After Darkness Falls: Volume One Part 11

"It's ok, it's all going to be ok," she said softly. "I'm going to take care of her and of us. Nothing and no-one is going to hurt you again while I'm here, ok?"

"Ok," he sniffed.

"We have got our whole lives ahead of us Randall. We're going to get married and have children and live somewhere hot and sandy. It's going to be the good life from now on Randall baby, the good life all the way."

He nodded slowly in reply.

"We can have everything Randall, everything that you've ever dreamed of. You just have to be strong for me now. Can you do that? Can you be strong for me, for us?"

"Yes," he said firmly.

"Right, now help me drag her out to the car."

Jennifer drove slowly. The last thing she wanted was to attract any undue attention. The car was luxurious and expensive and Jennifer hated the thought of having to get rid of it. She made a mental note to get another model after the wedding.

It would have made more sense for Randall to have driven the car, but there was no way that she could trust him. He was whole bucket of useless and she had left him blubbing back at the house. He had a.s.sured her that despite Mother's advanced years her driving license was still current and that the car, like everything else, was in her name. If the old bat had just have fallen down the stairs then they could have called the police and reported a simple accident. But Randall had ruined that by caving the b.i.t.c.h's head in with her walking stick.

She drove the car out past the edges of town. Fortunately the Chase house was already largely on its own and not overlooked by potential witnesses. There was a beauty spot only a couple of miles away that was high above town and with a handy high drop that was perfect for an accident.

She headed up the hill and prayed for the spot to be deserted. Her prayers were answered as the parking area was empty. She was pleased with her coolness under pressure and while her plan wasn't perfect, it was the best that she could manage.

The area had been more adopted as a beauty spot than landscaped as one. As such there weren't any crash barriers surround the edges of the drop. She pulled up to the edge and parked. Mother was shoved into the back seat with a carrier bag wrapped around her head wound to stop any bloodstains getting on the rear seating that would raise a cop's red flag.

She pulled the corpse across to the driver's seat and remembered to adjust the seat to fit Mother's frame. She wedged the b.l.o.o.d.y cane against the gas pedal and the idling engine gave a throaty roar. She lowered the window and shut the driver's door. She stood there and tried to think of anything that she might have missed. The drop was steep and the car should be destroyed under the fall. She hoped that it was not only in movies where crashed cars burst into flames on impact.

She decided that it was now or never and reached in through the window. The stretch was farther than she had hoped and she had to lean in to reach. Her fingers gripped the lever and she readied herself to jump back and out before the car went over. Suddenly everything went into slow motion.

Just as she pushed the lever up a vice like grip took hold of her wrist. She stared in disbelief as Mother's broken neck rolled like it was on ball bearings and her head fell towards Jennifer. Inexplicably she was still somehow clinging to life despite her horrific injuries, and whatever vestige of life was left in the old woman was used to exact her bitter revenge. The blood was crusty around her caved in skull and her skin was ivory white.

The car started to lurch forward and Jennifer screamed as she was dragged with it. She was staring into Mother's steely grey eyes as the old woman's death grip held her wrist in an unbreakable hold. The car went over the edge and they plummeted forever downwards.

Randall was waiting in the dark when a car approached. He looked up in puzzlement as Jennifer had told him the plan to stage the accident which included the car going over the cliff. He heard footsteps crunching up the gravel drive until heavy fists pounded on the front door.

He stood and walked still in dazed shock. He opened the door to blue flas.h.i.+ng lights and two men in uniform.

"Mr. Chase?" One of them asked and Randall nodded. "I'm afraid that there's been an accident."

TWO MONTHS LATER.

Randall danced around like a cat on a hot tin roof. His clothes were clean and pressed and he wanted to look his best for her, today was the day.

8 weeks ago the police had informed him that his mother and another woman had been involved in a car accident. His mother had perished in the crash but there had been another woman with her who had miraculously been thrown clear on the way down. The young woman had suffered multiple injuries, but by the grace of G.o.d she was had survived. The police had informed him that there was nothing suspicious about the accident, just an unfortunate case of an elderly woman who really shouldn't have been driving in the first place. Randall's tears at the news had been all too real, especially once he'd learned of Jennifer's fate.

Amongst her numerous relatively minor injuries, there was a far more serious issue. Apparently when she had been thrown clear as the car went over, she had landed against a tree and the branches had struck her full in the face. Jennifer had lost both eyes in the accident and Randall had wept for her.

