Darkness Whispers Read online

  “If she wasn’t six feet under, Betsy Ann Logan would be ashamed of your manners, don’t you think?”

  “Who are you? How do you know my mother?”

  “Oh, Benjamin, if you’re already that far behind the game, I don’t think I have much to worry about, now do I?”

  With that, the old man moved faster than anyone Ben had ever seen, raising the cane and swinging it toward him with dizzying speed. Ben’s arm rose automatically to deflect the weapon, and a bright flash of light exploded from the point where his arm and the cane connected.

  The light wasn’t like the spark of an explosion, but instead a slow wave of brilliant transformation that flowed across the land like lava slinking toward the ocean. In the wake of the light, Sheriff Logan saw a town he barely recognized. Stark fear rose inside him.

  The roadway changed from black pavement with a cleanly painted double yellow line to a wasteland of ruined macadam buckled from extreme heat. The antique lampposts were twisted and bent, their lights shattered. The trees were scarred trunks blasted black from a surge of superhot fire. The storefronts were shattered hulks and piles of crumbling brick. The scorched remnants of cars, most of them upside-down on the sidewalks as if tossed by an angry giant, littered the land. There was broken glass and piles of rubble and jagged shards of twisted metal. The air reeked of a slaughterhouse’s killing floor that hadn’t been cleaned before the building was closed tight for a hot holiday weekend.

  There were also thousands of skulls bleached as white as the desert sand, possibly the entire population of Windbrook gathered together in death.

  Soaring fires burned in the mountains surrounding the town. The fires were furious, consuming everything they came in contact with, insatiably devouring every last trace of humanity. The black clouds looked almost alive as they streamed to the east and gray ash fell like snow across the devastated land.

  “What have you done?” Sheriff Logan asked the old man, their eyes finding each other again in the radiance of the fires surrounding the town.

  “What have I done?” the old man asked, his tone mocking. “Oh, no, you can’t blame me for this, Benjamin. There’s no passing the buck here, Mr. War Hero. This is all your doing.”

  4.

  Ben awoke with a jerk, barely holding in his scream. As always Jennifer was already turning on the light on her end-table and reaching for him, still almost entirely asleep but her body moving on autopilot like it had when the kids were babies and they had cried out in the night.

  “It’s okay,” she was saying, running her hand across his arm and then squeezing his hand. “It’s okay, baby, it was just a dream.”

  Ben sat up, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. Yes, it was a dream. No, it wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t like the PTSD induced night terrors. This wasn’t reliving the past in the same old horrible ways. This was something else, something that didn’t feel like a dream even now in the harsh light of his bedroom.

  “I’m okay,” Ben said, reaching across Jennifer and turning off the light again. He kissed her forehead twice and lay back down. “Go back to sleep, honey, I’m okay.”

  Jennifer mumbled something and curled up behind Ben, holding him tight to protect him from whatever demons might come searching in the dark, but he had no plans to go back to sleep. Not tonight.

  After he was sure his wife was fully asleep, Ben slid out from under her arm and left the bedroom, slowly creeping past the bedrooms of their sleeping children and down the dark stairs. Once he reached the first floor, he turned on every light and made himself a cup of black coffee.

  5.

  In the twenty years Jason Sinclair had been driving the battered white delivery truck from Glenton to Windbrook, he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen someone walking along the road between the two towns. Those unfamiliar with the area might have expected him to drive past hunters on their way to their favorite hunting spots from time to time, but the hunters actually stayed far away from the road and they parked in secret places off dirt lanes deep in the woods.

  Every morning, Jason delivered four hundred copies of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette to Joe Thompson’s shack at the edge of Windbrook, just on the other side of the narrow two lane bridge across the babbling waters of Skullkin Creek, and then he turned around to drive home to Glenton where he lived. Every morning, Jason had this road to himself, with the exception of the occasional herd of deer that might come running from the woods in the dusty first light of the day.

  Jason was five miles from Windbrook, bouncing in his seat on the bumpy old road and singing along to some new pop country song on WCOW, The Cow, which even a redneck at heart like Jason thought was an offensive name for a radio station. He loved country songs, though, especially the upbeat ones about having fun with your gal and driving your pick-up truck real fast. The song had just reached the chorus and Jason’s voice was cracking to keep up when he rounded one of >the dozens of blind curves along his route and he spotted the old man in the black suit standing in the middle of his lane.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Jason yelped as he slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard. As the truck skidded on the locked tires, he sensed it starting to tip and pull him toward the side of the road. The truck wanted to roll. In fact, rolling seemed like the best idea in the world right now to the thirty-year-old hunk of steel and ball bearings.

  Jason cut the wheel again and the truck slid sideways on the pavement, smoke rising from the tires. Although only seconds could have passed, Jason felt like this turn of events was taking minutes to unfurl before him. He gazed into the old man’s calm gray eyes as the truck missed him by mere inches and shuddered to a stop on the wrong side of the faded double yellow line.

  Time lurched back to normal and Jason sat there for a moment, gripping the ragged steering wheel so tightly he thought it might break off in his hands. His arms trembled from the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had experienced plenty of close calls in his time, especially on some of the busier back roads, but this one had been surreal. Where the hell had that old man come from anyway?

