9 Tales Told in the Dark 13 Read online

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #13

  © Copyright 2016 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2016

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

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  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #13

  Table of Contents

  THE SHADOW BOXER by D. A. D'Amico

  PANTOMIMUS by Lyn Godfrey

  SARGE by Derek Muk

  MERENVILLE MONKEYS by M. B. Vujačić

  THE DEVIL HAS COME TO COLLECT by William A. Pike

  A NEW MAN FOR A NEW ERA by Paul Lubaczewski

  GIVE UP THE GHOST by Juli Burton

  BEACH BUMS by Sara Green

  AND SUMMER ENDS WITH THE WAVES AND WIND by Todd French

  .

  .

  .

  .

  TALES

  TOLD

  IN

  THE

  DARK

  #13

  THE SHADOW BOXER by D. A. D'Amico

  The oculi stood beside the tall Nazi soldier like a bleached marble statue. Its milky eyes never blinked. Its gaze never wavered beyond the lapel of Schmeling's threadbare woolen coat.

  "Do you realize who this is?" Amanda stepped close to the soldier, her young face just inches from the man's square jaw. Behind her, the immense silver bulk of the airship quivered in the sunlight as if afraid. "This is the great Maos Schmeling, the champion shadow boxer."

  Schmeling pulled his coat closer, ignoring the buffeting winds and growing dusk chill. He was self-conscious at the mention of his craft. Twenty years a boxer, and he'd never grown accustomed to the fame. Even after he'd retired, after the ink had faded and his grip on the shadows had become more miss than hit, fans still clamored to see him work.

  He'd hoped his daughter would have followed in his footsteps, but Amanda had no passion for the art. Her youth was her disability. She took to the ink well enough, but could never find a spark to ignite the fire within her. The faded puffs she conjured were weak, mere puppet shows compared to the brutes he'd come up against.

  "That is not my concern, Fraulein." The soldier's lazy gaze made him appear bored. "My orders are clear. If the seer rejects you, you are not to board the Isenberg."

  The oculi sniffed the air. Its once-human features trembled, waxy skin sagging beneath an awkwardly draped black uniform as it settled back beside its master. If the rumors were true and the creatures could actually see the stacked layers of possible futures, it would already know Schmeling's secret.

  "My father was hired to perform. Are you going to explain to the management of Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei why their star missed his flight?" Amanda had transferred her anger from the bored soldier to the immobile oculi, her arms flailing as she spoke. She might as well have been yelling at the airship.

  Schmeling snatched her hands from the air before she could get physical. She was so much like her mother, so impetuous, so careless in the face of danger. She didn't realize what these men were capable of. She couldn't understand how much they'd already lost.

  "But father, they need to know who you are."

  Schmeling glanced at the oculi. The seer's cavernous mouth drooped, exposing a thick black tongue. It sensed Schmeling's anxiety. "I'm sure they already do."

  He hadn't expected the Nazis to be watching the airfields. He thought they were too preoccupied in the slums, too busy consolidating power to concern themselves with luxury excursions. It was the reason he'd chosen the Isenberg in the first place. It seemed his best chance of fleeing the country, removing his daughter from the ticking time bomb Germany had become before she too was taken from him.

  He turned, placing a hand on Amanda's shoulder. "We'll have to find another way."

  She tensed. The silver broach at her throat slipped, opening her silk blouse and revealing a tiny boxer. The tattoo flexed against her collar, seeming to dance when she swallowed.

  "What is the delay, Sergeant?"

  "Herr Sturmbannfuhrer." The Sergeant jerked upright, suddenly alert.

  The SS Major stood on the gangplank, his long black coat billowing in the frigid breezes. He stared at Schmeling behind small round glasses, his tiny dark eyes reflecting the setting sun. "The delay..."

  The Sergeant stepped closer to Schmeling. "This man, the seer rejects him, but this young lady insists he's some kind of performer."

  "Not just a performer. This is Maos Schmeling, the famous shadow boxer." Amanda turned toward the Major, her hands clenched as if praying.

  The Major shifted his gaze to the oculi. The creature stiffened, its milky eyes sought Schmeling, and it trembled as if in a strong breeze.

  "Show me."

  "Sir?" Schmeling squinted as a stray beam of dying sunlight broke through the shifting clouds. He hugged himself, suddenly cold.

  The shadows no longer obeyed the way they used to. He had difficulty controlling them through the pain, and wasn't sure he could manage it at all here on the edge of the Berlin Hotel's roof.

  "Box for me." The SS Major spoke softly, but his words fell like iron. "Now."

  Amanda helped Schmeling remove his coat. Her hands trembled as she adjusted his collar and fixed the part in his thinning hair. She touched his cheek, her fingers hot as she spoke. "Take it slow. Concentrate. Let the pain win, but don't go too far. Come back to me."

  He smiled. He'd used those words on the occasions he'd tried to train her in the art, but Amanda lacked the craving to pull the threads together. Without a driving passion, the shadows would never do her bidding.

  "Perhaps that is my problem."

