A Latent Dark (2 page)

The doorway to his suite and base of operations revealed rich red carpeting, oak furniture, and a small
TickTalker
waiting quietly in one corner. He spared no expense, especially when it was likely that he would be here for quite a stay.

He scanned the room from left to right, noting the corners where the shadows were darkest.

“No sense in giving the demons a place to hide,” he muttered to himself as he dropped the suitcase onto the bed and flipped the latches. He opened the lid and then paced the perimeter of the room, switching on every light. His suitcase contained a collection of smaller lamps should he need them. “At least the archdiocese allows them some electricity. You’d almost think they
wanted
demons in their city.”

When he finished adjusting the lighting, the room resembled a theater stage more than a hotel room, every corner filled with the warm glow of electric lighting. He gave the room one more glance and nodded, satisfied with himself.

From the suitcase, he pulled several large, gold-framed paintings, dark, vivid depictions of scenes from the Bible in raw detail, from the casting out of Adam and Eve to the crucifixion and the resurrection. There were over a dozen altogether. He laid them out on the bed and stood back thoughtfully, hands on his hips. Not satisfied, he grabbed a pair of paintings and swapped their positions, his lips pursed in concentration before changing the order of another pair.

Lyle performed this ritual for an hour until he was content with the sequence of images. Everything had to be perfect before he began to hang them on the wall. He was never without his mallet and nails. If the hotel complained, he would pay for the repairs.

“Jesus would have brought his own nails if he could have. That was how much he loved the world,” The Reverend Lyle Summers muttered. He hummed to himself as he hammered.

The last item sat untouched at the bottom, resting beside a roll of gauze. He called it his tool kit: a black leather case, held closed by a single strap. He placed it on the center of the bed, staring at it for a time before moving on. He never touched the tools. That was for other people. But it was sacred and that meant Lyle would carry its burden.

The
TickTalker
sat dormant on the far side of the room, its dark wax cylinder waiting patiently. Lyle turned the device on by flipping a thick switch on the side. It buzzed and he inserted the key card which the desk clerk had given him. The machine sucked the card into its casing. It brought a slow, bemused smile to Lyle’s thin lips.

The ancient, internal workings of the machine paused for a few seconds, a deep
click-buzz, click-buzz
coming from inside. The wax cylinder rotated once and then froze with a prompt.

Lyle entered text:

[Have just arrived]  [Settled into hotel]

As he typed, the text appeared as silver words against the black wax background. As the conversation continued it would be rolled under and melted over. A filament somewhere deep in the machine glowed orange.

He sat back and waited, fishing in his jacket pocket for an ornate silver case. Taking a deep, tobacco-laden breath, he reclined in the chair, exhaling a slow plume of smoke.

The machine made a formal click and then came to life on its own:

[Events are already in motion] [You might be too late] [Can you purchase a vehicle?]

I’ll buy myself the whole factory if I need to
, he thought.

Lyle smiled and held the cigarette between his pale lips as he typed:

[I can] [We’ll find them]

After a moment the machine clicked, signaling that a reply was received:

[You might need to purchase more than one]

Lyle typed:

[The house will be hidden] [If it is in fact here, I might need time to locate it] 

The machine replied:

 [We have taken care of that for you] [You will need to bring tools for this] [We may have a witness]

He blinked, staring at the message in the hardened wax.

[A witness?]
he typed
[Are you certain?]

[Very certain]

[Is the witness]
He hesitated for a moment, considering the right wording.
[legitimate?]

[She’ll tell you everything you need to know]
There was a pause.
[It may require some coaxing, however.]

Lyle grinned, glancing at the toolkit on the bed. Coaxing was his forte.

[We hired you for a reason. We do not wish to see the mother escape a second time]

Neither do I,
he thought, frowning.
Ten years is a long time to wait.

He had had success in the past tracking these sorts of people, but it was never this difficult. They were like demons in the fog, these two, their home shunted into the corners of the subconscious, invisible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.

Others like the girl and her mother were much easier to find, but no less dangerous. Their deceit was unmatched, the lies they could spread were a cancer to The Church. With the fury and retribution of an archangel, Lyle had dispatched them all. There would be no mercy to the wicked, no matter how much they prayed and pleaded with him.

