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November 2008

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DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

Silence
by Christopher Death

He was drunk again. Alcohol spilled from his lips, dripped down his neck, and stained his shirtfront yellow. The scent of cheap Gray Goose vodka saturated his person like some heavy cologne. Only tonight he would not fill another shot glass and pass out on the couch. He would not snore loudly and heave opaque stomach bile into the lavatory tomorrow morning.

Tonight young Alan Sanford would hide from him. Hide, and hope that the intoxicated monster would fall asleep before the beatings began. But tonight Alan would not be that lucky. His life did not resemble some suburban fairytale, and lady luck had forgotten his street address long ago.

Tonight Alan would be silent.

Silent as a graveyard.

He had learned from experience to keep his mouth shut when the Man was intoxicated. Nothing stirred up the embers of wrath faster than a careless word. Sometimes little Alan wanted to blurt out every single angry remark and fearful sentiment that he had caged inside. But sometimes even silence could not avert the torrent of alcohol-induced rage.

Tonight the Man would haul Alan through the house. He would squeeze Alan between two strong hands and carry him. Alan would struggle until he could keep silent no longer. And then the beatings would begin.

“Why don’t you ever shut up?”

“Please just leave me alone.”

“Your mother taught you to squeal. She’s the real problem.”

“Put me down.”

“Not until you stop screaming.”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Shut up already, you little urchin.”

“Let me go.”

“Just shut up!”

Alan would begin to cry, releasing rivers of red hot tears. The scent of sweat and alcohol and misery would collide to create a new fragrance: a fragrance that would always beckon memories of the Man. Never father or dad … just the Man.

Twelve years later when the Man was long dead and gone, his legacy would still thrive inside Alan. Like some inert poison that infected the very nucleus of his soul, the Man had planted his seed inside his namesake. And no matter how hard Alan tried, he could not shed the horrible memory of his childhood … or the latent persona that was beginning to bud.

Each night Alan would awake drenched in a cold sweat, terrified by the memories of his late father. Each night he would try unsuccessfully to purge his mind from the childhood nightmares. But that would only provoke the beast, and create new walls of fury that leapt inside his mind.

Shut up you stupid little vermin.

Don’t make me hit you again.

When I was young, children were seen and not heard.

Scream and I’ll make sure you never talk again.

Even after the child welfare people came and took Alan away from the Man, Alan could feel the splinter of anger embedded inside his mind. That had been the gift father passed down to son – the only gift Alan had ever received. Unfortunately there are some scars that the healing winds of time cannot fully wipe away.

The anger bred into young Alan Sanford would not diminish. The Man’s lifelong foe had become Alan’s most hated adversary. Even the loving support of a beautiful wife could not change that fact, and merely threw gasoline onto the fire.

Her name was Margaret Anderson. Alan had met her over one summer vacation in Florida, and the rest was ancient history. The two married one bright January morning at St. John’s Cathedral, before the careful eye of Alan’s supportive stepfamily. Champagne was popped, and cake was cut.

Altogether Allan enjoyed a beautiful ceremony with his new wife. And for the next six months, he thought that finally the nightmares had followed his father into the grave. But he was wrong.

***

Alan lay quietly inside the dark room, his body pressed close against the satin sheets beneath him. Silence drifted through the hollow chamber, mingling with webs of darkness. His wife lay asleep beside him, and he could hear her gentle breath rattle into the stillness. Despite several recent insomnia attacks, Alan felt intact and aware. The darkness buzzed around him with renewed vigor.

“Margaret, wake up.”

The listless figure opposite him didn’t move.

“Honey, I can’t sleep again.”

Finally Alan tired of waiting for his wife to respond, and he touched her shoulder softly. The blanket covering her person slipped onto the floor. Margaret fell sidelong into Alan’s arms with cold indifference, her legs folded beneath her in a rigid postmortem fetal pose. Two sightless glossy eyes stared into the dark void above her.

Alan screamed, and tried to untangle himself from the frigid figure. Moonlight streamed into the bedroom and fell across Margaret’s crumpled form, revealing the glossy black pool that had settled into the mattress around her. Alan screamed once more out of pure misery. He reached helplessly toward his late wife, but stopped short suddenly. A long crooked razor extended from his fingertips.