  "What, father?" Amanda's eyes were large, concern coloring her pale cheeks. She looked so much like her mother.

  "Sorry, meine liebe, I was thinking out loud." He glanced away. His wife Anny had been killed a year earlier in the riots when the Nazis had started burning books in the streets. Schmeling's passion for life had faded that day, leaving him with little joy, and a profound sense of emptiness.

  "Herr Schmeling..."

  The major's ominous tone seemed to vibrate through Schmeling's worn shoes as he undid the top buttons of his shirt. The cold bit into his disfigured chest. Icy fingers caressed the raised lines of scar tissue covering stylized tattoos, grasping at the tender flesh beneath.

  The soldier drew his pistol, aiming it casually in Schmeling's direction.

  "Is that necessary?" Amanda glanced at the Major, her voice trembling.

  "We shall see." He nodded. "Please, continue."

  Schmeling fumbled the ornate golden spike. Its filigreed shaft threw runic shadows in the dying sunlight, bright spear points that played across the waiting dirigible.

  "Take it slow..."

  Amanda glanced away, panting as she tried to match her breathing to his.

  Schmeling chose the crouching boxer tattoo on his left shoulder, not by preference, but because it was one of the few not entirely covered by scar tissue.

  The nail sunk deep, thirsty for blood. Schmeling
gasped. He bit his tongue to stifle the unprofessional outburst. The sky seemed to darken. Violet threads wavered against the hard angles of the gangplank and nearby rooftops, shimmering like heat. Agony shredded his flesh, pouring in black ribbons onto the pebbled rooftop.

  Schmeling reached out with his thoughts, encountering resistance. The threads fought like eels against his control, but control is what he'd trained for and spent decades perfecting. He pulled them together.

  A grey smudge formed, flickering as it became something more.

  "I can't hold it." He grunted, his voice a croak as he whispered to Amanda. The roof vanished, everything vanished. He'd gone too far.

  Panic pulled the shadow from his grasp. He staggered, losing hold, and the threads unraveled. The shade evaporated. The sun reappeared. Amanda rushed over, holding him up as she draped his coat over his sagging shoulders.

  "I am not impressed." The Major placed his hands behind his back, and glanced at the Sergeant. "Take them."

  The soldier nodded, a bland expression on his wide face. The gun jerked.

  "Please... we need to be on that ship. Let me try again." Schmeling stumbled forward.

  The gun went off.

  Amanda screamed.

  Schmeling staggered back. He dropped to his knees, holding his right side. Blood stained his fingers where the bullet had grazed him.

  The air crackled. The stench of ozone overpowered the taste of blood, and thin ribbons of shadow unraveled at the corners of his vision.

  "Rette mich!" The Sergeant collapsed, folding like a doll.

  The oculi howled, its doughy face darkening as shadows pummeled it into mush before it fell from its perch.

  The Major turned. Shadows grew from the guy wires around him, threads mingling into the appearance of a prize fighter, into the image of a young Schmeling. It feinted, bobbing as it spun to place a right hook squarely on the Major's chin, sending the man clattering over the gangway and a dozen stories down to the street below.

  Schmeling watched, his thoughts in turmoil, flashes of shadows darting though his mind as they receded into the ether. The power surged around him. It felt stronger than he'd ever experienced, but he'd done none of it. "How..."

  He glanced back at his daughter.

  Amanda crouched beside the gangway, a dribble of blood trickling from the silver broach embedded in the tattoo at her collar. Her chest heaved, and her gaze flitted in frantic tics across the rooftop, unable to settle on any one object.

  "I did it to protect you, father." She gasped, struggling to free herself from the spell. She looked ghostly pale, and Schmeling cried as he realized the danger she'd placed herself in.

  "I know. I know, meine liebe. We're safe now." He tenderly plucked the pin from her throat, holding a shaking finger over her wound as he leaned in and kissed the top of her forehead. "Come back to me."

  Her eyes were black pools, pupils lost in shadow. Energy dripped from her body like sweat. She blinked, skin pale as snow, her breathing ragged as if she were chewing the air.

  He inhaled, embracing the pain and the loss, letting it overpower him as he dove into the growing shadows. Amanda was all he had left, his reason for living. He couldn't lose her, not now, not like this. They would live or die together.

  The shadows rose, lumbering giants in the pose of boxers, but Schmeling had found the passion he needed to fight back.

  THE END.

  PANTOMIMUS by Lyn Godfrey

  There's a big show tonight. This just might be the one. Pantomimus must don his suit. Straight black pants. A crisp white shirt. Black suspenders. A black-and-white, horizontally striped blazer jacket. Glossy white shoes that curve upward to a point on the ends. White gloves with pointed fingertips. He also wears the obligatory beret atop his head.

  The most important part of his attire is the mask. It's a Venetian style mask, inspired by the masks of comedy and tragedy. Its right side is comedy with a laughing smile. Its left side is tragedy with a scowling frown. Its base color is shiny and white, but the eyes are surrounded by the blackest of black. The comedy half has a twinkle over its eye, and the tragedy half has two delicate teardrops under the outside of its eye. The smile-frown forms a devious yet sideways "S" shape across the mask's lower half.