  “Holy shit, mac!” Jason yelled as he stumbled out of the truck, his hands still shaking. He hurried to make sure he really had missed the crazy old coot and he found that the old man hadn’t moved an inch. Hadn’t even flinched. “Mister, you could have killed us both! Are you okay? Something wrong with your head or something?”

  “Oh, I’m quite all right. How are you on this fine morning, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Jason probably should have considered it odd that this old-timer in the fancy suit in the middle of nowhere knew his name, but his memory had been shot ever since he was eighteen years old and he rolled a Winged Sprint Car into the wall at the Greensburg Open Dirt Track. The fireball had been spectacular, according to his friends, but he didn’t remember anything about that day, and since then, lots of names and faces came and went from his memory, rising and sinking like a cork in the ocean.

  “I’m okay, Mister, you just scared the shit out of me,” Jason said, laughing.

  “Well, your pants look all right,” the old man replied with a sly grin. “Would you mind giving me a lift to town?”

  “Sure, happy to,” Jason said. He patted at his pockets and frowned. “Now, where did my keys get to?”

  “Perhaps you should check the ignition,” the old man said, smiling even more broadly as he walked to the passenger side of the truck and hopped on in as if he were twenty instead of… well, whatever age he might be.

  Jason opened the driver’s side door and, as the old man had suggested, the keys and his Richard Petty key ring were hanging from the ignition. The engine was still running, actually, rumbling the low growl of a working machine ready to get down to business.

  “Duh, sorry,” Jason said.

  “Never apologize, my son,” the old man said. “Apologies are for the weak and I can tell you are strong.”

  Jason shifted the truck into gear and started toward Windbrook. Neither of the
m said anything for the next few miles, but when they reached Aliquippa Point, a popular scenic pullover spot, the old man asked if Jason could park for a moment. Jason thought the old man’s face was looking pretty gray, as gray as his eyes, in fact, and maybe he was going to be sick, so Jason did as he was asked. He didn’t want to have to clean old-man puke off the dash.

  Instead of making a run for the shoulder to liberate his breakfast, the old man turned to Jason, put one wrinkled hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eyes. Jason hadn’t realized how oddly long the old man’s fingers were until this moment, and he also hadn’t noticed how the slate hue of the old man’s eyes didn’t seem to stay gray. The color shifted warmer and then cooler, somehow. Maybe a little green, then a little brown, then a little blue. That was impossible, wasn’t it?

  “Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, what is your secret dream you share with no one else?”

  Jason discovered his mouth was opening to speak even though he didn’t know what his answer might be, and he said, “I wish I hadn’t busted up my head so bad that I can’t remember stuff. I don’t want to have to worry about forgetting stuff anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s an easy one, Mr. Sinclair. I can help you with that! For a price, of course.”

  “A price?”

  “Well, more of a favor. You have a choice to make, and if you make the right one, I can assist you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

  The old man grinned again, showing off his impossibly white teeth. Jason didn’t like that grin. Somehow it stopped just above the old man’s lips, never reaching his eyes. His color-changing eyes were cold and stern.

  Yet those colors, those swirling colors, were somehow intoxicating. Jason found himself smiling and nodding along as the man explained what needed to be done.

  6.

  Jennifer was cooking breakfast for the family, just as she always did, even though she was a thoroughly modern woman with a job, with her own business at that, and plenty of other things to do with her day. She liked cooking, and anyway, Ben’s attempts to make bacon never tasted right. How could you screw up bacon? Who knew, but he found a way. Even he admitted it.

  Ben was dressed for work, sitting at the table and staring at the front page of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, but he wasn’t reading about the sensational details of the latest political scandal. He was remembering how his nightmare had ended, with the apocalyptic vision of Main Street, with the overwhelming scope of destruction and the piles of skulls and the endless fires for as far as he could see. Unlike most bad dreams, this one hadn’t faded away in the bright lights of the kitchen after a hot cup of coffee. Somehow, the memory and the feeling of being trapped by the nightmare had grown even stronger.

  Ben stared into nothingness, replaying the events of his dream over and over, while Paul and Mary tapped away at their phones, playing games or chatting with friends or only God knew what. Normally, Ben would remind them that phones weren’t allowed at the table, but he was too distracted this morning. He wasn’t old, at least not in his own mind, but he couldn’t fathom how people could stare at those tiny screens constantly day in and day out. He usually forgot his own cell phone at the office.

  There were a thousand things for Ben to worry about when it came to his kids and their connections to the outside world these days. Not just sexting—what an awful word that was—but also the way anyone could pretend to be anything on the Internet. There were predators lurking in the great big world out there and they didn’t even need to hide in the dark anymore. He trusted his kids, and he thought he and Jennifer had raised them right, but you never quite knew what might be going through the head of a teenager. They could get themselves into a heap of trouble over the stupidest of decisions, especially a fleeting idea that seemed like a good one at the time.