It filled him with the deepest satisfaction to see the witches burn, to see the lights flicker out in those dark eyes. It was a joy like none other, consecrating the soil with their screams, watching that last expression of regret an instant before the flames consumed their final thoughts.

The remaining drag of his cigarette glowed as he inhaled long and deep, burning the white away from the paper, leaving behind nothing but ash.

The Hunt

Something went
thump
and Skyla knew she was in trouble. Not St. Anthony’s trouble, not the name-calling, hair-pulling trouble she had been accustomed to over the last six years. This was trouble she felt in the pit of her stomach.

Her window was open, but the noise hadn’t come from outside. There were voices. It wasn’t the voices of Dona and her cronies that Skyla sometimes heard in her sleep. Something big was in the house, downstairs, moving clumsily, knocking over furniture. Skyla sat upright as a second
thud
made the entire floor shudder.

A red hardcover book, illegal by Church standards, slid from the bed and onto the floor.

“Hide,” croaked a voice to her left. It was the sound of twine being pulled through a hole in cardboard. Orrin sat perched on her bedpost, scratching it with black talons. His eyes glinted from a sea of thick bushy feathers.

“Hide.”

“Shush,” she said to the raven, holding up a hand. He pecked at it.

Meeting Orrin had been the only bright spot in an otherwise miserable week. She still wasn’t sure if he was a gift, a pet, or a clever stray. But now he stared at her—a hunched old man in a black trench coat.

His feathers ruffled. “Hide.”

Her attic bedroom was sparse, the furniture held together with wire and rusty nails, her dresser littered with bolts and funny-looking hinges, trinkets she had scavenged from the trainyard behind their home. Another thump sent one of the bolts rolling onto the floor.

She supposed it could have been Dona and Victoria. They had certainly made a point today with their threats. But vandalism? Breaking and entering? Not even they would be so bold.

Is that breathing?
She cocked her head, listening.

She shifted off the bed, taking small steps toward the door. She ignored Orrin, who hopped impatiently on the floor. He stood in her way, pecking at her shoes as she tried to pass, pecking harder at her ankles when she ignored him.

“Stop it!”

“DAYN-
jer
,” came the hoarse warning again.

“Move,” she whispered. “I’ve dealt with this before.”

Now she heard her mother, crying, yelling. Another fit. Skyla sighed.

Her mother’s insanity was legendary in Bollingbrook, the fits, the screaming, the random inappropriate conversations with complete strangers. In her mildest episodes she would simply say aloud,
“Oh the shadows dance so lovely on her,”
drawing nervous stares and whispers. At her worst,
Lynn
would scream, thrash and tear at her clothes. She had hit Skyla more than once.

This is different,
she thought, taking another step and pressing her ear up against the thin wood of the door.

“—Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Do you
hear
me? She’s not ready. You can’t have her. Do you hear me? Do you
hear
me?”

And there was that breathing sound again, so deep and loud it was more of a moan. She cracked the door as quietly as she could, the narrow stairwell a bottomless pit of shadow. It was impossible for her to make out any distinct shapes. She crept to the landing, peering down into the house. Peeling paint and crooked photos disappeared into a void.

Lynn
was standing at the base of the stairs, her back to Skyla, arguing with someone—or something. Occasionally, she would slap herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand in-between sentences, something she had done in the past, only this time the sound was wet, as if she were slapping a puddle. Her hand came down, streaked with blood. Skyla sucked in air.

Her mother was focused on the darkest corner of the room where a black sphere rested on the floor, unmoving and still, roughly the size of a cabbage. It blended so well into the shadows that it was a moment before Skyla realized it looked very much like an eye.

“She’s not ready! Not ready at all! Do you
hear
me? Do you
hear
me?”

Shadows around the eye began to move in a way that made Skyla’s mind hurt, a limb unfolding from its center, long and covered in thick wiry hairs followed by more limbs, callused and plated. It unraveled from the corner in impossible numbers, as if it were bleeding arms and claws. They unfurled through the air, around the square of lamplight on the floor, avoiding it, passing through one another to gain purchase, wavering against the rug.