Piercing the Darkness: A Charity Horror Anthology for the Children's Literacy Initiative Read online

  I always get what’s mine—at least I used to—and on a rainy October night, when forecasters predicted record floods, Nando and I visited Marko’s grave. We loaded a shovel, pry bars and plastic bags in the back seat of my car.

  We parked under a row of trees, where leaves tumbled, swirling within spiraling mist, and rain speckled the landscape. Nando popped open a pint bottle of Merlot he’d grabbed from under the seat.

  “Have one,” he told me, reaching for another and handing it to me. “It’s damn cold outside and I got a feeling we’ll be here for a while.”

  The wine filled me with warmth, giving me a slight buzz and when we finished, Nando grabbed our gear, I snatched my umbrella from the dash and we began our trek to the grave. Nando mumbled something about bad luck when a flock of black birds circled overhead and I told him to get a grip.

  Someone had laid a bouquet of roses, in the shape of a hand, over Marko’s gravestone; and beaded rosaries hung on a low-hanging tree branch nearby—gypsy customs—probably left there by Mama Lila. The petals washed away in muddy water and the beads clicked and clattered as rain battered the ground.

  Nando shot me a sidelong glance. “Can’t we come back on a clear night?”

  “It’s now or never. Just start digging.”

  Nando grimaced, and then began to shovel.

  Fraudulent checks and scamming old women were his specialties. He got caught; and I took him in when he made parole.

  He owed me and worked diligently, piling dirt next to Marko's headstone. Sweat beads broke out on his forehead, despite the chilly night. He cursed and complained about aching muscles and a sore back. I shook my head, remembering what Marko asked me to do.

  “At last,” Nando said, when the shovel struck the casket. He looked upward, a smile flashing for a moment, and then a scowl emerged. “You won’t be happy until I come down with pneumonia.”

  “Open it,” I ordered.

  He tossed the shovel aside, brushed away mud with his hands, and then unbolted the lid with a large pry bar.

  He shook his head, peering inside the box; breathless, cold-air mist escaping from his lips, and he told me, “You owe me, Angel.”

  “I thought it was the other way around.” I tipped my umbrella to the side. “Anyway, you know I’m good for the loot.”

  I climbed into the hole he’d dug, cursing because the cuffs of my jeans were soaked and the spindles of my umbrella had ripped through the fabric.

  “Is everything here?”

  “You tell me.”

  I grasped Nando’s elbow, steadying myself, and staring at the corpse. I sobbed, and then repulsion filled me.

  My handsome lover was abhorrent and unrecognizable; his head was a withered skull, with thin rotting skin attached to decayed bone. Brittle hair fanned out on a black velvet pillow, bony hands were folded on a skeletal chest. A Tarot deck lay beneath dry-boned fingers. A small oval mirror lay above Marko's head. His white shirt had turned gray. A canister of oil and a pouch of herbs were at his right, feathers from a black bird at his feet, and a robe to his left. Bones poked through ruined flesh, worms crawled from orifices.

  I sobbed louder; contemplated closing the casket, burying the hideous corpse once more, but we had to grab Marko’s valuables.

  Mama Lila talked about gypsy resurrection when she did her con-job séances, telling women who buried dead spouses, “It’s possible for them to return to you…if love is strong enough.” She’d hand them mirrors, bought at a dollar store, herbs plucked from a window box in her kitchen, and oil she stole from tables at local restaurants. And she’d tell those women to say chants she’d written on yellowed pages—words I’d seen in my husband’s book—things I’d memorized.

  Mama Lila was a fraud, but she’d buried her son with the same props, telling me on the day of Marko’s funeral, “What I tell those women is a scam, but sometimes the ritual works. You just never know.”

  I nodded, “Marko…he...”

  She handed me a glass of whiskey, waved her hand, and then wiped a tear from her eye, her bangle bracelets clicking, as dark clouds covered the sun and crows screeched in bare-limbed trees. She pouted, and whispered, “I resurrected Marko’s father. He died at thirty—got shot, just like Marko. I got him back…for a while…” She eyed the whiskey glass, and told me, “Drink up. You’re going to need the strength.”

