Horror - Novelette

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. We, in the Dark, Together Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

WE, IN THE DARK, TOGETHER

Dust clung to the deep ridges of the old man’s leathery face. He stepped. His shovel sank into the rich black soil. Story was, there was oil somewhere on the farm and that kept the earth dark and loamy.

Arnold Young had no interest in oil.

For years, he’d dug. Locals considered him an old coot. Good with his kids and grandkids, agreeable at the market, and always tipped after coffee, but a coot, nonetheless. Just as well.

Mapped: he’d sectioned his land into documented quadrants. Using the plow where possible, the loader bucket elsewhere, but most of the digging had happened with a wooden handled, clover-shaped, steel-mouthed shovel. Exhausted, head lolling on a cracking pinion, the old man leaned against the soft, muddy bank of his current hole, trying to catch his breath. The damp summer air was thick, and his lungs labored to take nourishment. For decades he’d sought the hidden treasure, but time seemed ready to run out on him. 

It was the final square in the final quadrant of his forest when it hit home, in a sense. Filthy and naked, in view of a shy but interested whitetail deer, Arnold kicked the mouth of his shovel into the soil with his ragged steel-toed boot. A long white beard hung down his face, chunky with brown balls, like a scruffy dog’s ass. His frame was of bones and tissue paper, stained by patches of ugly liver spots and the scars of a harried existence.

A mouthful of dirt landed in the discard mound and then another and another. The hole vented partway under a tall maple tree. There, in that three-foot-deep hole, he began to cry. The last spot was as empty as the first had been so many years ago.

Ruined and spent, he remained in the hole.

“Damn you! You movin’?”

This was a silly and impossible thought, and still, he awaited an answer. Eventually, the sky above cracked in reply. Rain pattered heavy drops. Arnold stood in that hole, leaning and crying, a broken old man.

The promise of treasure was so real, many nights he could almost touch it, other nights he dreamed of touching it. Scanning the map of his mind, he traversed the sum of his land, quadrant by quadrant. There was nowhere he’d overlooked. Unless…

Nine hours after the rain started, it stopped. It was so obvious, so impossibly close to him for so many years. The knowledge pulled him from his broken reverie. He had to dig, but far, far from where he stood.

Renewed, Arnold tried to climb out of his hole. It wasn’t much of a hole anymore. The mud rode waves and covered him to his middle.

“Ain’t stoppin’ me now,” he mumbled. “Not a chance.”

Digging, the earth beneath him resettled and he sank by inches. Frantic, he clawed at the mud, quicker than he sank by half. Cleared to his knees, Arnold kicked and grabbed onto strong roots reaching from the tree trunk.

“I’m comin’. I know!” he shouted into the quiet forest.

The whitetail deer that had observed him for oh so many hours was no longer shy. It bounded toward the old man before skidding to a stop. It turned and pointed a raised tail and its golden rear. Arnold paused. The skinny beast’s puckered pink asshole was directly above his face.

He was nearly free. Clumps of dirt rode the man’s bottom half like Dalmatian spots. On hand and knee, he pushed upward. The whitetail leaned on its forelegs and kicked out its hind legs. The stony hooves struck Arnold’s forehead. There was a crack followed closely by the sound of a flopping, lifeless body.

—

“Oh, Dad,” Angela Elfman said, looking to the ceiling, thinking of the farm.

“It might feel weird, but we’ve been talking about a change,” Frank Elfman said.

They’d lived in tight quarters when Becky came along. Three people in a small duplex still meant there’d be room for everyone but adding the fourth made things iffy, and it only got worse as the kids grew.

“I never should’ve—”

“Zip it,” Frank said.

Every time they discussed finances he nipped her worries before she fully voiced them. They’d make it through; better she was happy and broke than miserable and financially stable.

“Ever hear a deathbed fogey talking about how they wished they’d put more money on the mortgage? No. They talk about missed dreams.”

Angela sighed. “Maybe I should grow—”

“Bullshit. You’re grown as it gets. Who knows, maybe you’ll find the inspiration of singularity you always talk about,” Frank said.

Angela was a painter, a fantastic imitator. She had perfect lines and dimensions, but no solid voice of her own. Out there, somewhere, was something that would speak to her in a voice fit for only her ears. Surely.

“Becky might get pissy about the move, but I know Jeremy’ll love it. He’s run out of places to mine in the backyard.”

A shiver ran over the bumps of Angela’s grey matter. Her father had dug as a way to deal with death and then died doing just that. Digging and dealing. The connection between her father and son was terrifying.

“What about your job?” Angela asked.

“Pfft, I can get a new job. There’s no deep need or desire in here.” Frank tapped his temple. “You’ve got enough for both of us. Besides, I plan on retiring after you paint your first set of masterpieces.”

For the last eleven years, he’d worked at a large hardware store, putting together merchandise and managing the toys, seasonal, and household sections.

Angela had lost her job of eight years at a car battery factory seven years earlier, right after her maternity leave ended. Seventy-one job applications had left her hands without success over those years, so they’d learned to live on his wage, which would’ve been fine for most, but they’d started out so far below zero, they couldn’t play the family roles as traditionally as all their neighbors had. Frank’s mother had been a gambling addict, and to keep her out of trouble, a big chunk of his paycheck landed in her purse, right up until she’d died six years ago.

