DARK: A Creepy Collection Page 2

  “Fine. You have ten minutes. But I have some questions of my own, and I expect them answered in return for my information.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” smiled Kyle, revealing his yellowing but straight teeth. “I’m free to share whatever I know with you – I don’t work for Her Majesty, so you know, no government regs or whatnot – I can be completely open with you.”

  Virginia closed the door to unfasten the chain, then reopened it to usher Kyle in.

  “Front room, please,” said Virginia, standing aside with the knife behind her back, and her back against the outdated pink flowery wallpaper to let Kyle pass into the warm living room. “Have a seat.”

  Kyle lowered his rear into a soft brown armchair with his back to the window, so his face fell into shadow.

  “Your name, miss?” said Kyle.

  “I’m Virginia Ward, she said, remaining standing, her right fist on her hip, the other dangling behind her back, wielding the knife. She felt like a deranged killer. “Why have you been following me?”

  “It’s complicated. But it boils down to two words: Wendell Young.”

  “Did you say Wendell?” asked Virginia, her curiosity aroused.

  “Why, yes. Young was a notorious serial killer – he murdered eight young female library patrons between 1893 and 1901. A sad chapter in our city’s very checkered past.”

  Virginia’s arms folded loosely across her chest. The now unhidden knife glinted a flash of reflected daylight at Kyle. “So what of him? What does he have to do with me?”

  “Whoa, there, luv – mind putting away the weapon? I promise I’m not here to hurt you – if I was determined, your little steak knife wouldn’t help you much anyway.”

  She looked at the jagged edge of the blade, then over at Kyle. A sheepish smile lifted the corner of her red lips. “Sure – sorry. I just thought maybe you were some kind of sicko.”

  “It’s Wendell Young that was the sicko. He was obsessed with reading. He himself could not read, but women who could read drove him batty. So he slit their throats with his own kitchen knife.”

  “Again,” said Virginia, stepping back and sitting in the armchair facing Kyle, “what does any of that have to do with me?”

  “He’s trying to get you – he’s been making contact and trying to draw you into his little games.”

  “Uh, didn’t you say he was offing girls in the 1890s? I assume this guy is long dead by now.”

  “Dead and well, wandering the library to this day,” said Kyle. “And apparently he’s finally learned to read, because he’s using some rudimentary ectoplasmic tricks to write notes to you. To get your attention. Can you show me his notes – or at least tell me what he said?”

  Virginia sat stunned.

  Ghosts? At the library? A dead serial killer trying to get her attention? This was as crazy as some of those paranormal romances she’d tried to read last spring but quickly put away.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Dead.”

  “Well, all right. The first note was just a duplicate of my shopping list from the day before. On the page where it was left, a character with my name was introduced.”

  “Mm-hm, mm-hm,” Kyle nodded sagely. “Classic approach – he’s reaching into your mind and grabbing anything he can get a hold of – in this case, your recent shopping list – and using it to make a connection. The specific placement in the book was a nice added touch. He’s getting smarter all the time.”

  “Um, can I get you some cocoa or something?” asked Virginia, feeling oddly more comfortable with this guy the more he spoke of ghostly behavior as if it he were discussing last night’s football game.

  “You have any tea?” he asked, following her down the narrow white-wallpapered hallway to the kitchen.

  “Tea? Uh, no. Hate the stuff.”

  “What kind of Brit are you?”

  “The half-American kind. Dad was from the States. I never got the tea gene, I suppose. Don’t worry, my cocoa is delicious.”

  “Right then. So, what about the second note?”

  Virginia put the kettle on, dispensed some cocoa powder into two mugs with a shiny teaspoon, then returned with Kyle to the living room and started to build a fire.

  “Well,” said Virginia, “the second note was all washed out, but it opened with my name, and closed with ‘I love you, Wendell.’ It really creeped me out.”

