, catching his attention. For that matter, he was probably somewhere inside the mammoth Grand, taking in the lion habitat or grabbing a quick snack.

I grabbed my iPhone off the bureau and thumbed his number. It rang for a while and then went to his voice mail. That bothered me a little, but I figured that the idiot might be wandering around the casino watching the guests lose their money. It was certainly loud enough down there that he might not hear his phone ringing, although he should certainly feel it vibrating. I tried again with the same result. The second time I got his voice mail I left him a terse message.

“Hey dick weed, we’ve got an eight o’clock show at the Treasure Island and it’s too late to return the tickets. Get your ass in gear and call me.” I tossed my phone onto the bed and tried to figure out what to do. I considered going to the show without him. He could find his way there easily enough. It would serve him right, but the more I thought about it the more worried I became. Granted, my brother was an idiot, but he was not a thoughtless idiot. While I could imagine him getting distracted, I could not imagine him ditching me like this.

I wandered over to the wide window overlooking Las Vegas Boulevard. We had splurged to get a Strip view and it was worth it. The late afternoon sun was giving way to twilight. Across the way the faux skyline of the New York, New York glowed in the dusk. I could see a steady flow of traffic, both mechanical and human, moving along the Strip and wondered where my brother could possibly be in that massive sea of humanity.

I leaned my forehead against the warm glass. The idea of looking for him was ridiculous. Even if he was in the hotel, the Grand was so large that I could wander around for the rest of the year and not find him.

“Come on, you idiot,” I whispered, my breath fogging the glass. “Get back here. Call me. Send up a flare.” I tore myself away from the view, plopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. When that got old, I got up and looked out of the window again. Nightfall was coming hard. I knew that it was ridiculous, but I half expected to see a tiny Doug jumping up and down on the Strip far below, trying to get my attention. A few minutes later I sat down on the small couch beside the window and continued to wait.

Sometime around seven I gave up. Half angry, half worried, I got dressed, went down to Guest Services and had them print out a copy of Doug’s ticket. I went back to our room and carefully placed it on the corner of his bed. I emailed him a copy for good measure and, with nothing else to do, stormed out of the room.

The evening crowd was gradually replacing the day crowd. T-shirts and jeans were giving way to sports jackets and sexy evening dresses. The elevator was crowded on the way down and the casino was starting to hum. I wandered through row after row of slot machines trying to spot my brother. The beeps, trills and electronic fanfares of the brightly lit machines slowly grew more and more annoying. The lights seemed to flash directly into my eyes as if they were trying to blind me. The sounds became harsh, metallic and jarring. Time seemed to disappear.

As I prowled up and down the aisles a terrible feeling hit me. There was no way out. I was lost, doomed to wander through the casino forever. My mind curtain fluttered, as if it was going to pull back, and I was suddenly certain that I did not want to see what lay behind it. I bulled my way through another row of slots. When I came to the end, I caught a glimpse of the hotel lobby to my left. I stifled a cry of relief and hurried towards it. Once there I managed to regain a little bit of my equilibrium. I crossed the lobby and made my way outside to the Strip.

Suddenly I was so homesick I could taste it. All I cared about at that moment was finding Doug, getting our stuff and getting the hell out of Las Vegas. I wanted to see my parents again. I wanted to be back at our house, enjoying the simple sensation of being a part of a family. I wanted to go home.

I stood at the edge of Las Vegas Boulevard, watching the throng of people as they passed by. Behind me the Grand glowed bright green. The light spilled on the faces of the crowd, giving their skin an otherworldly hue. Every now and then one of them would glance at me. I suddenly felt as if I was being watched. Of course, in Vegas, you are always being watched. There are cameras everywhere, especially in the casinos, but even so I could not shake the feeling that I was somehow being singled out.

I finally decided to retrace our steps from earlier that afternoon. It was a hopeless long shot. The Strip was packed with pedestrians. I could have passed to within a few feet of my brother and not seen him. I eased into the flow of the crowd and headed toward the multiplex, but after several minutes I realized that I had somehow passed the opening to the corridor. I tried to go back but the crowd’s momentum pushed me forward.

