Where Darkness Dwells

• Title Page
  
• Prologue
  
• Part I:
  
• Part II
  
• Part III
  
• Part IV
  
• Epilogue
  

WHERE DARKNESS DWELLS

by

GlenKrisch

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Glen Krisch on Smashwords

Where Darkness Dwells

Copyright © by Glen Krisch

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*****

Where Darkness Dwells

Prologue

Knowing he wouldn't comprehend the weight of her words, Greta spoke to her son. "People I love are going to suffer."

Kneeling near the kitchen table, Arlen worked a mound of clay against the wooden floor. Face taut with concentration, he rolled the gray slab into thin bands. He pulled off smaller pieces and worked these as well, setting aside finished pieces to a larger whole.

She wanted him to more than hear her voice; she wanted him to understand. She was desperate to share her burden. But it was her burden and hers alone to bear. Involving others would ruin any prospect of ending decades of pain and the degradation of human life. If people had to die to reach this end, it had to play out through its natural course. Otherwise, nothing would change.

So she voiced her worries to the only person she could.

"Mama, we still gonna be together?" Arlen asked. He looked up from the floor where his claywork took shape. Her son was no longer a boy. He hadn't been a boy in so long, yet he still had a child's mind. His tangled beard was graying, his scraggly pate thinning. While he lived with childlike exuberance, time weighed on her heavily, slowing her movements and shrinking her bones. She was an old woman, near her end.

Innocence shined in Arlen's eyes. He minded adults and would never purposely cause anyone grief. He had such a kind soul. Given the choice, she wouldn't want him to change. She wouldn't risk losing who he was for anything.

"We'll always be together," she answered him. "I will always be in your heart."

Soothed by her words, his mind flitted to other matters. He picked up a small gray blob and rolled it in his palm. "I miss picking with the others. I don't mind my gopher hole, but it ain't the same as the old mine."

Arlen had worked for years as a pile sorter for the Grendal Coal Company. Picking coal was a job fit for a child, sitting atop a tipple pile all day, sorting valuable ore from the waste rock. When the company left Coal Hollow seven years ago, Arlen was twenty years older than the other pile sorters. They'd given him the job, aware he could never advance beyond it.

"You're doing a good thing for your mom, digging that gopher hole."

Arlen grinned. The best part of his smile was an aged, yellow ivory. The rest, empty gaps and decay.

It had been Arlen's idea to open the gopher hole at their property's edge overlooking Tipple Road. Townsfolk stopped off the main north-south road through Coal Hollow, buying coal Arlen had dug from the swallow mine. High-grade ore ran in thin, twisting veins just below the topsoil--all he had to do was scratch the surface. People would procure enough fuel to warm their homes, allowing Arlen to help support his mom. There were other places to buy fuel--stores and other gopher holes aplenty--but people went out of their way to buy from Arlen.

He pieced together the finished pieces of clay, realizing the image from his muse.

She could tell his thoughts were skittering off to the starry skyscape of his mind. She continued: "I could point to certain people on the streets of Coal Hollow, say, 'You will be dead by the first frost.'"

Arlen looked up from his claywork, staring out the window as the moon rose above the trees, a beacon cutting softly through the nighttime sky.

"But it has to be. Has to be, or nothing will change."

Arlen smiled. Her voice had always soothed him.

"Sometimes death leads to life. Sometimes there's a greater good." She thought back to the visit from the two boys earlier today. They'd come to her, as all the town's children did at one point or another, to hear her stories. Looking those boys in the eye, she told her tales, setting them on the path to their end. "Until the day I die, I will damn my ancestors for cursing me with this supposed gift."

Arlen scooped up his artwork, offering it to her.

She held the gift in shaking hands. A gray flower more delicate than the clay of its origin. Finely articulated petals, a thin, twisting stem. Beauty rendered from a slab of shapeless gray earth.

She smiled. It was all the thanks Arlen needed, all the approval he so desperately sought. He looked away, staring again at the rising moon.

No, she would never wish her son to be different, to be normal. To be whole. He was more than the sum of his parts, more than whole. And he was a better person than her. Better than those who came before her.

Part I:

1.

July 8, 1934

George Banyon climbed into bed, shucking his blanket to the floor. He was exhausted from rising at dawn and hastily working through his chores around the farm, from meeting up with his friends later on, and as the sun set, attempting to impress Betty Harris by swinging from a tattered rope into the Illinois River's murky water. Just one day in what seemed like an endless string, but regrettably, it would soon end. Soon he would have to behave like a man. After all, a month shy of seventeen, he would be graduating the following spring.