  I guzzled the drink, placed the glass on a windowsill, and then clutched her shoulder because I’d never met Papa Lovel. “Where’s your husband now?”

  “He had an accident right after I brought him back. He was never right after that.”

  “What are you telling me, Mama?”

  “Be careful. I know about the things Marko told you.”

  My brother’s gruff voice broke through my reverie. “Stop daydreaming. Let’s hurry the hell up. Cops find us here and I go back to prison.”

  “Relax. Nobody—not even cops—come out here at night. We’ve got to make sure everything is done right and we get what we came here for.”

  Mama buried Marko with a gold ring, speckled with rubies and diamonds, handmade in the sixteenth century, and worth a lot—enough to live the good life for a while longer. I slipped it in my pocket, and then removed a gold chain from his neck.

  “Italian gold,” I whispered to Nando.

  “You can’t hold on to it like you did those paintings, antiques and other crap you got laying around the house. Cash that stuff in and we’re golden for a long, long time.”

  “Told you before, authorities have been looking for the Kandinsky and Cezanne for five years…same with the Degas. They’re too hot to unload now. The boys in New York will let me know when the time’s right. Now get me some bags.”

  “Marko had balls going into the museum, carrying the art out like that—in broad daylight, man.” Nando shook his head.

  “That was his style,” I told my brother. “The bags?”

  Nando grumbled and did what I asked.

  I gathered gold coins scattered in the casket, things Marko stole from the Greenborough Museum of the Civil War. An easy score because he’d simply reached into a display case while I flirted with a young security guard; coins worth more than the ring and chain combined.

  “Benny Ricci will pay us good for these,” I told my brother. He cupped his hands and I filled them with the booty, and then he carefully poured them inside a plastic bag.

  We did the same with Marko’s ruby earring, his gold wrist bands, the gold chain and a velvet bag filled with jewels he’d heisted over the years.

  I removed the cards from beneath Marko’s hands, gently laid them on the ground with the mirror. I lifted the robe, shook out dust and worms, and put it beside the other objects. I found Marko’s leather-bound book under his left foot. I opened it, reading aloud and Nando rolled his eyes.

  SUMMONING THE DEAD

  Say these words with caution and only think of your beloved…

  “I call you from the well of death, with spirits of the night, and angels by your side and hope my love is strong enough to bring you back.”

  I held my breath, squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, and then slowly opened them, and for a second I thought I saw Mama Lila standing in swirling mist, but the vision dissipated and I realized the corpse had not changed. Nothing was there but rot and death. A night owl called out amid rushing wind and rain. I felt powerless, foolish, so I wept awhile, my tears splattering on the ruined body and the book. I repeated the words several more times, waiting a few minutes, but my attempt was futile, so I wept more—telling myself I’d never see my love alive again, reminding myself how silly my attempts had been and remembering how mindless Mama Lila sounded when she’d told me she resurrected Papa Lovel.

  “You all right, Angel?” Nando’s voice was soft.

  “Yeah. Just cover it up. We’re done here.”

  Nando slammed the coffin lid, picked up the shovel and began his tedious task.

  We left Marko there, buried under muddy earth,
and then Nando and I slid back into the Escort. I’d thrown the book, mirror and cards in with the jewels for old time’s sake. Nando revved up the engine, and I turned to him, told him softly, “I’m such an idiot.”

  I wanted Marko by my side again, watching December snow, dancing to old jazz music we’d heard years before in Harlem. My longing burned as rain continued to fall.

  “I’m going to catch a cold,” I whispered to my brother. “You got more wine?”

  He nodded, telling me, “You’ll feel better once we get the dough for the stuff we dug up.”

  “Yeah, yeah…”

  We toasted the booty we’d gathered, and then drove home in silence and I drifted to sleep, dreaming of Mama Lila scurrying around her kitchen, boiling a pot on her olden stove, stirring bones bubbling in the water, and she sang, “I call you from the well of death…”

  She stopped singing, then spun around on her heels. “You should have died instead of Marko…”

  I awoke when Nando turned the Escort into my drive, but Mama Lila’s words still echoed in my head.

