From Dark Places
Authors: Emma Newman
Tags: #Anthology, #Horror, #Dark Fantasy, #Short Fiction, #Short Stories, #Urban Fantasy
FROM DARK PLACES
E.J. Newman
PUBLISHED BY eMERGENT PUBLISHING
Brisbane, Australia&London, United Kingdom
http://www.emergent-publishing.com
978-0-9871126-1-3
© E.J. Newman, 2011
www.enewman.co.uk
Front Cover Image
“Woman Walking Through Hall” © Özür Donmaz
Cover Design
Kate Harding of
http://www.artemisdesign.co.uk
Typesetting
eMergent Publishing
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with:
Australia: Part IX of the Copyright Act 1968;
United Kingdom: Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1998;
and generally under section 6bis of the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works.
This book is in copyright. Subject to the provisions of the licenses between the author and publishers, fair use for the purpose of review, or statutory exception, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of eMergent Publishing.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First published in Australia, 2011
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedicated to the members of my Short Story Club, whose prompts inspired many of the stories within this anthology.
Thank you for your enthusiasm and support.
FROM DARK PLACES
Katie carried a small claw hammer and seven galvanised box nails wrapped in a handkerchief. They were the last in the pack. She had to make each one count.
She crept out of her room. The old house creaked and pipes knocked as the central heating system cooled. She’d always hated this hour. As a child, she spent her nights listening to these sounds while her parents slept, oblivious to her terror. Accompanying the noises, shadowy forms lurked under her bed, in the wardrobe, between the walls and in the attic; defeated only by electric lights and cuddles from her Daddy. A decade later she couldn’t admit to still being afraid of the nocturnal sounds of the house. Nor her enduring fear of the dark.
At least now she knew those awful knocks came from the contracting pipes, not someone or something trying to get in. But the other sounds, the ones only she heard—they couldn’t be conquered by lights, nor her father.
In the darkness, the hallway stretched ahead of her and mentally she ran through the pattern of squeaky floor boards between her doorway and the stairs. This trip had been practised in the daylight hours before she’d made the first one at night several weeks earlier. Each successful sortie had increased her confidence, but not made it any easier.
Go
, she thought, knowing the minutes to the hour ticked by while she hovered close to her bedroom. The window of opportunity would be gone for another twenty four if she waited any longer and she didn’t want tomorrow to be as difficult as today.
She stepped into the hallway, not daring to switch on the penlight torch in her pocket yet; she’d save it for downstairs. Right now she just had to be brave and make it down the hall, the stairwell and into the living room. Then she could begin. Sock covered feet flexed and relaxed, tip-toeing across the floor boards, the fluffy cotton muffling the sound of contact. Tight black leggings and a lycra top minimised the potential of rustling fabric. Even her long, black hair was tied back, but she’d stopped short of blackening her pale face commando style.
At her parent’s door she paused, checking for the gentle rhythm of her father’s snoring.
Silence.
Damn, is he still awake this late?
“I think we need to take her to a doctor.” Her stepmother’s words slid under the door and seized her by the throat. “Jim? Have you fallen asleep?”
“No.” Her father’s sigh froze her to the spot, the tightness in her throat making it hard for her to breath. The thought of creeping past was replaced by the irresistible temptation to listen in. “I guess you’re right. I’ve been trying to avoid that, but I agree, it’s time. I just thought I could handle it.”
“You’re a counsellor, not a psychiatrist. She needs a doctor, someone who can prescribe something, this behaviour just isn’t normal.”
“What’s normal?”
“Don’t give me that ‘definition of normality’ crap. Banging nails into all our stuff in the dead of night isn’t anywhere near the normal part of the bell curve.”
Katie scowled.
‘Our’ stuff? No. Dad’s and Mum’s. Not yours Jen.
“I know.” Another sigh. Her father was tired again, but not from a long day of helping others with their problems. She felt guilty.
I’m doing this to him.
“It’s got to be some kind of psychosis or drugs. Either way, a doctor will be able to help.”
“It’s not drugs, Katie wouldn’t take them, I made sure of that. She knows exactly what they do to the brain.” Her faced loosened into a smile at her father’s defence. He was right. It wasn’t drugs.
“Then it’s a psychosis. Which makes sense, really.”
There was a pause, just long enough for Katie to remember the menace of the darkness pressing in on her.
“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” He was angry, the tone in his voice changing, even though the words remained barely audible.
“I mean, it might be genetic.”
“You don’t know anything about what happened to her mother. Don’t try and make a diagnosis based on something you know nothing about.” Katie leant closer to the door, desperate to learn about the one person they never spoke of.
“I know she went crazy.” Jen’s words sliced through the night. “You told me, back when you used to share things with me.”
“Don’t turn this into something about us… Not now.” Another sigh. Katie tried not to be thrilled by the sound of them struggling.