Doing with less was hardest on Becky and if she dealt by moping around in all black everything then so be it.

—

“Ugh, look at this place,” Becky said, hiding a smile. Before she burned it, she’d written herself a promissory note: you will try and you will change and you will be happy and get along, no matter what.

“I love Grandpa’s!” Jeremy nearly shook out of his shoes in excitement. He wore a tin hardhat and carried a small steel shovel. His father had received an employee discount on in-stock items—prior to quitting.

According to the almanac and the bank officer they’d spoken to, it was best that they didn’t expect much income from farming. Not right away. It was like any business and it took time to grow it, to coax a profit from its clutches.

—

In bed, staring at a new, but familiar ceiling, Angela explained her father’s tendency toward the oblivious. After her mother had died, the farm had fallen further and further into disarray, until someone said something. Arnold hadn’t looked at the farmstead the same way the neighbors and the children had. The farmstead was a source of income and a place to dig holes in his spare time.

“What was he digging for, really?” Frank asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. He said he had a dream. My mother told him to move on. We almost did, and then a few days later he decided we had to stay. He had another dream. My mother told him to find the prize.”

“What was the prize?”

“He never said exactly. His prize, the treasure, whatever it was, I think he thought finding it might bring him closer to Mom.”

“Did you go digging with him?”

“Sometimes, but I always got bored. He dug without talking, always thinking of his map, staring at the dirt and mud, pick-axing stone, focusing…it was never ending.”

Frank draped an arm over her chest. “I know it bugs you with the boy, but Jeremy thinks he’s one of the Seven Dwarves or something.”

“I know. It’s just so damned odd. Like digging’s in the blood.”

Frank rolled back over, laughing. “Maybe you’ll dig in your twilight.”

“Funny,” Angela said, she tugged on the gold chain dangling below the old lamp next to the bed.

“Lights out!” Frank shouted upon seeing the glow down the hall.

“Going pee!” Jeremy shouted back.

“Shut up!” Becky said.

The stream of urine hitting water, followed by a flush. A short series of sticky sounding footfalls moved along the hall.

“Seat down,” Frank said.

The feet raced back and the seat clunked before the feet again prattled away.

“Light off,” Frank said.

“Shut up!” Becky said.

Angela sighed.

—

Jeremy took a deep breath and ran back to the washroom. The old house was spooky and he hadn’t yet mastered the layout, but he was old enough that he didn’t need a nightlight. Still, he should’ve thought about the shadowy patch in the hallway before he let his door creak nearly closed. Even with the washroom light lit, the shadow was long and scary.

“Only a shadow,” he whispered and hit the switch. Frozen. He flicked it back on to make sure nothing arose in the seconds those shadows had to fester evils. All clear.

Crouched as if to start an endurance race, his left hand reached for the light. Off he shot, taking a few steps before stopping. False start, the bulb remained aglow. He settled toes on the imaginary starting line, hand on the switch, eyes forward. Click. Off. His feet smacked against the aged hardwood and his palm banged on his door at the end of the hallway. Light showered over him.

He huffed at the wimpy hallway shadows…

He didn’t have a lamp next to his bed and didn’t think of it until that second. The Mickey Mouse on his alarm clock smiled soundlessly, offering him some protection.

“Okay.”

He readied for another race, his hand on the light switch, eyes on the soft finish line only five steps across the room. Click. Off. He launched after four steps, and landed on his bed, rolling under the soft fortress-like walls of his blanket. Darkness had him surrounded.

—

“I don’t believe my eyes,” Arnold Young said.

It was dark, but Jeremy was fairly certain he wasn’t in his new bedroom anymore. First off, he didn’t feel the bed beneath him. Second, his grandfather was in the ground.

“That’s you, ain’t it?” Arnold asked. He carried a candle and his voice seemed to come from everywhere.

That flame approached slowly. Flickering orange and yellow into the deep creases of the man’s wrinkles.

“Grandpa, you’re dead,” the boy said, echo fading into the vast blackness surrounding him.

“You’re dreamin’. I’m visitin’ my grandboy in a dream, no harm, no foul.”

Jeremy understood that dreams were the things his brain created to eat time while he slept. “Okay.”

The candle drew close enough that Jeremy saw his grandfather’s tired face smile beneath a long white beard. Jeremy thought it must be how he looked before he died, because he never saw him with a beard like that.

Now, in this black, black place, a question he’d always wanted to ask came to his mouth. “Were you digging for gold? I wanna find gold so I can take everybody on a surprise trip to Disneyworld.”

“I can show you a better place than Disneyworld,” Arnold said and then touched a cold hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“But just a dream place. I dream places all the time,” Jeremy said, an expert on the topic. “Dream places don’t mean nothing.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, boy. That’s what I was diggin’ for, bring it together, the good dream place with the real awake place.”

“You can’t do that. Dreams are like movies in my head and like the movies in the theater, it doesn’t work. Dad told me.”

“Sure, but they got to shoot movies, don’t they? And they shoot the movies in real places, better places. You mix the two places and woo-wee!”

“Oh.”

“You got to find the right spot to dig and I can tell you where. I looked over the whole darn place before I figured it out. Was right under my nose.”