  2.

  Rain and wind pummeled the house and lights flickered on and off. I inspected windows, making sure they were shut tight, and then I set out candles and flashlights in case we lost power. I continued to pace, from floor to floor, and from room to room. The floorboards creaked when I made my way to my bedroom, and then Nando stepped out of shadow. He cocked his head to one side, and said, “Hey, despite my bitching, I hope everything is okay.”

  “You did fine—as always,” I told my brother.

  “Anything else?” Nando's eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles.

  “No, just take care of bringing the stuff to Benny after you get some rest.”

  Nando nodded, then receded back into gloom and shadow.

  I retreated to my room, washing my hands in the attached bathroom, then changed into sweat pants and shirt. I didn’t bother with shoes. I had to rest, but longing for Marko filled me again as I lay on my bed, listening to the tick of my clock, and the wind. The chill of night hadn't left me, and my muscles ached from dampness.

  I drifted to sleep, dreaming of Marko—his body twitching in darkness, his eyes opening and his lips forming a silent scream. Then bony hands pressed against the coffin’s lid, pummeling madly, and suddenly bursting through dampened wood, as splinters burst upward. He let out a groan, and then clawed through earth, working his hands and gnarled fingers until he broke free. He climbed upward slowly, his body bent, his blood-drenched fingers moving madly, as he rose to a standing position. In misty night he walked up the hill to our home, his eyes fixed on lights shining in upstairs windows.

  Marko approached my door, turned the knob and entered the house. He looked around, torn rotting flesh more evident in the glow of the chandelier. He moved through the corridor, and up the stairs—mouth forming a crooked smile when someone laughed, and then hummed, behind one of the closed doors—most likely my brother entertaining one of his women. Marko stopped for a moment, listening to those sounds. He moved forward, walking awkwardly, until he reached my bedroom door, and then my eyes flew open.

  “Marko?”

  There was no light, but for a streetlamp shining beyond my window. Its yellow glow revealed falling raindrops and storm sounds—swirling rain and fierce wind—echoed in the night, but something was off. The bedroom walls slanted inward and the ceiling was higher. The room was cold, despite a blazing fire I’d lit earlier. There was a thump; something dragged across the floor, and then a hand emerged, clutching the foot of my bed.

  A figure rose, a dark thing with no eyes or face, and I screamed, awakening myself from a dream within a dream, lying there shivering, and the haunting images still with me. The clock said six. I stretched, then looked through my window. The streetlamp burned yellow as in my dream. Snow now fell in a murky landscape. I needed coffee, maybe something stronger. I climbed out of bed. My mirror was lopsided; drops of moisture trickled from its frame. There were streaks of mud and snow on the floor.

  Had Nando come to my room during the night? Was there an unwanted intruder lurking in shadow? I slipped my handgun from my bureau drawer, making sure it was loaded. Five rounds would do, but I normally hit my target with the first shot. No doubt that gun had saved my ass countless times.

  I made my way through the hall. The small Cezanne and Kandinsky were still intact. The Degas ballerina stood undisturbed on the Art Noveau end table, but there was sludge on the expensive Oriental rug I’d recently finagled from a downtown antique shop. I cursed as I descended the stairs, where streaks of grime continued. Who had dirtied my home and invaded things sacred to me?

  Once again something dragged across the floor, as I flicked on the light at the edge of the stairs. A shadow floated over the floor, and then it vanished—a penumbra—a trick of light.

  I ran upstairs, pounded on my brother’s door. He opened it, eyes sleepy and hair tousled. He looked over his shoulder at a woman who slept soundly, tangled in satin sheets, black hair spilling on a pillow. I strained my eyes to see. No time to judge him or whoever shared his bed.

  I turned my attention back to my brother. “Marko…somebody was in the house.”

  He shook his head, “Sorry. I got drunk with a friend. She wandered outside, around the house…I…”

  “Are you going to clean it up? I hope—”

  “Not now, Angel.” And my brother closed his door, leaving me in darkness and with a million questions flickering through my mind.

