The Indie Collaboration Presents: Tales From Darker Places Read online

The town had always been a sleeper. This did not matter. Life can be quiet when you want it to be. Living is not always hard. Hell, it is as natural as breathing. Things are not as they seem.

  Sandra believed this. The damn thing could be round for all she cared about it. The world, that was. Trends held no gist where she lived.

  Woods are dark places. In the middle of the Bible Belt, they got even darker. Sandra could not have given a damn. She was 76, what was there to give a hoot about?

  Life is full of surprises.

  Like that morning, when she walked. Some days, walking became an issue. Others, it was an all-out war. Like today, hell she had to fight to get her knickers on. Only God knew how her shoes had made it on her feet. Simple as that, she stood frozen in arthritic paralysis halfway to the mailbox. That damn arthritis came in fits, she should have known better anyhow. Any time it was this hard to get dressed she ought to stay in bed…

  The woods were deep where Sandra lived. Time came harder, but it kept her moving. She would freeze for sure if she stopped for too long. That kind of life was for cop-outs, soft people. In these parts, things came away with splinters on them if they came at all.

  Sandra had lived long enough to endure her fair share. The world held staggering beauty, but it was full of abundant bunk as well. What difference did it make? The whole world seemed to want to move on without her. This put her at odds with it. She did not hanker to perish.

  Sandra’s 76 years accomplished several key things. Of all of them, the smooth ones, and hardened too made her love life. Life offered more each day, if one would only let it.

  That thought got her moving.

  Sandra Tanner would rather fight her condition and go on than be one of the softies. They just gave in, whining. Yeah it hurts to die. It hurts to fight it too. This was every morning, wrestling with death. All her thoughts circled on it.

  Everyone she knew had succumbed to it. Even her beloved fell.

  She had other things to do but dwell on her issues. Some effort got her creaking legs moving. Her place was slightly less than a mile down from the main road. The post office refused to deliver down her long drive. She made the walk most days, when her knees permitted.

  The drive, a pair of ruts for most part, ran through the deep woods, followed by a clear-cut. The forest was a wild one, overgrown- gone to nature. Needing a way to tame her land, Sandra sold the timber. It cost nothing to clear off the fifteen acres. The timber sales lined her pockets. Ideal. Cutting the trees was the hardest part.

  It was for the best. An old woman walking to her mailbox alone required a clear view. Dark, shadows even, bothered her. Things lurked in the dark spots- had to. She had seen them on the property, wolves, predatory cats, even bears. The cats loved the shadows. Homicidal things creep in the dark.

  Crowded places, busy ones, were not her forte. The open field at least seemed less permissive to misdeeds. She could only hope.

  Arriving at the crest of the hill, where a view of the clear cut opened, Sandra stopped for breath. It was peaceful at first. The temperatures were warm for Summer Vale, but pleasurable to her arthritis just the same. The walking had loosened her up. She actually felt good for a change.

  Sandra was early.

  A few nearby birds sat chirping and this was the only noise, other than the slight moan of the wind brushing her hair back lightly. She would wait where she was. Marilyn did a passable job as a mail carrier, but talking to her was another matter.

  A gleam flashed across the field and Sandra saw Marilyn’s mail truck turn the corner to Thayne Street. Then, she saw something else, from the parameters of her vision, where things stretch and skew. Something shadowed, scary, and silent. One awkward jerk later, it was gone… vanished, poof!

  Not daring to ask herself the tough questions, Sandra stood on the hill. Despite the warm day, she shivered, inwardly and outwardly. Her eyes tried to follow the shadow, but it had gone. Despite the view, and its lack of trees, the field still had a few small Muscle Woods. Her eyes froze there, on the trees, wishing she had not left them standing, seeing nothing, and not knowing why.

  Something remained hidden in the dark shadows the trees cast, and now she could not see it. Sandra scratched her neck. Something bugged her about the shadows she saw.

  When scanning the tree line proved fruitless, she debated going home. The mail would be there soon. Should she stay and wait, or just go home? Home was a powerful motivator. No reason to fret over mail, the issue was whether she wanted to stand still, while the thing that made the strange shadows hunted her. She had not gotten this old without great instincts. A voice inside her, working on her nerves, her guts, told her something...

  It said, run.

  Running was another matter. Sandra left her sprinting suit at home. There would not be any running from her today.

  The sound of the mail lady’s jeep changed the direction of her thoughts. Sandra was just about to turn back when thoughts of Marilyn, the mail carrier, sent shocks to her system. The shadow had not headed towards her. It went towards the road.

  The jeep angled towards the turnaround. Marilyn often stopped and walked the mail over from the turn out.

  Probably safer, Sandra reasoned.

  Sandra did not think it was safe, and was about to open her mouth to warn Marilyn when a shrill shriek shot by, sonically tearing reality apart. The cry split the air, tinged by agony and regretful sorrow. All emotions tied to dread were present in the scream. Horror came thru plainly. Fright showed its ugly side. Revulsion addressed disgust and bitter distaste. Helplessness and despair settled in. Nuances in sadness and powerlessness tagged along. All of it in one scream…

  Her eyes followed the sound.

  Whatever was happening was behind the jeep. Sandra could not see the whole incident. The zombie’s silhouette and Marilyn’s spasmodic legs, jumping and twitching before her final throes took her had been enough. It wore a businessman’s suit, and it meant business. Marilyn stopped screaming, leaving behind deafening silence.

  Shortly after, the figure emerged from behind the jeep, framed in sunlight, and sinfully still ensconced in shadows. Sandra caught clear sight of only one feature, the thing’s hungry, malevolent, sentient eyes. Grey eyes, not cold as much as calculated, eyes she would never forget.