“You know where there’s treasure?” Jeremy whispered conspiringly.

“Sure do. You can use my diggin’ tools too. I left them out by the maple tree in the north field,” Arnold said and then blew out the candle.

Jeremy opened his eyes and yawned. It was morning and he had some tools to find.

—

Fetching groceries, Frank and Angela left the kids at home.

Originality seemed to be forever scratching the outskirts of thought while Angela strolled the aisles. Shopping was a good time to fall into reverie. There was no limit and she could move thoughtlessly, following her cart.

At the front of the store, Frank borrowed a pushpin from the notice of a library day camp cancellation already a week into the past.

“That the land at the Young farm?” a voice asked from behind him.

Frank turned. There stood a large man with a soft middle, and big, hard-looking arms; natural layered muscle all over, bulky, though not hulking like a body builder.

“Yeah,” Frank said.

The man wore a scowl. “You can take that sign down. ‘Less you asking a fool’s sum.”

“I… You want to rent it?”

“I live next door. I’m Mike Gum and this is my…hey, get over here.”

A boy stepped from behind a cardboard ballot sign for Lay’s potato chips. Win a trip to New York, spend a day with the Yankees. The son was tall and gangly. There were a few red mounds on his neck; acne mixed with a patchy beard.

“This is Scott.”

Scott held out a hand.

Frank shook two hands, stated his name once.

By the time Angela finished gathering the basics and a few extras, she found her husband at the front of the store, all smiles with the flyers in hand.

“I thought you were gonna put them up?”

Frank explained meeting the neighbors. “Said he’d be by after supper with a check. It’s a real load off. I didn’t want to worry you, but what if it’s a month or two before I find another job?”

“Don’t even start,” Angela said.

—

Becky helped with the groceries. She’d dressed normally: blue shorts and white tee. Nothing black at all.

“Where’s your brother?” Frank asked. The relief on his face was obvious: she wasn’t wearing black.

Becky shrugged and picked up two bags, arms tight beneath the condensation-damp paper. “He said he was going to look for digging stuff. I saw him out by the little shed like an hour ago.”

“Remember, he’s still young. You’ve got to watch him,” Frank said.

“I didn’t make him,” she said, and that was true, but it was no good for an excuse.

Becky headed straight to the small shed after dropping off the groceries. She called out twice. A hook and eye latched the shed door closed. The area was mostly grass and gravel. The under-used outbuildings had tall weeds standing anywhere the gravel didn’t hinder growth. There was a slim trail heading out into a field. Becky followed the trail to a muddy patch with a small sneaker print indented. The trail branched out once into the field, two of the directions appeared to settle into the tall weeds, but the third continued into a forest. Sweat dripped down Becky’s forehead from her pimply hairline. Moisture built rings under her arms and beneath her bra.

“Jer! Jerrr-em-eee!”

The temperature relented out of the sun’s direct touch as Becky stepped into the forest. Annoyance ruled the brunt of her emotions, though worry had begun to poke its teasing head.

“Jerrr-em-eee!”

“Yeah?”

Not far, behind a fat tree, the boy stood in a soft hole. He looked up at the tree and then to the hole, back and forth.

“You dick breath. You can’t go off so far without telling.”

“Grandpa’s digging stuff.”

Becky knew the story of how her grandfather had died. If his tools were still here, it probably meant that her brother stood right where he’d croaked.

“Get out of there,” Becky said. “Come on.”

Jeremy didn’t argue and climbed out of the hole wearing a suit of filth. He grabbed a small shovel.

“Grandpa’s shovel’s rotted,” he said and tried to heft a pickaxe. It was smaller than normal, rusty, and the one end came to a broken nub. “Can you get one?”

Becky took the pick out of the boy’s hand and scooped a spade from the ground.

“All right, dick breath.”

“Thanks, butt face.”

—

Becky was on the couch, quietly farting out string bean gas. She was dirty and sticky from the day. Felt shiny all over.

Seven: the sun had lost most of its strength, but the sky would hold the light for another two hours. A newish black Dodge truck rolled up the dusty driveway.

“I think the Gums are here,” Angela said from where she stood at the sink.

“Oh, good, good.”

“There’s four of them,” Angela said.

“They’re farmers?” Jeremy asked.

“Yep. Hey, they’ve got a daughter, too.” Frank waved at the window.

Becky gave the oncoming group a glance and broke away as if being chased. She slammed the bathroom door and the shower began. In the kitchen, Frank and Angela looked at each other without comment.

Becky had never had the resources to pull off even imitation high fashion and used stark contrasts to draw attention away from attire. She put her hair in a tight ponytail and began with a light powder to her cheeks and then a dark lip-liner. Then she tossed on a baggy grey t-shirt and loose black slacks. She didn’t know if the boy was cute, or smart, or even worth the slight effort she’d made.

But what if?

Both families had settled on the back porch that overlooked the yard between the house and the main barn. There was a bench along the railing and an ancient cast-iron table with flecking white paint in the middle. The adults sat at the table. The children, including a woman two months old enough to gamble or die for her country, sat along the bench. Everyone had a plate.

“They brought pie!” Jeremy shouted, sugary red rhubarb and strawberry filling rimmed his smile like clown lipstick.