  They returned to the living room. Virginia rubbed her upper arms with her hands, hugging herself against the cool air. She started to shovel out her ashes into a little copper pail, sift through her wood for the right pieces, and arrange her kindling.

  “What about the page the note was on?” Kyle knelt near the fireplace and started tearing yellowed newspapers to help ignite the fire.

  “It talked about danger, and the fact that the girl’s parents had died. It hit really close to home, because my parents di-” She choked on the word. “My parents died a few months ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyle, standing again and moving to the armchair by the window. “That’s just Wendell trying to get under your skin. He’ll try to control your actions by playing with your mind.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” asked Virginia as the kettle’s whistle started to rise in the kitchen.

  “Check out another book, of course.”

  “Because?”

  “That’s the only way we’re going to be able to stop this unholy madman.”

  #

  Virginia walked home that night with the latest book, a thick hardback, clutched to her chest. It was already dark, and the wind was whipping up dry leaves and stray bits of trash as she rounded the corner toward her house.

  When she arrived, Kyle was waiting for her, sitting on the low brick wall that divided her house from the pavement, his elbow leaning on the little metal gate latch by the stone steps.

  “What did you pick?” he asked with a warm smile.

  “It’s actually something I’d never have picked normally, but I wanted to kind of experiment with this, so I chose an epic fantasy. It’s some cheesy dragons-and-wizards story called Gem of Power by some guy I’ve never heard of. I have no idea how they can write six hundred pages about this crap. And it’s the first of a trilogy!”

  “I happen to enjoy a good fantasy,” said Kyle. “So, have you opened it yet?”

  “No, of course not! I wanted you to be there.”

  They went inside, flicked on the lights, and sat in the front room. Claude trotted in then froze when he spotted the stranger, looked up at Virginia. He’d fled upstairs the first time Kyle had come over.

  “It’s okay, Claude,” she said, taking off her coat and throwing it over her chair back. He’s a friend. His name is Kyle. Kyle, meet Claude.”

  Kyle nodded and threw up a quick, obviously fake smile at the cat.

  “Not a cat person?” asked Virginia, not missing a beat.

  “Um, not really any kind of animal person. So. The book?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” She placed it on the coffee table between them, and lifted the cover, then started casually turning the pages.

  On page 333 there was a piece of lined binder paper folded into quarters. She caught her breath and reached for it. She unfolded it and began to read aloud:

  Thank you for returning. This is becoming easier for me with each attempt. There is something you must know, my love. The man with whom you sit -”

  The lights suddenly went out.

  “Kyle?”

  “I’m here.”

  But his voice was no longer across from her.

  The windows suddenly blew in, shattering shards of glass everywhere. A monstrous wind whipped around the room in a spiral of noise and debris. As Virginia’s eyes began to adjust to the dark, she saw books flying off her tall bookshelves that lined the west wall, opposite the fireplace. She raised her arms to protect herself, started to move to take cover.

  Out of
nowhere, something huge (the Encyclopedia?) smacked into the side of Virginia’s head with a crunch.

  She saw stars, felt the throbbing, swelling, jarring pain for a moment, then the near-blackness became totally dark as she collapsed in her chair.

  #

  The air in the library was so cold she could see her breath hanging in the air as she wandered the empty shelves, seeming to float above the white mist that covered the floor like dry ice in a bad 1970s musical.

  She tried to call out, but she didn’t know who to call. Her vague plea for help fell about a foot in front of her, the voice that escaped her mouth a hollow, weak whisper with no momentum.

  As she ascended the stairs, a man appeared at the top. He slowly descended to meet her half way. He wore a trim suit that looked like something out of the old historical photos of Victorian age business men. His hair was slick and black, combed straight back, but high in front. His pale cheeks were hollow, his jawline a razor. He wore a thin moustache, and his eyes were a piercing, haunting light grey-blue.

  He reached out his hand and took hers. His skin was like ice, but his eyes were a flame. His expression was intense.

  “My Virginia, there is not much time. Listen carefully.”

