Hiding in the Dark – Short Tales of the Macabre
Published by Ben Crofton at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Ben Crofton
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Table of Contents
When the Butterflies Start
The woods surrounding Lucile’s cabin were as terrible as they were beautiful. During the day they shined with the resplendence and vitality of nature, but at night they grew sullen, brooding, and were full of a sentient malevolence that Lucile could not explain.
At first, she’d fought with herself about whether or not to sell the cabin. It sat secluded at the foot of a giant hill near the edge of town, enveloped by the woods that covered the land for miles. Only a small moat of prairie grass and a narrow gravel driveway broke the monotony of the trees, features that Lucile had loved in happier times.
Now, things were different. Earnest was gone, and the woods were not the same. Nevertheless, the cabin was an ideal place for her to live out the last years of her life, and Lucile knew that she’d never work up the resolve to sell it anyway. It was special to her - it had been her and Earnest’s weekend getaway, and the thought of some stranger living there was almost more than she could bear.
After his death, she’d sold the condo they had shared in the city, intent on settling down to a quieter, simpler life. Out here, she could go days without seeing another human being. Only rarely did anyone venture beyond the boundaries of the nearby town, and she was only forced to go there when in need of groceries or other necessities.
Her only problem was the fear.
It came with the dusk, creeping with the shadows that moved slowly across the hardwood floors of the cabin, working its way into her mind like a hungry parasite. At sunset, her routine was always the same: every curtain on every window was drawn, every door locked. She’d take a glass of water and two pieces of dry toast up to her room, where she’d lock her bedroom door behind her. She would stay there until sunrise, and no matter what noises carried across the stillness of the night air, she would not allow herself to look out of the windows until the light of morning.
She supposed that she was just being foolish, and that the fear merely stemmed from one terrible memory.
But it’s over. That happened a long time ago.
She stared at the TV for a moment longer before picking up the remote and switching it off. The Five O’clock News was on, which meant that the sun would set in a couple of hours.
She cooked a light dinner for herself, which she ate at a small wooden table that sat out on the deck. As she chewed her food she thought of her husband. The loss still stung after all those years, as she supposed it would for the rest of her life. As she gazed into the woods, she wished that he were there with her.
The woods always reminded her of Earnest; he had loved them so much. He’d been an outdoor enthusiast, hunting and fishing until the day his arthritis had gotten so painful that he could barely walk on his own. He had been miserable the last few years, not because of the pain, but because he could no longer do the things that he loved. Seeing him like that had always hurt Lucile more than anyone could have imagined.
She finished her last bite and sat back, allowing the food to digest. Her eyes continued to take in the forest, and she smiled. For the time being, she felt no fear. At that moment, the woods were to her what they had been when Earnest was still alive – peaceful and beautiful.
She sat outside until the shadows of the trees had grown to a length that announced the approach of the sunset, and stood up when the first telltale quivers began to work their way up from her stomach.
When the butterflies start, it’s time to close up.
The woods seemed to watch her as she took her plate inside and closed the door behind her, and she shivered. After locking the bolt, she brought her soiled plate and silverware to the sink and set them down. She would tend to the dishes in the morning.
She made her way around the cabin, shutting the blinds on each window. When she had finished, she walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt.
She went back into the kitchen and got a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. She put two slices in the toaster as she filled a glass with water from the tap. Soon, she was on her way up the stairs, listening as the aged wood creaked under her weight.
She walked down the short hallway to the second bedroom. As she entered, she paused for a moment and closed her eyes, just as she did every evening. She stood still and silent, breathing deeply.
I will never forget you.
After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and crossed the room to the single window that sat in the far wall. She untied the curtains that hung beside it and allowed them to fall across the panes, then turned back to the hallway.
Back in her own room, she closed the curtains over each window and shut the bedroom door. She placed a frail hand on the stainless steel lock, twisting it until she heard a satisfying click. Certain that all was well, she put her nightgown on, turned on the television, and climbed in bed. She watched into the evening, ignoring the fear as it swelled within her.
