Personal Effects: Dark Art

23

The countless, shimmering confetti lights of the city finally relinquished their hold on the passing landscape, allowing sleepy suburbs and townships to emerge on the horizon. Then they, too, disappeared in the Saturn’s rear window… and all was dark. Inky penumbrae of trees and hills now blurred past the windows, illuminated briefly by the high-beams, now gone. The moon glowed like a spotlight, fat and full.

I drove, alone.

I wasn’t alone.

The beast was here, slithering in the back seat—I could hear it, the sound of a spoon swirling through cottage cheese, a wet, slurp-swish that rushed from the right side of the car to the left, restless and hungry.

Glancing into the back seat or rearview mirror was pointless. It didn’t want to be seen. And yet it loomed, always invisible, sliding its tongue against its fangs—obsidian razors, Mr. Taylor, tktktk—huffing its gelid breath against my neck.

I twitched, wide-eyed, hands frozen to the steering wheel. The Saturn’s heater was set to high. It blew cold air.

The car sped on, northward on the interstate. I craved distraction from the sounds behind me. I fiddled with the radio, tapping the “seek” button with a trembling finger. The manic side of me—the side that had split this morning as Emilio’s skull split against Brinkvale tile, the side of me now drinking the Dark Man Kool-Aid, glub-glub-glub, refreshing ice-cold India ink, it hunts best in the pitch, paid in blood, ohhh yeahhhh—wasn’t surprised by the music that slipped through the speakers.

Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” The Doors’ “This Is the End.”

I barked a crazed laugh when Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” hissed through the static on the FM dial.

“I get the fucking point,” I said.

The radio snatched another station. A wicked, never-ending cackle roared from the dash. I shrieked. Vincent Price laughed on and on in his timeless walk-off from the Michael Jackson song “Thriller.” The Dark Man, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

It’ll play, Mr. Taylor, play with you like…

“…a cat plays with a…”

Tktktk.

I switched off the radio.

“Grih-grih,” I muttered. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them, focused on the road ahead. Watched the highway’s dividing line tick past the car hood.

“Grip. Get. A. Grip. Zach.”

The air from the dashboard vents blasted hot, drying my eyes. I blinked, savoring the cascading warmth. The Doberman behind me growled, as if suddenly understanding.

“You’re not real,” I said. “You’re a psychic virus. A transmythssion. A figment.”

The thing’s jaws snapped now, hollow fangs clicking in a vibraslap staccato. The sound of skulls.

“That’s right. Drake was patient zero, brainwashing us with his CIA training, spreading his sickness. But you’re paranoia. You’re delusion. You’re… not… real.”

An awful sound hailed from behind me—the sound of slop dumped from a bucket. The heater still blasted, but my body jolted uncontrollably, wracked with shivers. The thick splash hadn’t come from below. It came from above.

It was on the ceiling.

“Not real,” I whispered.

My hair stood on end. Icy spider legs swirled across my arms, my neck, my face.

Jesus Christ, it’s on the ceiling and it’s sagging now, the sound, dear God, milkshake sucked through a straw, no, not real, colder, getting colder in here, Antarctic wind, no, not

“…real,” I hissed. “Not.”

Loud, by my ear: TKTKTK.

I screamed.

The cell phone in my hip pocket sang “Birdhouse In Your Soul.”

Rachael. I pulled out the phone, hit “talk,” smiling, relieved and grateful—so goddamned grateful.

“What kind of macho bullshit is this?” she snapped. “‘… So I’m going north, to pull its gaze away from all us… to just one of us.’ What’s gotten into you, Z? You don’t just do this, you can’t just up and leave without telling us. We waited for you. Waited for more than an—”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” I said. The gooseflesh relinquished its hold on my skin. “I couldn’t, just couldn’t. You and Luc are all I have. I—”

“What”

“You guys are it, babe, all I’ve got. You were nearly killed tonight. If this thing’s real, I won’t let it—”

“—eaking up,” Rachael’s voice said. “—amn it, Z, we’re suppos—”

I gripped the wheel. No. Goddamned cell phone reception failure, not now.

“Rache, listen. I’m the bait, it’s the only way. I wouldn’t be able to live…”

My voice trailed off, distracted. The car was warm again. No, the car was hot again. No feeling of being watched, no slither sounds, no bucket of Black sloshing in the backseat.

Flash-bulb memory: Drake’s last word to me yesterday, as I ran from Room 507.

Pray. Or prey.

“Oh no,” I said.

“—ach, you’re…—ouble here…—ow… no…—earn—”

“No,” I said. I stared at the midnight wilderness before me. “Don’t you dare, not her, you fucker. No, oh no, no-no-no—”

“—help—”

The line went dead.

The dashboard vents whirred merrily, filling the interior with white noise and hot air. My fists pounded the steering wheel as I wailed, sweat suddenly streaming from my pores. The phone was worthless. I threw it into the passenger seat, snarling, sick at heart.

Tears made the yellow line ahead blur and shimmer, a nighttime mirage.

You’ve damned her. Damned them all.

The wheel’s leather grip moaned as I squeezed tighter. I hated myself. Hated Drake. Hated the inky thing hunting us.

Uncle Henry’s voice: Sometimes you find the path…

Too late. Too late to turn back.

My foot punched the accelerator. Eighty. Ninety. Past ninety.

“Come and get me, you cold-hearted son of a bitch,” I growled to the Dark Man. “I’m heading to your home. Come and get me.”

I drove, alone.