“This is Becky,” Frank said.

“I’m Sheila, this is Mike, our son Scott, and our daughter Winnie,” the mother of the family said.

She was frumpy and hardened, like her husband. Winnie was a blank-faced redhead in a light blue summer dress, her hands in her lap holding a dish with a plank-like posture as if an etiquette competition might begin at any moment.

“Thanks,” Becky said, she picked up the pie plate.

There was only one slice remaining and a fork. She plunked down on the bench between her brother and the redhead.

The adults discussed community interests. Jeremy and Scott talked about nothing in particular, bouncing from television signal, to sports, to toys, to buried treasure, and Arnold Young. Jeremy brimmed with questions and Scott answered what he could.

Winnie rose and offered to take the dishes inside. The door bounced on a spring in her wake.

“She had a boy. He was a couple years older, but we know his folks, and he was a suitable fit. Only rule, she had to wait until she hit eighteen before she could run off.” Sheila said, hushed.

Frank and Angela leaned in closer.

“She agreed and he agreed. He worked for Royar Feed. There was an accident, and for the last three months, poor Winnie’s been like a ghost herself. Hasn’t even cried yet.”

“Dead?” Frank asked.

Sheila nodded. “Climbing on a silo roof. Didn’t put on the harness he should’ve to gauge how much corn was in there. The roof caved and poor Justin dropped twenty-feet.”

“That killed him?” Frank straightened.

“Nope, didn’t even have a broken bone when they finally got him out. But you see, the hard thump popped open an access window down below. The corn rushed out and sucked him down like a slow cyclone. He drowned in corn.”

“That’s crazy,” Becky said.

“That’s why, soon as I can, I’m moving far away from farms. I hear more people die in farm accidents than any other kind of accidents,” Scott said, he was suddenly angry.

“Cool your jets,” Mike said.

Scott threw his arms into the air and stomped off the deck. Jeremy followed him. Becky waited a few seconds, smiled to the adults, gave a shrug, and trailed along behind the boys.

Scott wasn’t anything special, but he was a couple years older and that scored some points, several points in fact.

“Wait up,” Becky said, jogging to catch up.

The topic had changed. Moving away from the deck had reloaded Jeremy’s question bank. Most of it surrounded Arnold Young’s digging. Scott was cautious in his answers. Becky guessed the locals thought her grandfather was nuts. Because he had been. She then broke in with a question about the high school.

“Mostly boring knobs doing boring shit.”

Becky laughed, unusually girlishly, batting her lashes. Scott promised to look out for her once school started, give her the dirt on her teachers and the other girls in her grade.

“Going into ten, right?” he asked.

She nodded, eye-contact heavy and damp.

“Cool, cool,” he said.

She caught him trying to peek down her billowy shirt as they stood under a crab apple tree in the front yard near an old cedar rail fence. Becky leaned forward to accommodate his obvious glances.

Oblivious, Jeremy started into questions about his school. Scott switched his gaze and told tall tales of sinister teachers with evil secrets.

“Really?” Jeremy said, skeptical.

Winnie approached from the house. “Mom and Dad want to go now,” she said and turned around to walk toward the truck.

“How’s your memory?” Scott asked.

“Fine, I guess,” Becky said.

“Mine’s real good!” Jeremy said and then yawned.

It had darkened and the crickets and the black flies were out in full force.

“Then you can help your sister remember. Zero-one-eight-zero, got it?”

“Zero-one-eight-zero!” Jeremy said.

“That your home number?” Becky asked.

Scott offered a half smile and a single tip of his chin.

—

Bathed and bedded, Jeremy slipped under the sheets before he was the last one up, meaning he didn’t have to turn the lights out. He fell asleep quickly.

Immediately, cutting the blackness, the candlelight was close, but the white stick of wax rested in a brass holder rather than in the palm of Jeremy’s recently deceased grandfather. Jeremy picked up the candle and swung it about to peer into the endless void around him. The flame was much smaller than last time.

“Grandpa?” he whispered and then repeated.

Infinite dark in every direction. He inhaled, ready to sound another call when a noise met his ears. It wasn’t his grandfather, but it was something. Jeremy shuffled toward it. Almost sounded like whimpering, a child. It took a long time to get a short distance; he stumbled over the uneven ground, which remained beyond sight.

“Grandpa?” he tried again, a little louder.

The whimper continued. Jeremy kept on.

A scent rose from the dark. It was earthy, like dirt and dog, a little like feces. It encouraged Jeremy. This was a promise of something in the nothing.

“Grandpa?”

The whimper became a throaty breath. It then whined, like a puppy. Jeremy leaned with the candle and saw large rings of white.

“Shu shu shu, lack!” the whimpering voice screeched and reached out from between the white rings.

Jeremy had a dreamer’s bravery and leaned closer with the flame. Light glinted off wet eyes from beneath fur and a long snout. It was like a dog. Sort of. Another hand lashed out, trying to grab onto the candle. Jeremy’s eyes widened. The dog’s head rode above a sweaty, dark, humanoid body.

The creature leapt to its feet in the little cage. Its strange genitals swayed at the motion. Strings of healed scar tissue sprouted like a bouquet of weeds from what appeared to once have been a penis.