He knew that she had planned for their future together, but he had been further shocked to learn through the family solicitor that the Chase fortune was gone. Mother had been living in the house on a meager existence. His father's empire had crumbled and been bankrupted years ago. They were broke and now all he had was the house that was falling down around his ears. He knew that Jennifer was going to be disappointed about the money, but they had each other and he knew that would be enough.

He clasped the flowers that he'd bought from the hospital's gift shop hard. He smoothed down his hair and prepared himself outside of her room. Today was the day when the bandages came off.

It seemed oddly appropriate that Mother had turned out to have saved Jennifer. The doctors had explained to him that due to recent changes in the health care system, it now operated an "opt out" system for organ donations. Mother was an optical match and would allow Jennifer to see again from beyond the grave and Randall took this as a sign of her overdue blessing. His heart had been nearly broken whenever he tried to remember what had happened that night. His coping mechanism was simply to lock the event away somewhere down deep where he couldn't pick at the scab.

He pushed open the hospital room door and walked in. Dr Singh was already starting to unwind the white bandages from around Jennifer's head. She had been quiet since the accident and the doctors had a.s.sured him that she would get better once they found out if the transplant had been a success.

Randall danced from foot to foot as the bandages came off. Jennifer's eyelids were clamped shut and Dr Singh told her to open them carefully as he dimmed the lights.

"Darling?" Randall whispered quietly.

Slowly Jennifer opened her eyes and Randall sucked in his breath as the steely grey eyes staring back at him seemed to fix and hold him. "Darling, has it worked?" He asked nervously. "Can you see?"

"Oh yes," Jennifer said strangely in a voice that wasn't quite her own. "I see you, I see Mommy's little soldier," Mother answered and Randall started to scream.

tale 9.

"trick or trick"

Donald Segel twitched his curtains irritably as the h.o.a.rds gathered apace in the street outside. His mouth curled in anger at the freeloaders masquerading under the cover of innocence. He wasn't fooled by the outward appearance or guiltless faces, he knew exactly what they were up to. He'd fought in the big war and he knew evil when he saw it, but he had a surprise for them tonight; oh yes he had a surprise in store alright.

He stepped away from the window and rubbed his hands gleefully. He had waited a whole year for this night to come around again. Last year he had been subjected to horrific abuse at the hands of these monsters and his pleas for justice had fallen on deaf ears. They'd even had the temerity to laugh at his demands for arrests and punishments. He was a war hero who had fought for this country that now no longer resembled the one that he had sacrificed so much for. His neighborhood had once been a paragon of virtue but now the hearts and the faces were darker. He didn't care how many crime statistics they presented him that showed crime was down. He didn't care how many of his neighbors had welcomed the changes to the street with open arms, he knew deep down that he was right. He knew that they would be the ones to suffer in the end. He would keep his guard up and never surrender.

He was an old man of 79 and bitterness had long since taken root and rotted his insides away. He was estranged from his only son and by proxy his grandchildren, but he didn't care. His son had married someone outside of his gene pool and that had been enough for Donald to cut the child free from his life. His wife had left him several years ago, stating that he was paranoid and becoming scary, but as far as he was concerned it was goodbye to bad rubbish. He didn't need her or his worthless son, they could all go hang.

It was an increasingly isolated life as he withdrew from his surroundings. His army pension was sufficient and he owned his own home. As far as he was concerned it was the only thing stopping "Them" from walking in and throwing him out in the street. There were a lot of "Them" in his life. Whether it was the girl at the post office or the bag boy at the supermarket, he knew that they were all laughing at him behind his back.

Last Halloween he had been targeted by "Them". They had sent their children of all the low down dirty tricks, and the monsters had hounded him all night long. Tiny fists had hammered away at his door with their begging bowls. When he had quite rightly ignored their demands he had heard the thuds of eggs smas.h.i.+ng into his windows and his garbage cans being strewn about the road. He had tried to grab his service revolver from the bureau and justifiably defend his property, but "They" had been long gone. He had called the police and foolishly placed his trust in their hands, only to find their att.i.tude dismissive and patronizing. He didn't care that there was only one egg on his window, it just meant that the brats had poor aim. He had approached the neighborhood council to have "Trick or Treating" banned, but he had been met with contemptuous scorn and derision. They hadn't come out and directly said it, they were too clever for that, but he knew that they were hiding behind their politeness and feigned concern for his state of mind.