Around nine, she switched the TV off and lay down on her back. Her stomach fluttered and churned, sensations that she ignored with well-practiced resolve. She breathed deeply, gradually coaxing herself into sleep.
Suddenly her eyes snapped open. The fear exploded through her, reaching a level that she had seldom felt before. She sat up and put a hand on her thundering chest, forcing herself to take slow, steady breaths.
She lay in bed for a few more moments, wondering why the fear was so intense, when she heard something.
There was movement outside. Something was making its way through the woods, off in the distance. She swallowed hard, and began to tremble.
Last time this happened was more than three years ago.
The thing that troubled Lucile the most about the woods was the eerie predictability that had settled about them since her return. During the day they were vibrant, full of the sounds of squirrels, birds, and insects. At night, no crickets chirped, no creatures foraged – there was no movement at all. Except on rare occasions. And when the movements came, the fear was intense to a point that bordered on hysteria.
She’d always told herself that she was a woman of reason: rational, logical - not some superstitious fool. Nevertheless, it was after she had heard the sounds for the first time that she had decided to lock her doors and close her blinds each night, and above all, to never to look out of the windows after dark again, even if the woods were completely still.
As she continued to lie in bed, the sounds grew louder. Brush rustled and twigs snapped. Whatever made the noise grew nearer.
That can’t be. It’s never come this close.
But there was no denying what her ears told her. The sounds continued to grow more defined, like the thrashings of an animal with a wounded limb, blundering its way through the foliage.
Then, the rustling stopped. Lucile continued to listen, trying to hear past the blood that rushed through her ears. Her body grew rigid as she heard a new sound worm its way up from the darkness, one she hadn’t heard in years.
A thick, revolting moan tainted the stillness of the night.
Lucile’s knuckles whitened on the coverlet. She glanced back over at the window as the sounds of something coming through the woods began again, certain that she could see whatever it was if she pulled the curtains aside and looked out.
But you won’t. You won’t, because you don’t want to know.
The rustling continued, growing louder and closer, until again the noises ceased. Lucile lay in bed, breathing quickly, listening as hard as she could. One minute went by, then another. Still, she heard nothing.
It’s gone. It must have gone back into the forest.
Yet the fear persisted. It festered in her mind, corroding her senses like acid.
It’s all right. Calm down. Please, calm down.
Then she froze, listening intently once again. She’d heard something downstairs. She continued to listen, and felt her terror grow even more as a faint scratching sound made its way through the house.
It’s at one of the windows! It’s trying to get in!
The sound of breaking glass echoed through her home, and she bit back a scream. More glass shattered, and she heard something large hit the floor.
My God, it’s inside!
Frantically, she switched her bedroom light off.
It’s too late. It’s already seen the light from outside. It knows where I am.
She heard something approach from below. It walked with an uneven gait, seeming to totter about as it made its way to the stairs. Lucile heard another crash, one that she identified as the ceramic lamp that she kept on a small table near the foot of the steps.
Her grip on the coverlet had grown painful by the time she heard the creak of the old wood as the thing put its weight on the first step. The stairs protested again as it continued to climb.
There was complete silence for a moment, until its languished cry came again, more sickening and clear than she had ever heard it, bubbling up from the depths of a ravaged and corrupted throat.
Unable to fight her terror any longer, she screamed aloud, not horrified by the sound’s otherworldliness, but by its uncanny resemblance to a human voice.
To his voice.
She screamed again as she heard it coming down the hall, and again as it began to throw its weight against the solid oak of the bedroom door.
At the first hit, the door cracked. The second yielded a wider fissure, and on the third the door erupted inward in a shower of splinters. Lucile screamed again as she shielded her eyes, feeling her arms begin to bleed as they were peppered by flying scraps of wood.
She noticed the stench of decay even before she raised her eyes to stare at what stood in the doorway, and she saw what it was with a horrific clarity made possible by the sickly pale glow that emanated from its sagging frame.