Jeremy’s bravery faded.

“Shu cack a lack! Rura! Shu shu rura!” the dog creature screamed, reaching again through its prison bars.

It was a bone cell, the ribcage of a massive beast. The boy took a step back, shaking his head as if erasing an Etch-a-Sketch.

“Grandpa!”

“There you are!” A palm touched Jeremy’s shoulder and the candle dropped, remaining alight on the dark ground. The dog creature whimpered, slinking into the shadows as Arnold Young turned his grandson away.

“What is that?” Jeremy whimpered

“You came early. We were getting ready for you, see?”

They walked in the dark until brilliant light flared in the distance. Music joined fireworks.

“This is how it is. This is how it can be, forever. It should be this way, don’t ya think?”

There were smiling people, clowns and actors in wonderful animal costumes. There was a stage with marionettes and there were games of chance. It was a carnival, amusement park, circus, sideshow, and theater rolled into one. They reached a dim ocean-side car chase scene underway. There were cameras and famous people, Jeremy didn’t recognize them, but he knew famous people when he saw them. The happy faces had drips of sweat forming and running from their brows, down their chins…as if melting.

“Isn’t it lovely? All you got to do is find the treasure.”

“Where?”

His grandfather smiled and spoke, but no sound came from his mouth.

The bright lights darkened as something crashed against Jeremy’s face. He fell, his insides tumbling. There was nothing anywhere, no floor, no ceiling, no crowds, no bone-caged mongrels.

“Grandpa!” he screeched, closing his eyes to the darkness.

—

From down the hall came a loud bang, followed by screeching. Frank and Angela burst from bed where they’d been discussing the neighbor boy and their daughter, and the gaga eyes both wore. Into Jeremy’s room. The boy lay on his back with his arms over his face.

“Jeremy, wake up!” Angela shouted.

“I am awake. There’s a monster!”

“Ah buddy, it’s only a—holy shit!” Frank said, leaning onto the bed while a fat bat dive-bombed.

Angela grabbed for the bat but missed. It crawled over the comforter and onto the boy, looking for chinks in the armor perhaps.

“Dad!”

The bat charged, wriggling its little legs over the cotton folds of the blanket. Frank swiped without thinking and scooped up the bat. Losing no momentum, he threw it against the wall. It thumped and dropped.

Angela chased after the creature. It lay bug-eyed and breathing heavily. She took a filthy shirt from the floor and worked it like an oven mitt.

Frank rolled over his son’s legs and off the bed. He opened the window. “Toss it!” he said.

Angela stopped short of releasing it.

How did it get in?

What about rabies? The bat remained in the shirt and she rushed to the washroom to fill the sink.

—

The doctor told them not to worry until they knew they had something to worry about and, “We’ll know for sure soon enough.” A nice suggestion, but impossible. It took twenty minutes to get in and out of the hospital, a nurse had taken the bat into the bowels of the small building.

—

“You didn’t have to come, but I’m sure they’ll love the company,” Angela said, her voice full of worry.

Earlier that morning, Mike stopped by to go over the property he’d rented. As summer went, he was in the midst of a brief lull, one that occurred annually. It had rained a few days earlier, the hay was off and baled and the remainder of the crops had, at minimum, a few more days to go before harvest. He couldn’t bring anything in wet—might get hot enough to ignite if he did so—and there was nothing ready yet to take off.

It was minutes after 6:00 AM when Mike arrived and close to 7:30 AM when he left. On the way out, Frank caught the man, offered a coffee, and then explained the night before. Mike had the idea of sending over the kids as a distraction.

That was hours earlier. It was 9:05 AM when Jeremy rolled off the side of his parents’ bed and stepped out to see Scott and Winnie in his living room.

Winnie forced a smile full of holes. “How ya doing?”

Jeremy frowned and lifted his injured arm. It had three bandages.

“Poor boy,” Winnie said.

“Hey, Jeremy,” Scott said from behind her.

Upstairs, the shower ran. Frank and Angela were in the kitchen, Frank tying his shoes, Angela standing over him, waiting. Finished, they stepped toward Jeremy, and each took a turn giving him hugs.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be out, but you’re free to come or go. Becky’s watched him plenty before,” Angela said.

“That’s okay, better here than home.” Scott smiled. It was genuine. “Dad had me painting the barn all day yesterday and I bet he had another exciting day planned for me today.”

Angela led the way out. The shower stopped and the sound of the Elfman car rolling away filled the air until it was only silence.

“You hungry?” Scott asked.

“Sure,” Jeremy said. “Can you make pancakes?”

“I can’t, but I bet Winnie can,” Scott said. “I can roast weenies and marshmallows and put cereal in bowls, pretty much it.”

“I’ll make you pancakes,” Winnie said.

A door opened upstairs and gentle steps moved slowly downward. It was Becky. She had a towel over her head and one wrapped around her chest and waist. Jeremy scrunched his face. Before she’d always, always, always dressed in the washroom and then came out. He’d never seen her wear towels except when they went swimming.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” she said.

—

The foursome watched a Western on the TV in the living room. Becky announced that she was hot and wanted to go outside. Scott seconded the idea.

“Can I come?” Jeremy asked.

Becky suggested that he stay inside for health reasons. “You should get rest.”