Creamy crimson fluid dripped from the razor blade, seeping onto the carpet and bedspread. Alan flung the device away from him in horror, but found that the blood had already stained his forearm. The crimson fluid began to liquefy and spread across his sultry white flesh.

Suddenly the darkness parted like some fine veil, and a shaft of light crept into the room. Alan coughed up blood, and watched with complete terror as Margaret extended her rigid arms. Rigor mortis had begun its repelling work, and Alan could see her muscles labor to move the stiffened joints. The entire process took several painstaking moments to complete, during which Alan watched, unable to move or even breathe.

Bathed beneath tapestries of ethereal September moonlight, Margaret stepped out from the shadows. Blood pooled at her ankles, creating a waxy purple hue that stood in sharp contrast to her feeble white arms. And through the darkness Alan heard a voice whisper.

Why did you kill me, Alan?

Why did you kill your loving wife?

Why did you kill the person that meant the most to you?

Alan tried to exhale but the sultry crimson fluid had already infested his lungs. Colors began to explode before his eyes. Wild blue, angry red and livid green began to flood his colorless world. Just before Alan slipped into unconsciousness, he managed to release one last futile statement.

“But I didn’t kill my wife!”

“Alan, wake up.”

“I didn’t kill her! I swear!”

“Wake up Alan!”

“Please don’t hurt me again!”

“Wake up, dammit!”

Suddenly Alan shot awoke, startled by the sharp pain that struck his forearm. Margaret sat beside him, and fresh sunlight drifted through the large bedroom window. The bedspread lay crumpled on the floor. Alan must have thrashed about during the nightmare and woken his wife.

Meanwhile Margaret glared at him through her beautiful brown eyes. Except this morning they were not filled with love or sympathy; her eyes flashed with confusion and miscomprehension. Something like fear registered over her strong German-American features, but disappeared a moment later.

“Are the nightmares happening again?”

Her voice was full of compassion. Alan didn’t want to tell her the truth. He didn’t want her to worry about him. She had more important things to think about than her poor psychologically tormented husband … namely the little unborn angel that grew inside her womb. Unfortunately the cold sweat that broke across Alan’s forehead revealed the truth.

“The nightmares are coming back, aren’t they?”

“Only once or twice a week, I promise. And they aren’t nearly as bad as the last time. With a little medication I can control them. It’s not a big deal honey.”

“Maybe you should go see Dr. Lancaster …”

“I’m not going back to that head job. The last time I visited him, I had to spend six months in the nuthouse. And this time I won’t let a few stupid nightmares stand between me and my family. Besides, the baby is due soon and I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

“Dr. Lancaster is a professional psychiatrist, not a head job. Maybe you could just go talk to him for one day. Please?”

“My answer is no, and that’s final. I don’t need a shrink.”

“But he could help you …”

“No psychiatrists. No doctors. And that’s final.”

Margaret shrunk back from her enraged husband. A strange, feral flame flickered across Alan’s eyes. The anger emitting from his person became an almost palpable presence in the room. And for the next few minutes, the man called Alan Sanford disappeared completely. Instead a hollow shell of rage sat before Margaret.

“Alan, maybe you should take a cold shower.”

“Shut up! Stop telling me what I should do!”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Just be quiet! Can’t you ever just shut the hell up?”

Alan leaned forward like some wild predator.

Margaret slapped him across the face.

Hard.

Reeling back with confusion, Alan tasted blood in his mouth. And with the blood came a rush of reality as well. He sat perfectly still for the following five minutes, trying to piece together what happened. He felt as though all his pent childhood rage had come spilling out during those few fleeting seconds. A red haze was the only thing that remained after his violent outburst. And then the tears began to well beneath his eyes.

Margaret leaned forward and touched his cheek, lending a small smile. “Tomorrow I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Lancaster. He can tell us what’s happening,” she said. After kissing him reassuringly, she retreated toward the kitchen.

Alan watched his pregnant wife shuffle away, and then decided to take her advice about the cold shower. The frigid morning water was exactly what he needed to clear his head, but deep down inside he knew that Dr. Lancaster could not help. His stepfamily had brought him to several psychiatrists throughout the years, and they all diagnosed him with the same problem. They said he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, because of his abusive biological father.

Despite the concurring diagnosis, every consequent medication failed miserably. Alan’s dreams continued to reoccur several times each week. Only now the dreams had become more grisly and vivid than before. And Alan suspected that it was somehow connected with his unborn son.

