Footsteps in the Dark E-Book

Joshua G. J. Insole

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 362

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Another collection comes from the three-time Reedsy winner, Joshua G. J. Insole. This second volume of horror and sci-fi explores the dark alleys of the mind once more. A woman defends house and husband from the home’s eight-legged inhabitants. Two strangers discuss music’s finer points as cannibals try to break into their car. A gender-reveal party goes off the rails as the true nature of the infant comes to light. Thirteen women gather at night to right the wrongs of society. A mother takes shelter in the family treehouse as the world ends around her. And finally— Wait. Do you hear that? Footsteps. Footsteps in the dark.

Leseprobe

Joshua G. J. Insole

Footsteps in the Dark

Short Horror & Sci-Fi Stories Volume II

Copyright © 2022 by Joshua G. J. Insole

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy Find out more at reedsy.com

For Regina, my harbour in the storm.

Contents

Foreword

Adolebitque

…And Everything Nice

Art of the Deal

Captain Bounce

Chompers

Contact Preclusion

Demonomania

The Doorkeeper of Draven House

Down Came the Rain

Dream a Little Dream

Free-Range Meat

Gender Reveal

Good Eatin’

Grave New World

He Bites

Homeowners’ Association

How Necromantic

Insatiable

In the Dark of the Zombie City

Keep Busy

Meeting Adjourned

Ordinary

Plastic Sheets

Population Control

Proximity

Recyclable

Re-Education

Retention Labs

Road Trip Playlist

The Scientific Method

She Doesn’t Mind the Chlorine

Sol Losers

Some Men

Steer Clear of Dogs

The Tank

Terrible Claw

They Called It Home

This Place Is Dead

Treading Water

Unlucky for Some

Where the Children Used to Play

You Are My Sunshine

You Grow, Girl

A Word From the Author

Prompt Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Joshua G. J. Insole

Foreword

Well, here we are again!

Volume two. Where has the time gone? It seems like I released A Chance of Rain only yesterday. And I could have sworn that Under Blankets, Under Stars came out this morning. Already on book three. Time, as they say, waits for no man. And why on Earth — or in Hell — should I be any different? Even as I write this, I have many plans for the future. Yes, more books. I am always writing, writing, writing.

Again, most of these stories came from Reedsy prompts. But I also wrote a few for the monthly #BlogBattle, and more than one I wrote for the sheer love of it. Sometimes the little buggers bleed from my pores. I can mop them up and wring out the rag into a word processor. Or I can lie awake and stare at the ceiling as the sweat soaks the sheets, as the dark of the city hums and thrums.

So. Stay alert to what lurks behind. Especially in the shadows. Who knows what lingers, ready to lurch out with a zombie’s broken gait? Who knows what monsters gulp down their breaths as they count the seconds until you stroll by? Hurry up, quicken your pace. No, don’t glance over your shoulder. That’s what they want you t—

Wait. Do you hear that?

Footsteps.

Footsteps right behind you.

Footsteps in the dark.

Want my advice?

Run.

Adolebitque

“Are you coming tonight?”

Deana looked up from the cow udder and bucket. Nelda Wilsone leaned from behind the corner of the Blacke homestead. One hand gripped a wooden beam, and she dangled at a precarious angle. Deana wondered what it would be like if she tumbled face-first into a cowpat. And then she chastised herself for such an awful thought. God would send her straight to hell for these mental images. Be good, Deana, she told herself.

Deana scrunched her nose, and not because of the animals. “I don’t know. I never did like these things. They’re always so violent. And I hate the smell.” And the sound. And the sight. Could it ever be okay to do that to another person? Could they ever justify it? If God judged them for their actions, would that be a tally against their names?

“The lady’s the Devil’s spawn. That’s what Father Bannermane says.” Nelda nodded. “Besides. If you didn’t come, it would look like you were a fellow witch, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t want your poor old father to think you’d lain with dark magic, now, would you?”

Deana didn’t have to answer. Who’d want to suffer such a fate? And if Father Bannermane had said that, it must be true. What other alternative existed? She thought back to the time her father had fallen ill, and she’d been too young to take on the farm work. Kendall Bannermane — pre-priesthood — had rallied the townsfolk to donate what they could. With the help of the future Father of Hardwicke, the Blackes had survived a harsh winter. And now, they did more than survive. They thrived. The church could only be a force for good.