He frowned. Winnie was boring. “Do I got to?”

“Yes, you want to keep it clean and don’t itch it,” Becky said.

“We’ll be back soon enough,” Scott said and followed Becky through the kitchen.

“Do you want to play one of your games?” Winnie asked.

“Can you even play?” Jeremy pouted.

“Maybe, what do you have?” Winnie crouched and looked into the neat stacks in the cabinet under the television. “Hey, Battleship.”

“Have you even played Battleship?”

“Bet your butt I have.”

They played for an hour. Jeremy won, sort of. He doubted the authenticity of her strikes; he might be young, but he wasn’t stupid, you didn’t jump across the board after you got a strike.

Winnie suggested they watch TV and eat a snack. The popcorn bowl sat between them, lemonade cups on the table.  Jeremy leaned against Winnie. It wasn’t long before they dozed.

—

Waiting for Jeremy, candle in hand, was Arnold. The flame was tall and bright, and yet only a glint in the vast blackness. Not far away there was a sound and another light. Another candle. Another pair of people.

“Is that Winnie?” Jeremy asked.

“It is. I think she’s runnin’ into happiness. See, this place is good and happy and that’s why you got to dig up the treasure.”

“Umm, okay.”

“That bat stopped you from listening. The beasts think they own the place, but they don’t. It’s to share. The old and the new, together. You got to dig under the southeast corner of the basement, there’s a spot where the cement’s weak and crumbling.”

Overhead, a large bird-like creature squawked, “Shu shu, oob a la lack, shu shu!”

Jeremy ducked, seeing only the shape. It was like a crow, but massive with a smooth round head and a long spiky tail.

“I don’t like these things,” Jeremy whispered when he was certain the bird was gone.

“Don’t worry. There’s not so many animals and we’ll try and leave them behind when we come.”

“I don’t know. It’s scary, Grandpa.”

“Nope, your perception’s gettin’ in the way.”

“Oh,” Jeremy didn’t understand and didn’t want to.

“Mind me now.”

—

On the fleeting tail of a bang, the darkness evaporated into pinkness. Jeremy opened his eyes and looked at Winnie, and then over to the other couch, to Becky and Scott. They both blushed, guilt written in the creases around their eyes.

For the first two hours, they’d walked. Scott finally got up the nerve to hold her hand, then he kissed her and the juices flowed. Scott was prepared to stop whenever Becky said.

Becky and Scott cast away their virginities on an act lasting three seconds longer than eight minutes.

Winnie did not look at them. Her eyes burrowed into Jeremy. “Are you going to dig?” she asked, tears bubbling. “You have to find it.”

“What?” Scott said.

“You have to dig, okay? Justin said you know where to dig.”

Jeremy nodded. He rose from the couch and shuffled outside to gather the borrowed tools.

“What’s going on?” Becky asked.

Winnie looked at the pair and squinted, perhaps heard a tidbit of truth in the dark, dark place. “You should wear a condom. If he doesn’t dig, I’ll tell everyone what you did.”

Becky’s lips tightened and Scott scowled. It shouldn’t matter anyway, the kid liked digging. The sound of the storm cellar door opening and closing lessened the tension in the living room, switching the general mood to curiosity.

“We didn’t do nothing.” Scott squeezed Becky’s shoulder. “Besides, she’s my girlfriend.”

Becky leaned into him, biting her lower lip.

“You fucked her under a pine tree,” Winnie said, her voice powerful and willful, nothing like it had been hours earlier. “He will dig, and you will help him when I can’t.” She looked at Becky when she said this.

“Why?”

“Shut your mouth, your breath smells whorish. You will help your brother.”

A car rolled along the lane and a dust cloud followed. The living room went silent, and the only sounds were of Jeremy distantly banging against cement.

Frank and Angela stepped into view of the doorway, all smiles.

“We’re home!” Frank announced. “And Jer doesn’t have rabies!”

The stare-down continued in the living room, but only between brother and sister.

Becky burst off. “Got to pee,” she called out behind her.

“What a weirdo,” Angela said. “We stopped by your house. Your parents want you home.”

Winnie nodded and stepped past her brother. “Goodbye.”

“I guess we’re going. Ding-ding, bring in the slave labor.” Scott was visibly angry. “Bye, Becky!” he shouted. “See ya later,” he added to the Elfman parents.

—

“What is that?” Frank asked, leading the way. They got halfway down the stairs before they saw Jeremy. The basement was damp and musty, mostly empty. There were old flood lines on the whitewashed stone and the appliances lived on brick stilts. Jeremy was in a corner, there were a few baseball-sized hunks of old cement tossed aside and he worked at digging up a stony swatch.

“What are you doing?” Angela said.

“Digging.”

“We can see that. Do you plan on digging up the whole basement?” Angela asked.

“No.”

“Well, stop!” Angela said.

Jeremy did not stop.

“You know, it’s probably not a big deal. We’ll need to find the leaks eventually. Maybe he’s digging with luck. Be careful buddy,” Frank said.

“I didn’t think of that,” Angela said, her light-heartedness coming back to the surface, no rabies, no biggie. “Next, go ahead and dig us a pool in the backyard, would ya?”