This year things were going to be different. He knew that he was going to be targeted like never before. His first thought had been to sit on his porch, c.o.c.ked and loaded for the first sign of trouble. This was still his country and a man had the right to defend his home. But a flash of sly intelligence had told him that was exactly what "They" wanted; a way to lock him away in some loony bin and throw away the key. No he was too smart for that to happen. Instead he had played them at their own game. He had sourced the most popular candy at all of the local stores. He had smiled and chatted with the clerks, playing the part of the doddery old man. Once he had brought the giant sacks of candy home, he had made some improvements to his bounty. He had spent hour after hour carefully unwrapping the candy so as not to damage the sweets. He had pushed tiny shards of broken gla.s.s and jagged metal into the candy and then delicately re-wrapped them. He knew that once the brats had their buckets filled with the candy that most people were handing out there would be no way to tell just who had supplied the ones with the special prizes.

He rocked back and forth on his well worn armchair that he had moved into the hallway facing the front door. His bag of treats was sitting in his lap and the smile felt permanently tattooed to his face. All he had to do was wait; wait for their greedy grubby hands and sticky fingers to seal their own fate.

He started to laugh as he rocked, low chuckles that rolled into great guffaws. At some point a small corner of his mind tugged at him wondering just what the h.e.l.l he was doing. But he shut that off quickly, it was only "Them" talking after all.

His ears p.r.i.c.ked at the sound of small tapping footsteps drawing near. He clutched his bag in eager antic.i.p.ation waiting for the knock, but the footsteps pa.s.sed by and his door lay untouched. He frowned in puzzlement as the giggling young voices skipped by. A second group followed suit and then a third. He couldn't believe it. Instead of feeling pleased that his house was going to be unmolested, he felt cheated, cheated of his vengeance and that was just what "They" wanted.

He stood and walked to the door. He opened it out into the night and stood on his porch clutching his sack of special treats.

The street was filled with laughing, screaming children running and playing as their natural exuberance was augmented by their sugary intake. Tiny pirates leapt and fought with plastic swords as princesses danced and twirled. Adults held tenuous grips on their wards as excitement levels outweighed parental control.

Donald could see that his house on the block was the only one being given a wide berth as parents shooed their kids past his lawn. His special candy was all going to go to waste at this rate.

He wandered down his path to the street. "Hey there," he called out to a women and two children as they made to hurry past. "Would you kids like some candy?" He asked putting on his best smile.

The woman clutched one of the children who was dressed as a ballerina closely, but the little girl and her friend didn't show any of the woman's nervousness. A small boy dressed in some kind of superhero costume that he didn't recognise marched forward brazenly. The boy reached his hand into Donald's bag and shoveled out as much as his greedy hands could muster. Donald smiled outwardly warmly and inwardly cruelly, let the fat little pig shove his snout in the trough, he thought coldly. The girl wandered forward next as the woman still eyed him suspiciously despite his best efforts to allay her fears. The ballerina stepped up to him timidly and put her hand shyly into the bag. She only brought out a few pieces of candy and said "thank you" quietly. Her tender face smiled and he had to remind himself that these weren't innocent children; these were "Their" agents sent to tug at his heartstrings and slip behind his guard. The woman collected her kids and wandered away with a curt nod and Donald smiled.

He stood on his porch for the next hour or so handing out his special treats to everyone who pa.s.sed. His mood brightened and his smiles grew more and more genuine and he didn't need to fake his joy. He was striking a blow against those that sought to destroy him and his world. This was a night when the revolution started.

Eventually his bag was empty and he had to wave away disappointed faces, but there was none more disappointed than his own. His only regret was that he didn't get to hear their screams. He could only picture their pain and their shock at discovering that someone had the guts to stand up to them, but never knowing who.

He walked back into his house, chuckling softly to himself. The night was full of crisp clean air and the sounds of shrieking children at play floated on the wind. He hoped that their shrieks would soon turn to ones of pain.

He pushed open his door and made his way to the kitchen. He had a bottle of cheap but potent whisky saved for a special occasion, and his victory could not have felt more special.

His front door was softly rapped again by tiny fingers. He had no more special candy to give much to his regret. Next year he would buy twice the amount and cause twice the damage. He ignored the gentle rapping for as long as he could stand but the soft sound was insistent and would not stop.

He took a step back into the hallway. "We're all out," he called.