It stood lopsided, on legs bowed and blasted with rot. It was clothed in the remnants of jeans and a flannel shirt, and its decayed face seemed dominated by the blackened teeth that grinned from beneath its shriveled lips. Only one of its eyes remained, hanging down its face on a string of moldy tissue, while the other socket was empty save for a pinprick of dull red light. Flaps of tattered rags and decomposing skin hung from its bones, swinging sickeningly as it took a lurching step forward.
“Luke,” Lucile whispered hoarsely. “My God, it’s you, isn’t it?”
The thing groaned again, a sound that was as mournful as it was repulsive. It took another step forward.
“It was an accident,” Lucile said, a hot tear running down her cheek. “We never meant for you to suffer.”
The thing paused, tilting its head, appearing to listen.
“I should have known it was you. I’ve felt you, Luke. I knew you were out there. Listen to me. What happened was an accident. It was a horrible, horrible accident. Your father and I didn’t mean for you to suffer, I promise -”
The thing roared with a ferocity that belied its seemingly fragile person, and it thrust its bony hands violently forward.
“Luke, please. You
have to understand. You have to know how much we loved you. We
wanted you to have a proper burial, but the police wouldn’t have
understood. They would have put your father in jail, Luke. He would
have been locked up for the rest of his life.”
It took another
shaky step towards the bed. Its mouth fell open, and a stream of
black, stinking liquid ran down its chin.
“Listen,” Lucile said, beginning to speak more quickly. “Your father never got to tell you how sorry he was, how much he regretted what he did. That argument between you and him . . .it wasn’t supposed to turn out the way that it did. It wouldn’t have turned out that way, not if your father had been sober. We had to do what we did, Luke. There was no other way.”
It took another step forward and the sound came again, lingering on in the cramped space of Lucile’s bedroom, resolving itself into an aberrant semblance of human speech.
“I. . . .WASSS . . . .ALIVVVE. . . .”
Lucile wept openly.
“I know,” she said. “I know you were. We went back the next day, and found one of your hands sticking up out of the dirt. Your fingers were bloody. We knew that you had tried to dig yourself out.”
The thing stepped forward again, muttering something that Lucile could not understand. It reached towards her. She reeled from the stench, and shuddered as its rotting hands closed around her throat.
“Luke. . .I’m . . .sorry . . .”
It began to squeeze.
#
Excerpt Taken From The Peeksville Times
Wednesday July 19, 2007
Bizarre Circumstances Surround Woman’s Death
An elderly woman was found dead inside of her home Tuesday afternoon, Peeksville Police Capt. Douglas Johnson said today.
Lucile Moore, age 72, was found in her bed at approximately 1:30 pm when a local beauty shop owner called police after becoming concerned when Moore missed a morning appointment.
“Her hands were wrapped around her own neck,” Johsnon said. “We also found wounds consistent with strangulation.”
Johnson said that authorities had not completely ruled out foul play, though he admitted that evidence at the scene did not seem to indicate that foul play was involved.
“There were no signs of a struggle, no signs of a forced entry to the home,” Johnson said. “This is without question the strangest case I’ve ever seen.”
An autopsy was scheduled for Thursday. . .
Heirloom
The back room in Tyler’s basement had always been a repository of useless or broken items, crammed from wall-to-wall with things that most people would have happily thrown away. To describe him as a packrat would have been wholly inadequate; he was a merciless hoarder, refusing to part with any of his possessions no matter how far beyond use or repair they were.
For Tyler, the legion of tightly packed junk had a meaning that went far deeper than the conventional notion of ownership. Each thing he possessed was an integral part of him, intertwined with his psyche in a way that not even he could completely understand. The mere thought of harm coming to anything in his room filled him with an uncontrollable panic; he could no more destroy or discard an object from that space than he could cut off his own arm.
Even the room’s newest addition had a place there, despite having filled his heart with revulsion for as long as he could remember.
It was a portrait of a wealthy gentleman standing in a library. The man wore a powdered wig, gilded waistcoat and dark brown overcoat. A white lacy collar flowed down over his chest. His grandfather had willed the painting to him after his death, a hateful prank that had filled Tyler with rage.