Be quiet you little street slime.

Go ahead and run away, just like your mother.

Quit sniveling you ungrateful whelp.

Toweling his hair dry, Alan stepped out of the cold shower. Margaret was already seated at the dinner table, and a frying pan filled with eggs and bacon simmered over the stove. The scent of toasted bread and fresh orange juice filled the happy little cottage. Alan drank in the atmosphere like a fine wine.

“Feeling better now?”

Margaret barely looked over the rim of her coffee mug.

“Two hundred percent thank you very much.”

“Are you going to eat breakfast before you leave?”

“I would love to, but duty calls.”

“I made your favorite.”

“That’s wonderful, but I’m late for work already.”

Margaret rolled her hazel eyes with irritation. Although that meant she was angry at him, Alan could not help but admire the subtle beauty of her nature. He had fallen in love with every little facet of her personality, including all the annoying habits. He convinced himself that was the key to a successful relationship.

So far the cards had fallen in his favor.

Snagging his favorite sport coat from the living room, Alan skipped out the door. A stiff wind met him outside and conveyed him across the yard toward his little Honda Civic. Even though his particular choice of automobile was heavily criticized at the office, Alan would not rather drive any other car.

Dropping into the spacious leather interior, he felt the little blue car rumble to life beneath him. With a cursory tug on the rearview mirror, Alan eased onto the vacant suburban street. He was forced to adjust the mirrors now and then, because ever since Margaret’s Saturn broke down she shared driving privileges.

Ah, the unfortunate little quirks of married life.

Alan looped into the office parking lot and threw the Civic into park. He was so preoccupied with thoughts about Margaret and the baby that he never noticed the grungy little street peddler until he could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Have a spare dollar, mister?”

The dingy old man pulled up about two feet before Alan and ran his eyes across the glossy Honda Civic. Alan could imagine the dirty old pigeon molesting his precious treasure, running his broken fingers across the metallic finish and smearing the expensive leather upholstery with his muddy clothes. The very thought sent a rabid chill down his spine.

“Nice car.”

“It was a special present from Santa Clause.”

Alan shut the door quickly and made sure it was locked.

The hobo let his bulging white eyes linger across the car. He stood so close that Alan could see the enlarged pores on his nose, and the sharp vertical scar that rent his mouth in two. Long brown hairs lurched out from beneath his tattered black derby, and extended in several eccentric directions.

“You got a light?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“That’s a pity.”

Alan grinned superficially and began to walk away.

“I s’pose ya have t’be some important corp’rate exec-utive to drive one o’ them cars, eh?”

“Not at all - you just have to be a good boy all year.”

The hobo grinned suddenly, revealing two rows of degenerated yellow canines. He pressed an unlit Marlboro between his lips.

“That’s real funny mister, but I don’t believe in no Santa.”

“Your loss,” Alan shrugged.

A moment later he was safely within the confines of the Paterson & Sedgwick Law Office. His secretary, Miss Debora Brinkley escorted him into the elevator. Judging by the tone of her voice, she was not very happy. Alan released a withered sigh as the elevator doors slid shut.

This was going to be another long day.

Unfortunately Alan was correct. When the grandfather clock registered 6:30 across the crested golden face, he found himself immersed within a veritable ocean of paperwork. His office now resembled some mid-Atlantic war zone instead of the typical metropolitan law firm. No matter how fast Allan signed the monotonous documents, salty ocean waves of paperwork continued to flood his little skipper.

Alan didn’t think that this much paperwork would surface after just one week of sick leave. Had everyone living in Chicago died and sued each other simultaneously during his short absence? He decided that was extremely unlikely.

Alan buried his head into the unorganized files that decorated his desk. He was beginning to severely regret his week-long vacation. But the nightmares were getting worse. He had two choices: take a week long retreat or suffer through six long days filled with excruciating mental torment. Fortunately Alan had accrued just enough sick time to cover his brief sabbatical.

What’s the problem you filthy little mutt?

Are you afraid that the dreams will come back?

Do the voices in your head scare you?

You’re weak just like your mother.

“Mr. Sanford, you have a call waiting.”

“Thank you Miss Brinkley.”

“I think your wife might be going into labor.”

“The doctor said she wasn’t due for two more weeks.”

“Tell that to your wife. She’s on line four.”