I finally managed to turn around but now the crowd was blocking my way. They pushed past me in their eagerness to get to wherever they were going. I got more than a few glares. Someone shoved me aside with a curse and disappeared into the crowd. In frustration I darted to my right and managed to join a stream of people heading in the opposite direction. I kept looking for the opening but a few minutes later I was back at the main entrance to the Grand. I edged out of the flow of humanity and tried to think.

My choices were fairly simple. I could go to the show by myself and hope that Doug found his way there. Or I could go back to our room and wait, but for some reason I felt as if I needed to find the multiplex. I turned around I tried again, walking slowly. I almost missed it, but this time I forced myself to focus. It was like trying to wade through a river of molasses, but I finally saw the entrance. I had nearly passed it again but at the last second glimpsed it out of the corner of my eye. I turned back, bumping into a young couple who had been tailgating me. I got a nasty look and a muttered ‘asshole’ for my trouble.

I threaded my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes on the entrance. I had the crazy notion that if I looked away for even a second it would disappear. The glaring lights from the Strip penetrated only a few feet into the opening. Beyond that there was only darkness. I stepped into the corridor. The light faded and I had to give my eyes a few seconds to adjust.

The first thing I noticed was that the ‘Cinema on the Strip’ sign was no longer there. I stared at the barely illuminated wall, wondering if I had somehow found the wrong corridor, but a moment later I saw the pair of Styrofoam cups lying on the pavement.  

Since leaving the MGM I had been growing more and more worried about Doug. Now, seeing that bare wall, I suddenly knew beyond doubt that something was wrong. I moved on, penetrating deeper into the corridor. The curtain in my mind fluttered again. I moved slowly, my head down and my shoulders hunched. I felt as if the high walls on either side were going to come crashing down, burying me under tons of rubble. I turned the first corner and the glow from the Strip disappeared entirely. Only the dull gray light from the full moon overhead, reflecting off the walls, provided any illumination.

A few minutes later I turned the final corner and saw the theater. The marquee was dark, and I could see nothing beyond the doors. I stopped about ten yards away, trying to make some kind of sense of what I was seeing. There was no light of any kind coming from the theater; no security lights, no exit signs…nothing. The place was obviously closed, although I could not imagine why.

“My brother is in there.” I don’t know why I said that out loud, but in the instant I did I knew that I was right. Doug was somewhere inside that building. Not only that, but he was in trouble…as in serious, life threatening trouble.

My first impulse was to get back to the Strip, find a cop and lead him to the theater. I took a step backward, but I suddenly understood one single fact. If I left now, I would never find my way back. The corridor, the theater and above all Doug would be forever lost to me. I don’t know how I knew that. Maybe something was leaking out from behind my curtain. It didn’t matter. I knew.

I finally got up the nerve to do what I knew I was going to do since I reached the theater. I walked over to the nearest door and gave it a tug. It opened easily, which again made no sense. If the theater was closed, it should have been locked. My heart felt as if it was going to pound its way out of my chest, but I managed to step inside.

A split second later my stomach clenched. I bent over and the remains of the MGM lunch buffet surged up my throat and splashed onto the floor. My body began to shake. A fierce wave of dizziness hit me. I barely managed to stay on my feet. I heaved again and again until the spasms finally passed. Gasping for breath, I spat the rest of the sour chunks out of my mouth and moved away from the disgusting puddle of puke. I don’t know how long it took, but I finally managed to get myself under control. The nausea and dizziness receded, although neither disappeared entirely.

At that moment, my fear nearly got the better of me. I looked at the doors. The world beyond was invisible. Half of my mind was screaming at me to get out of there, get back to the Strip and flag down a cop. The other half knew that it would be useless. If I left, I would never see Doug again.

For a moment, both halves hung in perfect balance. Then I turned and slowly moved deeper into the building. It wasn’t courage or even desperation that drove me. It was the unbearable idea that I would have to face my parents with a single bitter truth; I had abandoned their youngest son.