  Pantomimus must attend a show every day, and every day he must await that fated sound. It doesn't happen often, but it always happens eventually. People have been warned or asked not to whistle inside a theater or inside a circus tent, but people often do the thing they are warned or asked not to do. Maybe that's why so many superstitions are born.

  When someone does eventually whistle on the night of a show at a circus or theater, then Pantomimus must take three individuals for each whistle he hears. No more, no less. Accidents always happen in threes, after all. At least, that's what superstition says. Superstitions are a delicate thing. If not enforced, people stop believing. Belief is what fuels every supernatural thing.

  The mime must respond if engaged by a person. He must pretend to be in a box, or pulling a rope, or eating an apple, and he must be good enough at his pantomime that no one suspects a thing. But he can never make a sound. He is not capable of making a sound.

  He despises being a mime, but it is the easiest way to blend in while remaining hidden, until he gets what he needs. What he must have. What was taken from him by unnatural means. He used to speak, he used to whistle. Oh, how he'd loved to whistle. Until the damned curse. Now, it had been so long he couldn't recall what it felt like to have his throat dance with the vibration of a word or a song.

  Pantomimus attends a show tonight and takes his seat in the back of the theater. Should a whistle occur, he needs to be positioned in the best place to determine where the sound came from. He will only have three chances to get it right. He can only take three. Those are the rules.

  There it is! The sound he has waited so long to hear. A short but ever so sweet whistling tune. Where was it? Who did it? His head snakes side to side with anticipation. It must have been there. Over by that young man. No, there, that woman has her lips pursed. Or perhaps there, that man looks quite jovial.

  With a few good options, it is time to start his work. He can only use his gifts once a whistle has occurred. His gifts are thrilling to use, but he'd still rather have a voice. When his voice, and likely his mind as well, had become corrupted by the curse, he knew he'd do anything to again feel the tickle of sound within his neck.

  He decides to start with the woman. He waves his hand in front of him and stops abruptly with a point. Migraine. That should get her moving. The woman crumples over in her seat and lets out a weak cry. With her hand cradling the side of her head, she stands and excuses herself from the performance hall. Pantomimus follows behind her, nary a sound to betray him. Into the Ladies Room he goes, and before she has the chance to scream, he claws his left hand into her throat. The pointed-finger gloves sink in and open up her neck to him. Using his right hand, he removes a scalpel from his inside jacket pocket and proceeds to cut out her vocal chords.

  Silently he begs for this woman's chords to be the ones, but there's no way to know for sure until he performs the ritual. Holding them up to the light of the bathroom, he inspects them as if he hoped to see the signs of a recent whistle. The woman clutches at her opened throat as she lies on the floor and watches wide-eyed and unable to scream as he places her vocal chords into a special pouch on the inside of his jacket.

  He still has two more chances to find the whistler, and he intends to use them. There isn't much time, now that he's made his first attack. His now blood-soaked white gloves could give him away.

  He stands outside the performance hall and peeks in. Knowing that he needs to formulate his plan of attack perfectly, he scans the theater for hidden opportunities. Perhaps he could have a simple glass bulb fall onto the jolly man's head. Or he could simulate the young man's phone ringtone so he will leave unattended. Pantomimus takes another second to look around the lobby. Whatever he decides to do, he mu
st do it quickly.

  Seeing that the concession stand is unattended, he gathers up a bag of popcorn and zips back to the door. With the door open just a sliver, he takes in a deep breath then sends an enchanting puff of popcorn scent with a dash of hunger towards his next target. The young man sniffs and looks around. Then, just as predicted, he rises from his seat and heads to the concession stand.

  Pantomimus stands just outside the door, facing the wall, with his hands hidden in front of him. Within the instant the young man has exited and closed the door behind him, before he's even had time to wonder why a mime is standing with his face to the wall, Pantomimus has his hand inside the young man's neck. He makes quick but delicate work of slicing out his vocal chords.

  An attendant is coming down the hall. Pantomimus would dispose of him, but he can only kill those whose vocal chords he takes. However, he still has his abilities until the time his ritual is performed. He zips into the hall and stands in front of the jovial man. He raises a bloodied hand, then claws downward at the man's throat. Without even bothering with the scalpel, he snatches out the man's vocal chords with his clawed glove, to the horror of the nearby audience. He immediately flickers out of existence to the theater and reappears at the ritual site inside an abandoned circus train.

  Inside the accursed train car, the mime pleads once again that one of these sets of vocal chords belongs to the whistler. He would live a thousand lives, or take a thousand lives, in order to be able to speak his mind, corrupt as it may be, or even to speak at all. At last, he begins his ceremony.

  He approaches the old bloodied dressing table and marks a small straight line on the mirror before him with the blood of his victims. His own image is barely visible through the numerous dried bloody marks. There are dozens of similar lines. One for every attempt at breaking the curse. One for every three sets of vocal chords. Wooden bowls stack up alongside the legs of the dressing table. He picks up three of the bowls and sorts them into a straight line in front of the mirror.