  3.

  The dreams continued, but no ghostly intruders visited me and I realized that heebie jeebie words, written in ancient books, were powerless. It wasn’t long before Nando and I went back to doing what we did best, and Mama Lila became an accomplice.

  Our last job was at a jewelry store in the city. Tilling’s Fine Diamonds. I’d met the owner, Barry Tilling, in a bar, immediately learning about his loneliness, and his need for female companionship. He began to trust me, even before I started bringing him homemade lunches and walking with him each morning in the park.

  And sometimes I’d see Marko, jogging along a bike path, or standing in line for coffee through the window of the local donut shop. But Marko was dead, and it was ridiculous to believe that my graveyard spell had worked.

  Barry Tilling didn’t believe in a security system at his smalltime jewelry shop. After weeks of playing him, feeding him and making promises I’d never keep, I found out where he kept his safe, and where he hid other valuables.

  I resigned myself to the fact that dealing with Mama Lila would remain a fact of life, and on the night of the robbery she watched the door at Tilling’s Fine Diamonds, holding a handgun, telling us every few minutes, “Hurry. Cops patrol the area at midnight.” And then she whispered chants in Romani, her gaze on the pitch-black sky as the safe lock clicked and Nando threw open the door. Piles of cash and a couple bags of diamonds were scooped up.

  After one of the regular fences paid us for the jewels, we split everything, over bottles of white and red wine—courtesy of Mama Lila. She counted her share, and then stared me in the eye. “You’re not hiding anything from me are you, Angelica?”

  “No, everything is split even. Why would you say that?”

  “Maybe I’m not talking about this job. I’ve been having these dreams…about Marko.”

  “I dream about him all the time, too,” I whispered.

  ««—»»

  Nando and I decided to lay low for a while. I’d stashed away enough loot to get through the next year, or so.

  Things were going pretty good, and on the morning the cops arrested a transient for the jewelry shop robbery, I wondered if Mama Lila’s Romani chants had anything to do with it. It didn’t matter because the heat was off us, despite the TV meteorologist predicting more bad weather.

  I showered, changed into jeans and a white knit sweater. I gazed at myself in my bedroom mirror. I looked tired, thinner than before. I blamed too many sleepless nights and the stress
of recent events. I'd rest later, but now I had to grab some cash we’d hidden in a vacant attic room.

  I exited my bedroom, moved through the back hall and up the attic stairs, slipping my hand in my pocket for a key. The lock clicked when I turned the key, and I pushed open the door. I flicked on the light, and gasped.

  The room was empty. Gone was a suitcase we’d filled with dough. I’d hung Marko’s ring on a hook by the window, but it had vanished, too.

  “Nando,” I called. There was silence, but for the sound of rain rushing in from an open window. I watched it splatter onto the hardwood floor and soak billowing curtains, as wind wafted inside.

  I stood there, cursing my brother, asking myself if he’d bailed with one of his late-night visitors.

  I flinched when a car door slammed outside and muffled voices sounded. I quickly moved to the window. Nando was there in the rain, bending down, dragging away what looked like a burlap sack, most likely filled with cash and treasures.

  “Nando!” I called out.

  He looked upward, fury burning in his eyes, and then he looked to my Escort, its engine revving a few feet away.

  “You bastard!” I screamed. I’d left my shotgun on the dresser downstairs. “You won’t get away with this.”

  I ran to the door, turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I kicked splintered wood, rattled the handle, but it did no good. I slammed the door with my shoulder, screaming in pain, realizing my attempt was futile. I ran back to the window, climbed onto the ledge and looked downward.

  I watched, with rain soaking me, and anger burning as Nando sprung open the trunk, where he’d packed the Kandinsky, Cezanne and Degas, and other treasures that had graced my home. A cackling laugh erupted. Mama Lila stood beneath a stretch of trees, her handgun pointed at my brother, and her gaze flickering upward, smiling cruelly when she aimed her gun.