Jeremy didn’t answer, instead, swiped his falling tears against the shoulder of his shirt, doing so without notice. He’d never truly explain about dreams that were more than dreams. They wouldn’t understand.

—

It was the third day in a row that Winnie had come to visit Jeremy. She said she liked being around him and that it helped her think of something other than lost love.

Who could argue with her?

Jeremy and Winnie were in the basement. Becky and Scott were in the living room. Angela and Frank were in the backyard. The entire family had had terrible sleeps the night before. Nightmares had jolted them awake multiple times. The subject matter went unspoken, and none had any idea that they all dreamed of the same void that moved infinitely toward more nothingness.

The afterlife. No Heaven. No Hell. No reincarnation. There was only punishment for having lived.

“Lemonade?” Frank asked.

He’d lain in the shade while Angela lay on her back, soaking up radiation.

“Sure, but I’ll come in with you.”

Frank helped Angela to her feet. They stepped inside as the cellar opened.

Winnie’s voice rose up the steps. “Where are you going?”

Jeremy ran, got to the living room. He needed Scott. The only remedy for a troublesome sister was a brother.

“Keep her away,” he whispered, sounding much older than he was. He then turned to Becky. “Start a fire.”

“What?”

“She’ll bring the black,” Jeremy said.

Scott hadn’t a clue, didn’t need one. Becky, however, understood fearing that black, black, blackness, she understood the terror of shadows. She’d dreamed demons and beasts, and dead people that lived in perfect, horrible darkness. They hungered to devour the light of the world.

“Did you find it?” Winnie asked, charging into the room, sweaty and dirty.

“What the hell, Winnie?” Angela said.

Scott grabbed Winnie’s arm. “Come on, you’re being a freak.”

Winnie, without pause, cocked back a fist and slugged him in the jaw. He hadn’t expected the strike and dropped but bounced upright. He pounced and smothered her.

“Knock it off!” Frank shouted.

Jeremy ran back toward the door to the basement and stopped briefly to look at Becky. “Fire!” He tore down the stairs, Angela chasing after him.

“What in the heck is going on here?” Angela said, hands on her hips.

Chaos.

Becky broke for the woodshed attached to the carport and gathered old newspaper from the bin, kindling from the ancient woodpile, and matches from the spider-webby ledge. There was a small fire pit in the backyard for roasts and camp outs, they’d used it whenever they’d visited before Arnold died. She dumped the paper and cardboard into the pit and built a teepee of kindling.

There were screams and shouts inside, glass breaking, and furniture tumbling. Becky knocked the kindling askew. Imperfection mattered none, she lit a flyer for the Super-Value grocery and the flames licked slowly and then died from a lack of oxygen.

A door slammed behind her and Jeremy yelled. “Fire, fire!”

He had a pale white book in his hands. He was filthy, but the book was spotless. It looked like a new, alabaster baby—eerily like infantile flesh.

She kneeled and lit the paper again. It was damp from the mugginess and refused to stay lit. Jeremy tossed the book into the pit. There was a mouth on the front, a long pink tongue stretched, licking lip-less edges. It smacked as if freshly awoken. Becky screamed, while she made a third attempt at lighting the paper. It caught on the oldest cardboard, though weakly.

Winnie shouted like a crazy person from inside.

“Burn it!” Jeremy said again, tears streaking his dusty cheeks.

Becky pushed to her feet and rushed to the small shed. There was a red can sitting next to a greasy Remington chainsaw. The can was half full and she lugged it back to the pit, the contents sloshing and misting out the breather hole where a white cap hung by a plastic tether, unscrewed.

The fire continued to burn, barely charring the kindling. The book’s cover hadn’t browned a hint. The mouth seemed to sneer.

Becky twisted the main cap off, slowing to a trot. The cap fell into the grass, and she dumped the mixed gasoline over the fire, dousing the petering flames.

“No!” Winnie shouted.

She ran out toward the pit. Her face was puffy and bloody. Scott chased behind her, looking even worse. Frank behind him. Angela stood where she had since Jeremy ran outside.

“That mouth,” Angela whispered.

Winnie dived through the shower of gasoline to rescue the book. A flicker from beneath the cardboard found the gasoline vapor and celebrated in a hot ball, nine shades of orange and a few shades of green. The flames leapt onto Winnie. She straightened and screamed, and yet, managed to open the book. The tongue stretched and licked her knuckles.

Leathery pages.

Script written in blood.

A way to reunite love.

“Shu ca, rura, shu!” she read.

Jeremy cried into his palms.

“Shu shu, la loo ka shu!”

The flames bubbled Winnie’s flesh and she fell to her knees. The others watched in awe.

“Shu—”

“Winnie!” Scott shouted, after the initial shock passed, he jumped on his sister. The fire burned him, and he rolled away from the pain.

“Scott, no.” Becky leapt onto Scott to drown the flames dancing over his t-shirt.

“Sool kylatooyo, shu shu, shu shu, la loo ka rura,” Winnie mumbled, the fumes rode her inhalation and lit her tongue and throat. She managed to flip the page. “Huu shu shu, la loo ka.” Her skin was of red scales and open sores below the flames.

The mouth on the book quoted on the tail of the words spoken, as if taking an oath, its voice inaudible.