He knew how I felt about that painting. He knew, and he stuck me with it anyway.
As a boy, Tyler visited his grandfather often. His father had died when he was very young, and his mother, forced to provide for herself and her small child on a relatively menial wage, was prone to anxious fits during which she would pack a suitcase for Tyler, shuttle him off to her father’s, and not return for several days. Tyler did not understand what these “anxious fits” were, nor did he know where his mother went when they occurred.
He had asked her about them once. Her expression had gone strangely blank, and her eyes had filled with tears.
“I get them from my father,” she had said with a voice that quavered slightly, “just like he got them from his father. We’ll have to hope that they’re not something you’ll ever have to deal with.”
He had never understood what she meant, or why the question had upset her so. All he knew was that he had no desire to see his mother in such a state, and he silently vowed never to bring up the subject again.
Whenever he visited his grandfather, Tyler would spend the majority of his time in the sitting room, on an old leather couch that smelled of must and liniment. He was forbidden from most parts of the house, and was only allowed outside on the rare occasions when the old man was in the mood to accompany him.
His grandfather would always take the chair across from him, silently gazing at Tyler with his sunken corpse-eyes, mumbling about the painting.
“Do you see the man?” he would say in his maddeningly high voice. “Look at him. Look at the man. Do you see him?”
The orations always made Tyler nervous, and he often tried to leave the room once they began. Unfortunately, the old man would never suffer him that pleasure.
“Sit down!” he would say, rising up from his chair, pointing his finger down at Tyler like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “You listen to me. Look at that painting. Look at it. Do you see him? Do you see the man? Tell me that you see him!”
The memory made Tyler’s upper lip twitch, and he glowered at the portrait.
I should burn it. I should light it on fire and bury the ashes.
Of course, he knew that would be impossible, which made his predicament that much more frustrating. He took one last look at his grandfather’s dreadful parting gift before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.
#
The night was restless, alive with the incessant din of cavorting insects. Sweat covered Tyler’s body regardless of the thermostat’s sixty-five degree setting, and the sheets surrounding him were unpleasantly moist.
Despite repeated attempts to turn his thoughts to more pleasurable things, the same two sentences ran through his head:
That painting is in my house. In my special room.
He imagined his grandfather standing there next to him, and could almost hear the rasp of his failing lungs as he breathed out the words that Tyler had come to despise.
Do you see the man, Tyler? Do you see him?
He threw off the sheets, and walked quickly into the hall. He opened the linen closet and pulled out an old blanket. Moments later he was in the basement, standing in the darkness of the room. He flipped the switch on the wall and advanced towards the painting.
“You have no place here,” he said. “You’re not welcome. This is my home. Mine. You belong in the ground with the old man. You belong to the worms.”
Tyler tossed the blanket over the painting. He took a few steps back, feeling marginally better now that it was covered. He flicked the light off and shut the door, heading upstairs for a night he already knew would be sleepless.
#
Tyler sat by the window, gazing out into the back yard, barely noticing the beauty of the sunrise. His eyes were red and swollen from lack of sleep. It had been weeks since the painting had arrived, and he had not slept a single night since then.
“It’s not supposed to be here,” he said to no one. “Not here.”
He had barely eaten since its arrival, and he was unable to work. His boss had recently called and told him that if he didn’t show up, he’d lose his job.
None of that concerned him. All he could think of was the old man, gloating as he rotted in the earth, his maggot-ridden voice rising up out of the ground in which he lay.
I’ve won, Tyler. This is what happens when you don’t listen to me. I told you to look at him. I told you to see him.
“Shut up!”
Tyler stood up quickly, knocking his chair over. He walked briskly to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a steak knife. He headed towards the basement stairs, descended, and was back in front of the painting in moments.
The blanket still rested between Tyler and the man in the canvass. He reached forward and tore it off, brandishing the knife.
The man stared up at him, and he forced himself to look back. He peered into the man’s steely eyes, silently damning him, evoking whatever powers of good existed in the universe to rise up and cast the portrait into the bowels of hell.