The gentle rapping grew louder.

"Hey I'm sorry, but we're all out, try next door," he yelled.

The tiny fingers became a fist and the rapping became a hard pounding.

"What are you, deaf?" He snapped as he strode to the door. He gripped the door handle hard and fought to control his temper; it wouldn't do to be seen raging at children now. He opened the door and stared down at nothing, there was no-one there.

He slammed the door hard, p.i.s.sed at the games of children. He had walked a couple of paces back down the hallway when the banging started again. This time he ran, or at least fast shuffled to the door and flung it open. He stared in disbelief as his porch was still empty. He stepped out quickly and looked up and down the deserted street. There was no cover for anyone to have gotten away that quickly.

He went back into his house a little uneasily. He refused to be intimidated by "Their" games. He was stronger than they were and he would prevail.

The door knocking began a third time and he had neither the energy nor the inclination to return to his front door and be made a fool of once again.

"Come in," he called sweetly, but the knocking only intensified.

"Who is it?" He shouted louder.

The banging started to make his doorframe shudder and the wood creaked under the a.s.sault as the door bulged inward.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He screamed in anger and frustration.

The pounding suddenly stopped and the door swung open gently. He was expecting to see a brute of a man, tall and wide with powerful fists capable of making that sort of noise. He looked on in shock as a small child stood in the doorway. He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl but the figure stood no more than four feet high. It wore a miniature tuxedo, pristine in black with a white s.h.i.+rt. Its head was bowed and its face was hidden in darkness.

"I haven't got anything left," Donald heard himself say as the child held out a pumpkin bucket in its hands.

The child shook the bucket and the treats rattled around inside.

"I told you I haven't got anything for you," Donald said confused by the pleading tome in his voice. "On your way now," he said flapping a hand dismissively. "Go on," he said strongly finding his anger again mainly because of how uncomfortable he felt. To his relief the child stepped back out into the night and the door swung shut of its own accord.

He headed back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet over the sink eager to find the whisky. He didn't bother with a gla.s.s and took a long hard slug directly from the bottle. He suddenly paused as he felt eyes upon him. He spun around to the kitchen window and saw the child standing in the garden. The moonlight was dull, but the gloomy light was enough was enough to make out the child. He still couldn't see the thing's face but the child held out the orange pumpkin bucket and shook it. Donald shook his head and held up his arms to indicate that he had nothing left to give. The child rattled the bucket more forcibly and Donald felt uncharacteristically afraid. He tackled his fear by walking the few paces to the back door and flinging it open. "Now look here," he shouted out into the garden, but there was no-one there.

He walked backwards slowly and closed the door against the night. He slid the bolt across and found comfort in the security. He returned to the front door and made sure that it was equally locked.

Suddenly he heard something overhead. His forehead crinkled in surprise as he strained his ears again. His house was kept religiously clean and orderly on the ground floor, but it had been a few years since he had really used the second floor. His knees weren't great and he had started living downstairs for convenience's sake. He'd paid to have one of the rooms transformed into a bathroom by a contractor from several miles away. He wasn't stupid, he wasn't about to allow one of "Them" into his house.

He heard the sound again. It was a scuttling too big to be a rodent, or at least he hoped so. Running footsteps gently rumbled across his ceiling and he felt his anger rise, someone was up there, someone with tiny feet.

He walked to the bottom of his stairs and stood there staring up into the darkness. He hadn't ventured up there in some time and the rooms were barren and stale. He flipped the light switch on the wall, but he remained in darkness as the bulb was dead.

"Who's up there?" He called, not liking the slight tremor in his voice. There was predictably no reply.

Running footsteps shot across the landing and he turned his head from left to right as he followed the noise. "Who's up there dammit?"

This time he was answered by a laugh, the sound was high pitched and childlike and his fear broke. It was just a child, just an errant child playing games. He forgot his bad knees and climbed the stairs, deciding that whoever the kid was, they weren't going to like finding him home.

Something gla.s.s tipped over and smashed onto the floor in one of the rooms and he doubled the speed of his clumsy climb. He hit the light switch at the top of the stairs, but this one didn't work either. He carried a lighter in his pocket and he took it out. The flame cast a flickering light along the hallway and as he walked he cast a giant shadow. He heard the laughter again and suddenly it sounded far from that of an innocent child.