  To make matters worse for Ben, he was being forced to accept that his little girl wasn’t so little anymore, no matter how much he protested she was growing up way too fast. Mary was a freshman and she already had the boys swarming around her like swamp mosquitos.

  Ben was still bothered by the memory of the two teenage boys who had been staring and practically following them from aisle to aisle at the supermarket a few weeks ago. At first he had assumed it was because his uniform and the big Glock on his hip had caught their attention. He felt like kicking himself when he finally realized they were watching and following and gawking at Mary. He resisted the urge to walk over there and show those boys the Glock close-up, just to make sure they knew she was off limits. Doing something like that wouldn’t exactly be leading the community by example, now would it? Still…he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit he was tempted.

  Ben had dealt with Paul coming of age a lot easier, probably because sons would always be different than daughters in their father’s eyes and mind and heart. Paul was now a high school senior, taller than his father by nearly three inches, and in two weeks he would step up on the stage of the school’s auditorium and give his valedictorian speech to his fellow classmates and half the community. He had served as captain of the football squad, leading them to the state finals and a 12-2 record, in addition to earning All-State honors two years in a row. An academic scholarship to Penn State, where Paul would study either pre-law or political science, was waiting.

  Ben looked forward to spending as much of the summer as possible with Paul hunting and fishing, just the two of them. Family time was great, but father-son time was special. It always had been with the two of them.

  “Kids, no phones at the table,” Jennifer said, delivering the usual tray of eggs, bacon, and toast.

  She gave Ben a look but didn’t say more. The distraction on his face was obvious. They had been high school sweethearts and she knew him better than anyone in the world. They had clicked immediately and they had planned on marriage before they even went to their first prom. For their first date, Ben had taken Jennifer to the State Police firing range where he had gained access privileges by winning the Bench Rest category at the Western PA Shooting Competition as a freshman. Most of her friends had thought that was such a redneck idea of a date, but she had absolutely loved it. What she loved even more was when she beat Ben the next year at that same shooting competition. They had finished first and second. True love, sometimes thy name is a properly sighted Remington 700 ADL scoped rifle.

  “Why do we even have to go to school this week?” Mary asked, sliding her phone into her pocket and then scooping scrambled eggs onto her plate.

  “We could at least take Friday off, right?” Paul suggested. He might be this year’s valedictorian, but he was still a teenager at heart.

  “Well, if you two are really good, you can help your dad and me clean out the garage this weekend. Spring cleaning keeps getting pushed off this year for some reason.”

  Both kids groaned, but the reaction was good-natured. Spring cleaning meant the kayaks and other summer gear would be pulled from the storage attic above the garage, and that could only be considered a good thing. Summer vacation was almost really here, and they both had big plans for their endless days of freedom.

  “Speaking of summer,” Mary said, “Emily, Madison, and Hailey are planning a trip in June to Hershey Park. Emily’s mom will be driving and we’ll be staying overnight at the Hershey Hotel.”

  “We?” Jennifer asked.

  “Well, you know, if you and Dad say it’s okay.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” Jennifer replied, preparing her own plate. She didn’t have time to waste, she was showing a client a hunting cabin at nine. Being the only full-time real estate agent in Windbrook had its perks, such as very little competition, but it also meant she never had a day off. Not a lot of houses changed hands in the town proper, but tons of cabins and wooded building sites sold in the surrounding areas.

  The phone rang and Ben hurried to answer it. The only person who called the house this early was the deputy on duty if something came up. Clients called Jennifer’s cell phone, and Ben couldn’t remember the last time t
he kids used the landline.

  “Sheriff Logan,” he answered. He stood and listened. “Holy hell. Okay, secure the scene. I’m on my way.”

  Ben hung up the phone and then stood there for a moment as if lost in thought.

  “What happened?” Jennifer finally asked.

  Ben turned to his wife and said, “Someone ran over Earl Duberstein’s widow.”

  “Someone ran over Betty?” Jennifer asked, as if she didn’t understand what the phrase meant. She stared at Ben, confused, ready for him to say it was some weird joke even though he and his men would never joke about something as awful as this.

  Ben simply nodded. “Yes, right outside her house. Hit and run.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Ben glanced at the kids, then back to his wife again. He shook his head—no, she’s a long way from being okay—and kissed Jennifer good-bye as he passed the table and started for the front door. He had no idea this particular breakfast would be the family’s last happy moments together. If so, he might have refused to leave and instead spent more time with his wife and kids. Betty Duberstein wasn’t getting any deader, after all.

  But, like most of us on the morning of the worst day of our life, he didn’t know. He never even gave the idea a moment’s consideration as he hurried out the door.

  7.

  Peter Myers, the deputy on duty for the graveyard shift, had already done a nice job of contaminating the crime scene by vomiting next to Betty Duberstein’s body, but Sheriff Logan could hardly blame him. They had all seen death in this town, but most of those deaths came in the form of heart attacks and natural causes and hunting accidents. Lots of hunting accidents.

  Deputy Myers had never lived outside of Windbrook, certainly hadn’t seen the things Sheriff Logan saw in the war, and he didn’t even watch scary movies, so his reaction to the grisly sight in front of the Duberstein home wasn’t unusual.