Alan cursed. One day after his weeklong vacation, the baby had decided to come out. Now he had backlogged paperwork to finish, a family to provide for, and a host of psychotic voices inside his head screaming for blood. How could life become more complicated?

Five minutes later Alan dashed into the parking lot once more. The dull shimmer of surrounding streetlights cast a golden haze into the ensuing darkness, creating an ethereal atmosphere among the busy Chicago streets. But when he approached his little blue Honda Civic, the threads of magical sentiment snapped into a thousand broken fibers.

Alan’s precious automobile had been thoroughly trashed. Every window was splintered, and a spider-like fissure had spread jagged tentacles across the windshield. Even the tail lights had been carefully worked over.

Suddenly Alan felt his blood boil. The initial shock had passed and now ribbons of infectious rage pulsed through his veins. The voices that had become part of his daily nightmares whispered viciously in his ears. Tendrils of anger seeped through the saturated nightfall, wrapping him inside a blanket of pure rage. And then he saw movement inside the damaged car.

The street hobo that Alan had befriended earlier that day appeared in the passenger seat. His bony fingers collected several small items that glinted in the streetlight - CD’s, DVD’s, and jewelry – anything that could fetch a fair price at the pawn shop. Only this time Alan had the element of surprise.

The hobo barely had enough time to flinch before Alan was standing over him, fingers wrapped tightly around his neck. The only thing that registered in Alan’s mind was unadulterated fury as he clamped down on the vandal’s trachea. Spittle erupted from the man’s mouth. Alan’s fingers constricted slowly, rendering his lips an asphyxiated purple ring among his pallid blue complexion.

“Mister … let me go mister … I can’t breathe.”

“Shut up you miserable maggot!”

“Please mister … I … I … I’m sorry.”

“If you speak one more time, I’ll rip your tongue out!”

Struggling for his last breath of air, the hobo pawed helplessly at Alan’s face. A moment later his eyes became vacant white orbs. Alan watched indifferently as the life escaped from his body … a handful of jewelry still clutched within his icy fingers. But Alan knew that he could not leave the dead vagrant on the street. The police were sure to find him and they would suspect foul play. He had to do something with the body.

Alan tried to clear his thoughts but adrenaline still rushed through his bloodstream. The anger that overtook him felt like a cold embrace. Deep down inside Alan hated the surge of madness, but he could not resist the call any longer. A thousand voices echoed shrilly through his head, adding gasoline to the fire that consumed him. No psychiatrist could ban the voices forever, because the voices were a part of his nature. The Man was still controlling Alan through anger even years after his death.

That’s right … let the anger control you.

Can you feel the power that is burning inside?

Embrace the rage.

Soon Alan would have to make a terrible decision. But first he had a body to dispose of.

***

The house located on 317 Bluebird Lane was brightly lit when Alan arrived home. Even though the curtains were drawn, he knew that Margaret was inside. She had never been very fond of hospitals. When Margaret first discovered she was pregnant, they had talked about having a home birth. Fortunately Alan was able to talk her into a traditional hospital delivery.

Back then he argued that the baby would be safer within the hospital setting. He said that if anything went wrong, the doctors could respond quickly with help. Unfortunately there were no doctors present at the house to protect the newborn infant and his mother from the real terror.

Parking the battered Civic safely in his garage, Alan slipped inside the small two-bedroom house. He could hear the television murmur in the living room. Margaret had probably fallen asleep while watching the nightly news broadcast. She would be fast asleep, spread across the couch cushions with her newborn child snuggled fondly against her bosom.

The flames of internal rage scorched Alan’s conscience, rendering him into the heartless beast that he had come to hate during his childhood. His blood became hot and burned inside his veins. The man whom had once been called Alan Sanford was no more … consumed by the same disease that destroyed his father.

Demolish everyone that you hold dear!

Your companions will only betray you.

You have no friends. Only hate.

Margaret entered the living room, her eyes sunken and tired. Even though the delivery had been quick and successful, she still appeared physically drained. When Alan saw his wife step into the living room, whatever shred of sanity that he had left screamed out in opposition to his violent intentions.

“Alan, thank God you’re back. The baby needs to see his father. I was beginning to think that something terrible had happened to you.”

Suddenly Margaret’s smile of relief turned into a worried frown. She saw the wicked razorblade that dangled in Alan’s fingertips, and the psychotic fury that twisted across his face. She had married Alan knowing perfectly well that he struggled with his inner demons … but she never suspected that he would become one of them.