Frank ran with a blanket retrieved from the woodshed. He tossed it on Winnie. Becky and Scott stopped rolling and stared at the smoke rising from the smoldering body beneath the blanket.

“No more,” Jeremy whined. He dropped down next to the alight pit. Frank picked him up and stepped back.

“Is she…?” Angela didn’t want to say it.

There were holes and superficial burns on Scott’s hands, arms, and chest. He crawled toward his sister. Becky watched him go.

“Winnie?” he whispered. His hand hovered, as if refusing to touch her, to cause any undue pain.

“Ka la loo, sepow a dim, shu shu, rura, rura, shu shu,” her small voice wheezed.

“Winnie?” Scott chanced a gentle nudge and the ground began to shake beneath them. He stumbled in a backwards crab crawl as the earth opened.

Winnie teetered and then slid down into a hole as it chewed through the lawn. Blackness sucked up the light directly overhead and a loud screech called out.

“What the hell?” Scott said.

Instinctively, the Elfman family backed away from the pure budding void, away from the beam of impenetrable vacancy that grew into the sky.

“Shu shu!” a voice screeched and two thumps sounded from below. A behooved man with a peaked head and a mouth that opened like an accordion leaned over Scott. It roared triumph. Scott turned to crawl, and the black accordion mouth opened wide enough to bite through a young man: a clean amputation of everything below the waist. Becky screamed. Angela grabbed her, turning away.

“Run to the car, go,” Frank said.

His family led the way as he stumbled in reverse, unwilling to withdraw his gaze. More blackness ate the light, chunked away at the grass, and three more creatures climbed topside. Two men with mutilated bodies and dog heads; flesh yellowy white. The third was a bird, a black ostrich with a head of serrated spaghetti tentacles, hundreds of tiny reaching appendages.

Up the lane, the Gums’ Dodge rolled toward the house. Frank forwent his staring contest and got into the front seat next to Angela. She barked the car into life.

“Drive! Drive!” Frank screamed.

“I am! Don’t yell at me!” Angela tore out the laneway, veering into a field as she passed the red truck.

The family watched in the mirror. At first, the Dodge stopped and then it moved on. The blackness ate the collapsing barn and then the shed, creeping outward in every direction, rising high into the air and beyond.

Watching no more, the Elfman’s Ford pulled out onto the road, heading for anywhere but here.

—

They drove into the night and through the following day, stopping at late night pumps for fuel and then at drive-thru restaurants for meals. The radio rolled through a playlist of upbeat pop absurdity. The bouncing beats and lyrics clashed against the blank shock. They’d made it halfway across the country when they finally stopped for a sleep break.

They’d heard nothing of the void but hadn’t been listening for it. It was a bad dream so long as they ignored it.

The four of them settled into two beds: husband and wife, brother and sister. They dreamed brief snippets of bright, modified reality. They awoke feeling better, they’d overreacted, knowing the blackness was only over the farm and, surely, the army had killed everything stepping forth.

“Morning,” Frank said as he fixed a pot of coffee in the small stainless-steel percolator on top of a mini fridge.

“Morning,” the trio said back in unison.

The machine bubbled and Frank sat back down on the bed. “What do you think?”

“It was bad, but I’m sure it’s over,” Angela said. “Maybe I’ll paint the creatures, maybe they are my singular thought, maybe it was my imagination manifesting itself.”

Frank leaned over and kissed her. Becky lay flat while Jeremy sprang from his bed and leapt onto his mother before breaking for the washroom. It was a dull morning through the small window above the toilet. Wonderful greyness.

There was hope left in greyness. “Is it better?” Jeremy asked, kicking the door closed before plopping down onto the can.

“Has to be. I tried to check the radio, but I’m not getting reception,” Frank said, speaking to the closed door.

Jeremy heard only a grumble as he pushed out the road food turned to pasty mush.

Finished, he ran the water to wash his face. He closed his eyes. Panicked, his eyelids rebelled against the absence of light, and he turned to the window. The light still existed. He would never take it for granted again.

The tap water coughed and rushed. Jeremy continued washing until every smoke streak was gone from his cheeks. He opened the door. “Are we going—?” The words caught in his throat.

A deep midnight wall had eaten that side of the hotel, and the sickening black creatures were on top of his family. Crimson geysers sprouted from throats and torn limbs. Tendrils of detached muscles, veins, tissues waggled and danced at the disconnections. Undead: each wore silent horror masks. Seeping fluids drained the pigment of their flesh and left them pale as that book had been.

Angela looked at Jeremy with milk white eyes and said, voice bloody, gargling, “Shu shu, rura shu shu. Shu shu forever.”

Three short creatures, like humans, but scaly-skinned with vulture beaks, hopped off the bed and approached Jeremy. Their shadows ate light. Cut it and devoured it. The boy backed a step. He closed and locked the bathroom door. He stared at the grey through the little window and prayed for its strength, despite the quick casting shadow dimming the hues.

There, beyond that window, nightmarish eagles squawked with raspy tongues, “Shu shu, rura cack a lack! Shu shu!”

Jeremy held onto that grey, even as his knees failed and he fell to the bubbling linoleum of the bathroom floor. “Shu shu forever.”

For hundreds of miles in every direction, night ate day and was only getting started.

XX