At that moment a sudden memory violently seized him, driving him to the floor. The knife clattered to the cement as Tyler pulled at his hair, mouth open in a silent scream. Unable to halt the tumult of images that assailed him, he curled himself into a ball, watching wide-eyed as the room grew dark around him.
#
He was in his grandfather’s sitting room again, though he was much younger. This time his mother was with him.
She trembled from head to foot, eyes fixed on the painting.
It was empty, save for the dusty shelves of an ancient library.
“There’s nothing there,” said his mother. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’ll see him,” came a familiar voice.
Tyler looked behind him and saw the old man standing there, eyes alight with delirium. A primal grin split his face, and he moved forward, past Tyler, to where his mother stood.
He reached out a hand and gently stroked her face. She grew rigid at his touch, drawing slightly back.
“Just tell me about the man,” he said quietly, voice cooing in mock compassion. “What does he look like?”
“There is no man.”
He slapped her, hard.
Tyler started to cry.
“Tyler-” she began, starting towards him. His grandfather grabbed her arm and spun her around, back to face the painting.
“Look at him,” he said, twisting her arm, driving her to the ground.
“Look at the man. Look at him! Tell me that you see him!”
He stooped down over her, grasping her shirt. Tyler heard the sharp sound of ripping fabric as he tore it from her body. He struck her again.
“No,” she said. “No, please, not in front of Tyler-”
Cackling, he fell upon her.
Tyler threw himself to the floor, shouting for his mother, pleading for his grandfather to stop. His cries went unheard, eclipsed by the sound of his mother’s screams.
Then he noticed something that nearly stopped his heart - a man had appeared in the painting. Tyler gaped at him, horrified at the way he leered from the canvass, and at the brightness of his eyes. He could almost see the man’s mouth moving, and for a moment he could swear that an old, dusty voice wheezed through his skull.
“You’re mine now. I’m here, and you can’t get rid of me. I’ll be with you forever and ever and ever and ever. . .”
#
Tyler screamed aloud, wrenching himself from the purgatory of the recollection. He grabbed the knife from where it had fallen, rising to his knees.
“No one. . .deserves this. . .”
He lurched forward, thrusting the knife towards the painting with a hand that shook almost too violently to control. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and he closed his eyes tightly as he felt the tip of the knife plunge through the canvass. He guided the blade upwards, then to the side, panting as he completed his work. Tears streamed from his eyes as a square piece of canvass floated to the ground, landing softly before him.
He snatched it up, caressed it with the tips of his fingers, and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted like moldy cardboard, yet he chewed it feverishly, squeezing his eyes shut as he swallowed the pulpy muck that the fragment of the painting had become.
He repeated his actions, cutting each new square with fanatical care, stomach cramping more painfully with each mouthful. His throat grew raw, and he tasted blood.
When the outline of the man was all that remained, Tyler grimaced, holding his bloated stomach with one hand, leaning forward, knife extended.
“You are still. . .part of me. . .but you can’t. . .hurt me. . .anymore. . .”
He thrust the knife into the man’s neck, cutting sideways, wincing as the piece of canvass fell to the floor. He picked it up, and was surprised to find it empty – the stern face he had come to know and hate had disappeared.
Tyler looked up at what was left of the painting. The rest of the man had also vanished. The ancient library that he had eclipsed for so long sat revealed, just as Tyler remembered it.
He devoured the circular piece of canvass, then returned to his work, hands moving with the meticulousness of an artisan. When the last piece was gone, he collapsed. His stomach roiled, his jaw ached, and blood ran freely down the back of his lacerated throat. The knife fell from his hand, and he smiled through a mouthful of red teeth, ignoring the fire that burned in his belly, staring at the piles of junk now visible through the empty frame.
Gone were the fear and tension that had hovered about him since the portrait had come. His heart was light; filled with a sense of calm he had never known. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation work itself into his consciousness. He convulsed as a sudden, sharp pain ripped through his gut, yet the smile never left his lips.
I can sleep again, he thought, closing his eyes. I can sleep. . .