I shuffled forward another few feet, but again stopped. I could not see anything in what I figured had to be a foyer or lobby. If someone was waiting for me in some kind of elaborate trap, I would be helpless. I’m no weakling. The years of physical therapy and weight training had made me stronger than I had ever thought possible, but I was hardly a trained fighter. The two scuffles I had gotten myself into in high school were little more than glorified shoving matches. I would be no match for an armed assailant.

A sense of dread had been growing in me since I had stepped off the Strip. The quiet corridor where no one else was around, the dark multiplex…none of it made any sense. None of it was right.  Far worse, I could not shake the idea that I was already too late to save Doug.

I tried to shove that idea away and get a hold of myself. I took a few steps forward but for the third time I stopped. I realized that there was no way I could go bumbling about the entire multiplex. I remembered from the marquee that there were eight individual theaters. The idea of finding them, let alone searching them in complete darkness was not just terrifying – it was impossible. Going back to the Strip and buying a flashlight was also impossible.

I pulled out my iPhone, squinting at it as it lit up. I thumbed Doug’s number but once again it went straight to his voice mail. I glanced at the power gauge and groaned. I had not charged it since that morning and it was down to less than a quarter charge, so even though I had a flashlight app on it, it wasn’t going to last long. I didn’t have a choice. I turned on the light and held it high above my head.

I was in a mid-sized foyer. Directly in front of me was the ticket booth, encased in Plexiglas. Like the rest of the multiplex it was deserted. On either side was a set of swinging double doors. I glanced at the floor and saw that it was covered with some kind of dark tile that reflected the light from my phone. Other than the ticket booth, the foyer was empty. I edged to the right and pushed through the doors.

The lobby was much larger than the foyer. Along the opposite wall was a concession stand. To either side were halls that led to the individual theaters. To my right I could see a small alcove that held maybe a half dozen video games and a couple of pinball machines. None of them were working. I kept moving forward, expecting at any moment to be rushed by some axe wielding serial killer.

A quick glance at the concession stand confirmed what I had feared since entering the building. The Cinema on the Strip was definitely closed. And not just closed. It was abandoned. There were no candy bars or milk duds or snacks of any kind behind the glass. Along the back wall was a long counter that at one time had probably held popcorn machines and soda dispensers, but they were long gone. From the dust on the glass and the stains on the wall it was obvious that this place had been closed for a long time. And yet, just a few hours earlier, I had seen a marquee listing both current movies and one decades old science fiction classic. Nothing made sense, so I put a lid on my thoughts. At that moment, what this place was, or even why it was, was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was finding my brother.

Phone held high, I headed into the hall on the right. I could barely see the four sets of double doors, two on each side, that led to the theaters. They were placed about thirty feet apart, two sets at the head of the hall, two at the rear. Over each set was an electronic sign that indicated which movie was playing, but like the rest of the theater, they were dark. The black tile gave way to what might have been red carpet, although in the darkness I could not be sure of the color. Bolted to the walls were large metal frames that held movie posters of current and coming attractions. At first, I thought that they were empty, but as I moved deeper into the hall, I saw that one frame still held a poster. I got close enough to see that it was for Forbidden Planet. There was Leslie and Anne, and a large walking machine with what looked like a popcorn popper on his head…the famous Robbie the Robot. The glass that covered the frame was broken, and the poster was frayed along the sides. Even in the faint light of my phone, I could see that the colors had faded, as if it had been neglected for years.

“Trap.” I don’t know why I said that word out loud, but the instant I did I knew that I was right. I was walking into a trap, the same trap that had taken Doug. “Trap,” I said again. My voice was dull and distorted, barely audible, and yet my throat suddenly felt raw, as if I had just screamed. “Trap,” I said for the third time, and now it was worse. My voice seemed to emanate from somewhere outside of my body…and it did not sound human. In fact, it sounded the opposite of human…not inhuman, but anti-human. It was harsh, guttural, and it was the single worst thing I have ever heard. For an insane moment I had the nearly overwhelming desire to grab my throat with both hands and rip it out of my neck. I never wanted to make that sound again.

I could not even guess what Doug had seen or heard when he had entered the multiplex. Maybe he had perceived it as crowded, with each theater operating normally and the concession stand open for business. Maybe the instant he had walked through those doors he had been caught and taken to…where? I had no idea, but as I looked at that battered poster, I knew where I was going next.