But Donald's will was strong. He had fought in the war, he had kept his nerve when that of his fellow soldiers had faltered and failed. He grew taller when under fire and now he kept moving forward despite his unease. It was just a child, just a child playing games, he told himself.

The footsteps ran across hardwood flooring and he followed the sound to what had been his and his wife's old bedroom. He was done calling out to no avail. This was still a country where a man's home was his castle and he had the right to protect as he saw fit; if some naughty child had an accident playing where they shouldn't have been, then so be it.

The flickering flame lit his way and the metal lighter grew hot in his hand as he walked closer to the bedroom door. He summoned up his courage and kicked the door open hard. Plaster flew from the wall as the door handle slammed into it. The room was empty.

The bathroom door at the end of the hallway open and slammed shut again and again behind him. He ran back out the bedroom door and up the hallway. The door slammed shut one last time as the echoing whisper of a child's laughter filled his ears. He grabbed the door hard and yanked it open; he was still alone.

He started to turn away when he felt, rather than saw the shower curtain rustle. He turned around quickly, "Gotcha," he whispered and threw the shower curtain back. The tub was starting to rust and the pooled water smelled stale, but it too was empty.

Inexplicably he heard a noise back in the bedroom. He knew that it was impossible for anyone to have moved that quickly. His fingers were beginning to blister under the overheating lighter but he barely felt it.

Footsteps walked slowly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The child emerged from the room and stood rock still at the far end of the corridor. It held out its hands and shook the pumpkin bucket violently.

"I don't have anything," Donald whispered. "I'm sorry."

Suddenly all of the doors on the landing began to open and slam shut over and over again. The doors buckled the frames as they smashed and seemed to rattle the entire house.

"I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING!" Donald shouted in panic as the doors stopped.

He stumbled forward, meaning to get to the stairs and find a way out. He dropped the lighter in shock and he was plunged into darkness. He sank to his knees and scrambled around desperately looking for it. His fingers trembled as he touched the burning metal. He struck the roller with his thumb as he heard the child approach. He struck the lighter again and again. The flame caught and died; caught, flickered and lived and he looked up into the child's face mere inches from his.

The thing simply had no face. Instead of features there was a white skin-like substance pulled tightly across its skull like a polythene bag. It rolled its head from side to side and the skin stretched tighter. Its mouth gaped open behind the skin in a silent scream and Donald obliged by filling the silence with one of his own.

He shuffled backwards on the floor on his hands kicking his legs out in front of him to keep the thing off him as it advanced, shaking the orange pumpkin bucket. He kicked upward and the thing caught his calf in its tiny hand, but these were no soft child fingers. Sharp claws tore into his flesh shredding the skin and Donald felt his trouser leg soak through with blood. He kicked harder and caught the thing in the chest; it staggered backwards and lost its grip.

He managed to reach the stairs and tried to pull himself up with the banister. He got up onto his one good leg in triumph just as tiny hands shoved him in the back. Then he was spinning through the air and falling ever downwards.

He landed heavily on his shoulder and felt it pop painfully free from the joint. He managed to crawl forwards along the hallway towards the lounge. He knew now that "They" had realised that he was on to them. He didn't know just what the h.e.l.l "They" had sent after him, but he still had a surprise in store for all of them.

He dragged himself up on one leg through sheer force of will and b.l.o.o.d.y mindedness. He staggered to the large oak bureau and sagged heavily against it. He wrenched open the drawer and stuck one hand in as the other hung uselessly at his side. His fingers gripped the metal barrel and he drew his old service revolver out. Oh yes, he thought one very big surprise indeed.

He heard the rattling pumpkin bucket and turned to see the child standing in the doorway behind him; its perfectly tailored tuxedo resplendent and spotlessly clean. Donald turned and fired the revolver. He hadn't used it for decades, but he maintained it religiously for just such a day when "They" sent their agent through his door.

The shots were deafening explosions in the small room and the acrid stench of gunfire filled his nostrils. He looked in horror and disbelief as the child merely looked down at the tightly grouped holes in its chest. Despite not having a face to express with, Donald could somehow tell that it was amused as it tilted its head to one side. It responded to being shot six times by simply rattling the bucket again.

"I don't have anything to give you," Donald sobbed as he sank to his knees. "Please," he begged.

The thing walked across the room and towered above his crouching and shaking form. It raised the pumpkin bucket again and rattled it aggressively. As one sharp claw dug into his flesh Donald suddenly understood; it didn't want candy, it was offering it.