  “Who – who are you?” she whispered, her belly quivering, her heart in her throat, her breath shallow.

  “It is I, Wendell Young. I have longed to tell you directly, how I love you so. But there is no time for this. You are in grave danger, my dear. It is imperative that we speak of only that which will save your life.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re the threat!”

  “No, no, my love. He has twisted the truth. The one who calls himself Kyle – you must stay away from him – or you will pay the price. You must trust me.”

  Virginia stared at this apparition, barely believing her eyes, and not knowing if she should believe the words hitting her ears. “But you’re a killer.”

  “Do not believe everything you read about me in the history books. Now, you must return. The time is nigh. Be safe.”

  Virginia suddenly felt herself falling, falling through the white formless void of mist, her stomach lurching, the moisture around her condensing on her pale skin.

  Falling . . .

  #

  She awoke in the arms of Kyle Walker, who had a cool compress pressed to the side of her throbbing head.

  “Kyle,” she said weakly. “I had the weirdest dream. I saw him – Wendell Young. He said –” she stopped abruptly as she looked into Kyle’s eyes.

  She recalled her vision.

  The man in the library. Wendell Young. The eyes.

  Kyle’s eyes.

  She caught her breath, tried to stifle the fear on her face.

  But Kyle read it, and his face changed.

  “So, you see now. My name is Wendell Young the fourth. My great grandfather was the notorious Bedminster Reader Rapist. Eight dead girls. But he never finished his work. There were more – there were girls he missed. I’m here to complete his legacy.”

  Virginia reached out for her bookshelf and grabbed a thick, rich, hardback thesaurus and crashed it into Wendell’s face.

  He fell backward dizzily, blood streaming from his nose. She walloped him once more, again in the face. He fell back and knocked the back of his head on the table and slumped to the floor.

  “What’s another word for ‘don’t even think about it, creep’?”

  She dropped the thesaurus and breathed heavily, then collapsed in the chair. Then she spotted a slip of paper poking out of the thesaurus. She tugged at it, and tried to get her wet eyes to focus on the words.

  Well done, my dear. By now it is clear to you that my great grandson is insane. He fabricated stories about me so he could prey on women such as yourself. My dear, it is tragic that I cannot give you my love but through these books. But perhaps you could use books to show me your love – by vindicating me, setting the historical record straight – clearing my name. Pity young Wendell there has tarnished it beyond what you and I can repair, but at least it should be known that I, Wendell Young Senior, am an innocent man. Take care my love, and watch for me in your reading. I will always be around.

  Virginia looked over at the unconscious man flopped in a heap on her short-pile brown shag carpet in her front room.

  She pulled out her mobile and dialed 999, explained the situation briefly to the operator, and hung up.

  She grabbed some twine and bound Wendell IV’s hands and feet.

  Then she opened the fat cover of Gem of Power, and dug in.

  * * * * *

  Checkmate

  After two months, Tyson Lynche was getting antsy.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before the anti-ectoplasm shield around the mansion failed again. Tired of living like a refugee, he wanted to fight back.

  It had taken weeks of dangerous scavenging forays through the deserted streets of New Orleans, dodging roaming gangs of ghosts. He’d had several failed attempts that ended with small explosions and singed eyebrows. But he was now convinced he’d figured out a way to resist the wicked spirits that had taken over the world and murdered six billion people.

  “The next time a band of spooks comes through this neighborhood, I’ll be ready to give them battle,” Lynche told his ex-wife Karla as they sat in the huge dining room eating canned soup by the light of a hissing propane lantern. The circle of light illuminated the once-beautiful walls and ornate crystal chandelier of the Royal Street mansion that was now an abandoned restaurant.

  “Battle?” Karla asked incredulously. “Ty, they’re dead. How can you kill a ghost?”

  “By wiping them out of existence – dishing out a second death.”