On the cusp of sleep moments after hitting the pillow, a tapping at the window nudged him fully awake.

Sitting up, sluggish sweat dripped from his sunburned skin. He looked across the darkened one-room farmhouse to Ellie's bed. His younger sister hadn't stirred. It amazed George that she could sleep so soundly with a blanket tucked over her shoulder. Their father, sitting in his handmade rocker, had passed out hours ago.

George swung his legs to the floor and stood, hoping the floorboards wouldn't reveal his late night creeping. He knew who was tapping and so he took his time. Jimmy Fowler, his best friend since either boy could walk. Whenever anything caught Jimmy's interest long enough that he couldn't keep it to himself until morning, he would come tapping on George's window. But right now, all George wanted was to stop sweating, and to fall into a deep and welcomed sleep. He went to the open window, not a hint of breeze to bring a moment's relief, and saw Jimmy's scruffy blond head. His blue eyes caught the moonlight, revealing his excitement. He gave it off like a pig's stinking breath.

"Get your fishing tackle," Jimmy whispered.

"Are you nuts? I got to get up at five a.m."

"Forget your chores. Won't matter after tonight."

"You're still thinking about old Greta's story?"

"I say we find out if it's true or not. If it's all made up, all that's lost is some sleep, but if we
do
track down the beast…"

"Come on, Jimmy. I'm tired."

"Just think what Betty Harris will think when we catch 'em."

George's heart fluttered. He tried not to show it. He'd had trouble speaking to Betty ever since the sixth grade when he discovered she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. But something had changed since school let out this summer. Her friends became friendly with his, mostly because Jimmy's girl, Louise Bradshaw, was friends with Betty.

"You really think Betty would be impressed?"

"Sure she would. Maybe she'd even let you take her to a movie."

George immediately started planning a first date with Betty. Borrowing a car, getting gas to drive to Peoria, ticking off a list of stuff to talk about during the drive. George pushed it all aside, not wanting the dizzying possibility of being alone with Betty to muddle his thoughts.

He would sneak out with Jimmy; he knew it as soon as Jimmy mentioned her name. George sighed in defeat. "Let me get my things." He looked at Ellie to make sure she was still asleep.

Then, as quietly as possible, George gathered a lantern, his fishing pole and tackle, and a stale hunk of bread for bait. He lowered everything down through the window to Jimmy.

"You won't regret this."

"Even if we
do
catch it, I bet we'll wish we hadn't." He looked in on his meager house. His little sister, who was for the most part more joy than trouble, and then his dad. He would be out for a good while yet and wouldn't notice a thing. George's stomach soured as he headed out the window.

Jimmy stopped him with a raised hand. "I got an idea."

"I hate when you say that."

"How about we bring along your dad's gun?"

"You really want me to get a whooping, don't you?"

"I see him over there in his rocker. He won't miss it a second."

George was about to ask why he thought it necessary to haul around such a weapon on a late night fishing trip. But he already knew the answer.

"Shit." His dad's cherished over/under was a true killing machine, twin shotgun barrels mounted over a still-deadly .30 chamber. "Fine. But he'll notice it's gone before he sees my bed's empty."

Hearing multiple meanings to his own words, he grabbed the gun from the rack on the nearby wall.

Of all their possessions, only the gun seemed to shine. Everything else was worn and tired. The years since The Crash had been rough on everyone, but around the Banyon place, it'd been a sorry sight long before '29. Ever since their mom died giving birth to Ellie, and their father's heavy drinking became commonplace. Yeah, things had been rough, much worse than he let on, even to his best friend, Jimmy Fowler. George held the gun protectively as he climbed out the window.

Despite the lantern, George couldn't see his feet, let alone anything up ahead. Greta Hildaberg said they'd find the cavern's hidden entryway after passing the untended acreage a mile outside Coal Hollow. Just over the last ripple of the last hillock, George could remember her saying. Before the land turned rocky and no longer tillable, through dense brambles and tangled cockleburs. While all of Coal Hollow's children listened to Greta's stories, most everyone thought that's all they were. Stories. But Jimmy, crazy Jimmy Fowler--if they weren't best friends and he didn't look up to him so much, George'd still be in bed.