“Alan, what are you doing?”

“Be quiet dear. You’re interrupting the beautiful silence.”

“Put the razor down, Alan.”

“Please don’t speak. You’re making me angry.”

“Just calm down and talk to me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“You sound just like my father.”

Alan crept forward with slow, lithe movements. His arm that carried the razorblade felt numb from the elbow down. He could no longer feel joy or pain. The only thing that drove him forward was rage.

Leaping forward, Alan managed to snag Margaret’s sleeve. She screamed and stumbled toward the garage. Fortunately Alan lost his footing during the scuffle. He cursed, stumbling head first over the coffee table. Margaret took advantage of the brief opening and bolted toward the doorway.

Alan struggled to his feet a moment later. Blood ran freely from his nose, painting the carpet crimson. He wiped the bloody saliva from his face and tasted its coppery tang in his mouth. Currents of pain washed down his spine, blurring his vision. Most likely he had broken his nose during the fall. But that was not enough to end his reign of terror.

Grasping the wicked razorblade, Alan prepared to follow Margaret. That was when he heard a sound issue from the bedroom.

Meanwhile Margaret huddled inside the garage, praying that Alan would regain his sanity long enough for the police to arrive. She could not escape because the garage door was locked, and Alan’s battered car would not start. Aside from the fact that a dead body sat in the corner, she was completely alone.

At least she had found temporary refuge.

Breathing deeply, Margaret backed away from the garage door. The house had become strangely silent. She could not hear any approaching footsteps or enraged cries from the living room. The only sound that interrupted the hollow silence was the sound of Margaret’s heart beating.

Perhaps Alan had realized that he lost her and fled. Perhaps his tumble over the sofa had rendered him unconscious. Perhaps he was still outside waiting for her to reappear. Whatever the case, Margaret didn’t want to find out.

The next moment she heard a noise that made her hair stand on end. A blood-curdling scream resonated through the silence, awakening a renewed sense of heroism that Margaret never thought she possessed. Because that very moment she realized her infant child was still trapped inside the house.

Alan stood over the blue baby crib, watching the infantile human wriggle within. His bloodshot eyes flickered across the room. Children’s picture books and toys were scattered throughout the brightly-colored nursery. The sight revitalized memories from his childhood, and merely encouraged him even more.

He could not allow the baby to live in such a cruel world. He would not permit his infant child to endure such a horrible childhood. So that left Alan with only one option.

Shut up you stupid urchin.

You are weak just like your mother.

I always knew you would turn soft.

The voices that tumbled inside Alan’s head became unbearable. Anger rushed into his mind like morphine, dulling his senses and creating a barrier around his emotions. The time had come to end the madness.

Alan raised the razorblade.

Just when Margaret reentered the living room, she heard an infantile shriek. The sound almost made her knees buckle on the spot. But Margaret was compelled forward with motherly instinct. When she entered the nursery, a horrifying sight met her eyes.

Alan was sprawled across the floor, blood bubbling from a jagged cut on his neck. Saliva frothed over his lips. The bloodshot eyes which had once been alight with psychotic rage now became dull and peaceful.

Inside the crib, their infant son sobbed uncontrollably. A fine haze had painted his clothes red, but otherwise he was unharmed. Margaret’s eyes danced with misunderstanding.

“I had to do it,” Alan choked. “I had to protect our son. You have to understand … I didn’t want him exposed to a childhood of fear like I was. I didn’t want him to wake up every morning wondering if he would survive the day. I didn’t want him to be afraid of his father. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Tears welled inside Margaret’s eyes.

“You would have been a good father.”

Alan tried to speak but his vocal chords would not respond. He had lost too much blood already. Soon the life would flow out of him, along with the tortured memories and bitter regrets. Then he would slowly slip into the dark abyss and let the shadows surround him.

When the cold embrace of unconsciousness began to enfold him, Alan realized that the voices had left his head. He could finally slip into eternity without splinters of his father poisoning his mind. All the anger pent-up from an abusive childhood began to dissipate into the darkness.

The last thing Alan remembered was Margaret holding him in her arms … and the happiness he felt with the knowledge that his son would not become a cold and indifferent monster. Alan had finally purged himself from the memory of his father. And that filled his heart will overwhelming joy.