Maybe they’ll get divorced?
“Look, I’ll talk to her in the morning, okay? And I’ll call Jeff, see if he’s willing to get involved.”
Get involved?
The words made her nauseous, the small moment of joy at the idea of her father divorcing Jen gone. She didn’t want anyone to be involved. They shouldn’t—mustn’t know about this. The clock struck the hour and her shoulders dropped.
Too late.
It was coming. She felt it, in the silences between the rituals oiling the wheels of their morning, the agony of the false niceties preceding the day. She saw it in the looks exchanged over breakfast; Jen watching her father to make sure he didn’t lose his resolve. The ever present pressure of filtering out the other voice wore her out before the clock chimed in the eighth hour of the day. The hustle-bustle drama of her step-mother’s departure for work played itself out and then it arrived; the moment alone with her father.
“Katie, have you got a minute? I want to talk to you about something.” He asked so casually, in that gentle way which made him such a sought-after counsellor.
“I’ve got something I want–”
“It’s important,” he insisted. “Please, we need to talk.”
Katie conceded by turning on the kettle. The scraping of chairs on the wooden floor, the obligatory steaming mugs placed between them. It was impossible to have the ‘Conversation’ without tea.
“What do you want to talk about?” Katie tried hard to maintain the much studied teenage nonchalance, now practised for so long it was almost second nature.
“We haven’t talked for a while, I just wanted to… check in.”
Is he backing out? Or just approaching the beast slowly?
“I’m fine.” The lie, so familiar, didn’t need to be considered before leaving her mouth.
He leaned in. “You look tired.”
There was no denying the exhaustion. She looked wrecked. Like a girl who hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for weeks.
What can I say? I am tired. Beyond tired.
“I’m just finding it hard to sleep.”
Urgh, that look, the concerned father look where the professional counsellor face masks his quiet panic about how to do this the right way.
“Are you waking up early?”
“No.”
“Going to bed late?”
Her hands tightened around her mug, she focused on the burning heat.
Don’t go there.
She shrugged. “S’pose.”
“How do you feel when you wake up?”
“Dad, stop it. I’m not depressed.”
He smirked at her response.
He doesn’t know whether to be proud or worried.
They both concentrated on their tea, sipping and resting after the first round. Back into their respective corners, looking at their opponent, searching for a weakness in their defence.
“I’m worried about you.”
She nodded. “I’m not doing drugs, Dad.”
“I know that. I know you’re not stupid. But I think you’re… troubled by something.”
‘Troubled.’ What an absurd word.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I know you’re worried about me being alright for school next week. I will be, really.”
She watched him look into his tea. Her defence had worked so far. Thank God for the image of teenagers beamed at him every night on TV. She could hide behind hormonal moodiness, angst about course decisions, and stress about fictional boyfriends. Anything to distract him from the truth.
“What is going on Katie?”
She jumped. “That question in less than five minutes? You
are
worried.”
“Don’t be smart with me, just tell me what’s wrong. I can see something’s up, why don’t you tell me so I can help?”
She searched his face. He was going grey, not just above his ears but all around his hairline and the wrinkles around his eyes seemed deeper. He looked tired too. For a moment, she considered telling him, but then she heard the voice again, choking the urge to tell him anything. She looked down at her own mug.
“It’s just teenage stuff, Dad. You know.”
She expected him to back off, feel he’d done his duty, but he didn’t move. Nor was there a silent show of solidarity in the squeeze of the hand. She looked back up, forcing her attention to stay on him and not be pulled away by the other voice. He scrutinised her, looking for the weak spot in her defence.
She got up. “You’ve got a client in ten minutes. I’ll see you for lunch.”
His shoulders dropped and his frown softened into one of defeat. She turned away to rush up the stairs before she changed her mind. She hated what this was doing to him, but the less he knew, the better. She heard him rattling a drawer in the old dresser in the downstairs hallway, before swearing loudly.
That one she’d nailed shut the night before last. Just to be certain.
By the time the clock struck midnight, Katie was beyond exhaustion. Between avoiding any time with her father and fighting the urge to shout back at the noisiest voices, she felt utterly drained. School started in two days, and she had to nail the last space shut before then, otherwise school would be unbearable.
She waited as long as possible into the first hour of the new day before setting off, clad in her amateur ninja clothes, holding the hammer and nails, and breathing deeply. She had to do it tonight. She had to get some sleep. She had to make her father think everything was all right.
Her father’s gentle snore reassured her all was well when she paused outside his door and then continued on, down the hall and stairs looking like a drunkard, swaying from one side to the other as she avoided the squeaky boards and steps. Through the downstairs hall, stopping momentarily to retrieve the torch from her pocket, padding past the mirror that she took care not to look in and finally into the living room, closing the door gently behind her.