The swinging doors to the theater were wide open, as if beckoning me inside. I obliged and stepped through them, only to be met with a blank wall. To my right a narrow hall ran to what I assumed was the actual theater. I followed it for about fifteen feet to where it ended in a ninety-degree left turn. Straining both eyes and ears, I turned and kept going. I expected to emerge into an empty theater. My imagination was running wild and I would not have been surprised if the instant I saw the screen it would light up and begin to play some cheesy horror movie. Instead I had not gone more than a few yards before the top of a staircase appeared in the floor, leading down into even more darkness.

Doug was here, I thought. He went down these stairs. I inched forward and held my phone toward the black rectangular hole in the floor but all I could make out were the first four or five steps. I glanced behind me but there was nothing but more darkness. It felt like a living, breathing thing, and I fancied I could hear it sneering at my tiny pool of light.

I went down the stairs.

Looking back, I think that was when I reached the point of no return. If I had turned back at any time before that I might have made it back to the Strip. I would have abandoned my brother but at least I would have reclaimed my place in the world. The instant my foot touched that top step, all of that was off the table.

I don’t remember how long it took me to traverse that staircase. I don’t remember how many steps there were, although I have a vague memory of trying to count them. I do remember reaching the bottom after what seemed like hours and I remember seeing the floor as it slid into view.

The carpet on the stairs gave way to dull gray stone. I stepped onto the cold surface and froze. I stood there for long seconds, listening. The air felt thick and cold, and I knew that if I said anything, my voice would sound worse than it had in the hall above. The walls, like the floor, were smooth, unadorned stone. Ahead, another hall led into darkness.

I took long, slow breaths that sounded unnaturally loud in my ears. I could feel the weight of uncountable tons of dirt and rock hanging over my head. My shoulders hunched and I was suddenly sure that the ceiling was going to give way, burying me in an unmarked grave far beyond my world of light and happiness.

I managed to take a few steps forward. When nothing happened, I picked up my pace. The hall was relatively short, at least compared to the staircase. After what might have been five or ten minutes I came to a plain, gray metal door. There was no lock, just a handle. I grabbed it and pulled, but it did not budge. I gave it a shove and it moved easily. I opened it just wide enough to squeeze through…

…and stepped outside.

The Vegas Rift is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

Hardback editions exclusively available through Barnes & Noble.

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These three drabbles are from charity anthology It Came From The Darkness, in aid of The Max the Brave Fund.

Death Penalty

Theresa Jacobs

“It came from the darkness, so black it couldn’t be seen. But oh, I felt it.” Mark shuddered, eyes wide.

The doctor nodded. “Uh-huh. And what was this, it?”

“Pure evil, in its truest form.” He hissed, “Essence.”

“Well, Mr. Nolan, I find you perfectly sound. You’ve passed every test and I will not have you committed. You will be facing the death penalty for what you did to those people.”

Laughter boiled from Mark’s lips, his eyes rolled to the whites, his tongue cleaved in half and he leapt upon the doctor. “No Doc, you face the death penalty.”

Honeycomb Face

Eric LaRocca

It came from the darkness in the pit of my throat – a small honeybee the size of a dressmaker’s thimble. As I rubbed the precious cargo I’ve carried in my stomach for nine months, my husband looked at me with a wordless question.

I smeared sweat as thick as honey dripping from my forehead, my fingers gently massaging the tiny pinhole that had sprouted in my cracked skin.

Stomach curling, I sensed my insides harden as if they were suddenly made of cooling wax – a droning chorus of larvae beginning to crawl through me, a hive finally about to burst.

What Shadows Eat

Lou Yardley

It came from the darkness, made of shadows, doubt, and despair. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I knew it was looking at me. Staring. Studying. Night after night, day after day, it came to me. It became all I thought about.

Sat in the centre of my room, the shadow made a noise. It may have been a growl or stomach rumble. The trouble is, I didn’t know what shadows liked to eat.

I offered it my hand, but it didn’t lick or bite a finger. Instead, it swallowed me whole. It consumed me.

Now I’m in the darkness.

It Came From The Darkness is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.