  The significance of a moment makes all the difference. Often passed over as unimportant, seldom does a single moment change everything. Scarlet ribbons, dappled by sunlight, spread like missiles through the air. They shot out, and they too disappeared into the shadows, the same as those silver eyes had.

  Sandra got the gumption to get moving before the actual moment. Then, the eyes returned briefly, long enough to unsettle her, to mold her, to make her frightened… desperately and deathly afraid.

  She knew who he was.

  She got moving. Her body responded, somehow granting her a reprieve. She was not going fast, but she was moving.

  Get to the house… Get to the house…

  Her brain did not register more. Pressure does funny things to people. Sandra felt sideways.

  A zombie killed Marilyn?

  Looked like it.

  Rheumatism was the last thing from her mind. Gone were her years and thoughts of death, her present and reality had awoken her one desire. The desperate need to live quickened her.

  She pressed harder, debating whether to call the Sheriff or the State Troopers first. Deciding on the State Troopers seemed easiest. Their field office was closer.

  Her mind raced, though every backwards glance rewarded her nothing to go on. She had no visual confirmation of what she feared. The eyes had vanished, albeit, their memory had not diminished.

  Aches tugged at her in several ways, and sharp jabs, stabbing darts of pain rippled in places. She ignored her body’s protests. She was trying to save her hide for crying out loud.
/>   The silence felt like a prophecy, her open prison without sound. Melancholy snuck its way into her psyche, attempting to derail her escape. Consternation came into play. Remembering those calculated eyes, dead, though animated, dull, but sentient, left her pleading with the Lord under her huffing breath.

  She had stopped looking over her shoulder, straining to hear the warning before death’s claws gripped her. If Dietrich had gone mad, well, then that bastard meant more than trouble. He always had been a pebble in her shoe. He was back there, somewhere, a boulder now, waiting to bowl her over.

  Intuition had always aided Sandra, and now as she fled and her cabin grew near, she knew what she must do. She could not have said how such awareness led her where she went. Her actions came across as desperation, though they carried her amnesty.

  Temporarily, she heard rustling. Perhaps it was twenty yards back. Maybe the crackling of twigs and the soft crumbling of leaves fell twenty yards behind her. Perhaps he was closer.

  Her voice escaped her unwillingly.

  “What do you want? Leave me be!”

  A moan, closer than she thought issued from her pursuer… something, the cord of sanity, wound so tightly inside her brain, came unraveled. Sanity eluded her.

  In a panic, she bolted, forgetting age, cursing God and gravity. She lunged at the front porch, caught her right toe on the stoop and fell, face forward, into the front door. Her face smacked the jamb, as she sprung quickly to her feet, depressing the lever on the door handle.

  Essentially, she should have died there, outside her home. Dietrich was at the step before she hauled herself through the door, his fingers brushing her dress lightly. Then the door slammed in front of the zombie, bolted, and locked. Sandra grabbed a dining chair, wedging it under the handle.

  Presently, she cursed herself for selling her shotgun to Deputy Washington. She glanced about. There was no way. She could not save herself. Nothing within her home, especially her, would stop Dietrich…

  His eyes had not lied.

  Violently, the door began to rumble as he shook the handle. The world had shrunk. Gone were the birds, the trees… friends… A single foe was all that remained.

  As suddenly as it began, the door stopped trembling.

  A ragged breath gushed from her lips.

  Time melted away, leaving only the present. Fear shot like electricity throughout her. She suddenly felt weak.

  Dietrich’s silence was worse than his hauntings.

  Then, the quiet broke… with a crash, and the tinkle of windowpanes falling in splinters and glass shards dropping onto the tile in the family room. Sandra shot a sideways glace towards the din. Cold with shock at the sound, she felt ill, though action found her once more seeking salvation. His eyes became the catalyst for her every deed.

  She had to escape those eyes.

  Rushing, she bounded towards the kitchen, halfway skidding to her destination by sliding on the cool tile on her heels. She heard him hauling himself through the window… His feet touching down on the broken glass…

  Sandra ripped open the hatch to the root cellar, recalling the axe down there. Jerrod had put a heavy bolt inside the lid, telling her, “Look, Grandma, I put this here in case you get stuck. You never know what might happen. An elderly woman without firearms in the middle of nowhere might find this useful. Let’s hope not. It’s there just in case, okay?”

  “Sure,” she had said, “but it seems silly.”

  The bolt did not seem silly now, as she closed it, praying aloud.

  “Lord Jesus, grant me the strength to persevere.”

  Adrenaline betrayed her then, as a cramp clinched her calf, causing her to buckle. Above, she heard Dietrich, his feet clomping abruptly across the floor.

  It was then, as she huddled on the steps, too weak to descend towards the axe leaning on the wall, that hope left her. Horror swept in as she realized her ailing leg planned to keep her where she sat. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she imagined the world outside.

  What had made the world change?

  Why was Dietrich Baldric standing on the hatch above her head, howling like a man wolf?

  The howling went on for hours.

  Finally, Baldric fell silent.

  She stayed there, barely daring to breathe and hardly convinced she wanted to anymore, imagining his grey eyes boring through the hatch, surveying her.

  She heard footfalls above, and to her dismay- moaning.

  The creepy grunts and groans issued from several throats.

  With a whimper, she found the strength to back down the steps, sliding on her buttocks until she reached the axe. Picking it up by the hickory handle felt somewhat reassuring, but she knew her mind frame was nonsense.

  There was no way to ascertain whether it was night or day, and Sandra was grateful. There was only one entrance to the cellar, and there was food and drink…

  There she waited, clutching the axe, her life preserver in a sea of chaos, wondering why she fought so hard to live in a world gone wrong.

  This story was excerpted from

  The Bitter Ends, Other Side of Town.

  ©2014 Donny Swords

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