  Karla Josephs had come knocking at Lynche’s door the night it had all happened – the night the world had come under the power of a dark Voodoo hex that raised all one hundred billion spirits of the earth’s dead. The night almost everyone was killed – the few survivors herding themselves into makeshift houses of worship across the country, dormitories repellant to the evil that had washed over the planet.

  Knowing her ex was deeply involved in the study and combat of the occult, Karla had been right to guess his place would be a safe haven.

  She’d shown up minutes after the onslaught of ghosts had swept through town, her eyes heavily darkened with eyeliner and running mascara. Her black trench coat filthy around the hem, and one of the heels on her leather boots broken off. Her black hair standing up in all directions – normal for Karla.

  She and Lynche holed up in his little sanctuary all that night, with his forensics lab, his occult artifacts (for study purposes), his morbid goth décor (for personal taste) and his eighty-inch plasma TV (for sci-fi movies). By morning, most of the world had perished at the hands of the ghosts.

  Now, two months later, it was almost as if they were married again.

  “How?” Karla asked, spooning the last of the baked beans out of her bowl. “How will you destroy them?”

  “Karla, I’ve spent all my adult years obsessed with death and the supernatural. It started as my hobby, and it became my job. Now, it’s my life.”

  “It was your life long before now,” she cut in, scowling. “Why do you think I left?”

  “Must we rehash that?” Lynche shot back. “Besides – I bet you’re glad for it now.” He pushed his dish away. “If I hadn’t been hunting down Victor Delphine – the Voodoo priest – the night he caused all this with his cemetery hex, we’d probably both be dead. Anyway, I’ve developed a weapon. An anti-ectoplasm weapon. I call it the ectoblaster.”

  “Cute name. You gonna market that?”

  Lynche ignored her. “If I’m right, it will destroy the ghosts by disintegrating the spiritual matter that composes them.”

  “So then they’ll just be . . . gone?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Something caught Lynche’s eye in the corner o
f the dining room window over Karla’s shoulder. He squinted past her.

  “What is it?” she asked, catching her breath and turning to look.

  “I dunno – I thought I saw something. I thought it was – someone.”

  Lynche stood, picking up his gun from the dining table without a thought – it was never more than an arm’s reach away these days. He peered out the window.

  Nothing.

  “Hmm.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Karla, her hand shaking slightly.

  “I’m not sure – it was so quick. Pale, ghostly face. He had weird hair – kind of –”

  “ - Poofy in the front, and sticking out on the sides?” Karla interrupted.

  “Yes! You saw him, too?”

  “Not just now, but I think I’ve seen him poking around here before.”

  Lynche returned to the table and laid his gun down. “I think this is a perfect opportunity to test the weapon. If that one doesn’t run, he’s dead.”

  “You mean, dead-er.”

  “Right.”

  Lynche went into the kitchen/laboratory and unhooked his ectoblaster from the solar generator that charged it.

  “Wish me luck.” Then he looked at Karla the way he used to – before things had fallen apart between them. “Don’t come out, no matter what happens.”

  He threw on his trench coat, stuck his black New Orleans Saints cap on backwards, hoisted the heavy ectoblaster over his shoulder and stepped outside, passing right through the invisible ghost-shield that protected the building and into the street.

  The ectoblaster was a chunky shoulder cannon, like a bazooka, but with glowing tubes, buttons, and high-tech gadgetry protruding from every surface. At the front end, it came to a point encircled by thin rings of repurposed pure silver dinnerware acting as amplifying rings.

  The streets were wet, as usual, but there were no street lights to reflect off the pavement. Lynche moved cautiously, listening. After checking around the mansion grounds, he headed into the darkness toward the cemetery. Perhaps some ghosts still loitered around their old resting places.

  A gang of wraiths came tearing around a blind corner, directly at Lynche - eight of them, maybe more.

  Screaming and blubbering like insane people, the ghosts immediately spotted Lynche and converged on him.

  He lifted the ectoblaster and took aim.