“I’ll be there,” she told Nelda. An acidic burn stung the back of her throat. “You can be sure of that. If it’s something that cleanses Hardwicke of evil, I support it.” Deana locked eyes with her, forced herself to hold it beyond discomfort. “Unequivocally.”

“Unequivocally,” Nelda parroted. Then burst into the childish giggle she should have outgrown five years ago. A face full of animal faeces would take her down a peg or two. Level the playing field once more. Be good, Deana, be reasonable. “Well, you better get a move on, then!” She looked to the horizon. “Sun’s setting in the hour. You know how Father Bannermane likes to roast ’em at sundown. Says it brings out the Devil in them.”

Deana recoiled in the offhand manner Nelda had described the events. It bordered on the pornographic. Of course, some labelled what they did as necessary, and they could be right about that. But Deana believed that the event served as entertainment for others — such as Nelda. Something joyous. She fought to suppress the look of abject disgust before it reached her face.

“I just need to finish up here, I won’t be long.” She gestured to Marigold, who’d stood there — patient as a stone — whilst they chatted. Rain or shine, she always remained the best of girls.

Nelda nodded, then pranced away. “See you there.” A mischievous fairy who danced from toadstool to toadstool. She stopped a few steps away and turned one last time. She called out. “Have fun playing with cow tits!” Nelda stuck her tongue out and waggled her fingers. She ran off before Deana had time to react to what she’d said. She left her there with Marigold in her hands and her jaw agape in an ‘O’ of surprise.

By the time she arrived in Hardwicke’s town square, the Sun had indeed set. The crowd gathered in a rough semicircle around the focal point. The horde must have contained every person in town, or so Deana thought. Unfortunately, the mood did not reflect the occasion: light-hearted conversation and idle chitchat. Grins and laughter — faces distorted in the flickers of the flames. Some had pitchforks and torches held aloft. Others clutched rotten eggs and sour fruit — a few held mugs of ale to their chests. The stench of beer and sweat assaulted her nose. It did not surprise her to see that a few of the locals stumbled and slurred. How good and righteous they are, she thought. Deana followed that with: Do not cast the first stone, Deana. Doesn’t the good book say so?

Deana pushed through the crowd, between friend and neighbour. Some parted at the sight of her, happy to make space for a fellow sister of the light. Others turned and eyed her with drunken eyes; foul breath expelled into her face. She smiled a false smile and exchanged her fair share of feigned pleasantries. She wanted to see the person at the heart of it all.

She wound her way through the people, headed for front and centre.

A sound made her freeze.

The titter of childish laughter.

Deana’s skin prickled, cold all over.

Her stomach dropped, plummeted through the floor.

Her heart tripped over itself within her chest, fell to its knees.

Nelda.

She stood at the front.

Of course.

She’d want to be so close that the flames left a warm glow on her cheeks. Wanted to remain within reach of the sacrifice-to-be. She wanted the smoke to linger in her hair, for the image to remain seared into her mind’s eye. She needed the stench to singe the very hairs from her nostrils. Nelda turned — face, to Deana’s sadness, still devoid of manure — and locked gazes. A flash in her eyes, followed by a too-wide grin. She extended her arms and cried out. “Deana! You made it! For a while there, I thought you’d skip it all together and spend the night with your cow.” Nelda tilted her head back and giggled again.

With no choice but to press on, Deana stepped into the unwelcome embrace. Nelda hugged her — no warmth in that gesture — and tugged her forward. She staggered on feet that threatened to tangle and allowed Nelda to lead her. To her credit, at least Nelda dragged Deana to the front. She’d proven herself useful, if only in that regard.

An arm around her shoulders, Nelda murmured into Deana’s ear. “Doesn’t she look positively evil?” Ee-vuhl. Visions of Lilith, the Edenic Snake, who tempted Adam and Eve. The flicker of a tongue, the slither of its body, the whisper of its words.

Deana could only stare.

Up at the woman who they’d all come to watch burn.

Bedelia Clifforde.

She dangled, strapped to the stake.

Arms tied behind her back, Bedelia leaned forward. Lank hair hung in her face. She appeared to be upright due to the ties that bound her to her fate. Cuts, bruises, and open wounds adorned her face and arms. Some, Deana saw, looked like burns. Her eyes remained hidden beneath her hair. A trickle of drool spun its way down from her parted lips. The beads reflected the amber of the torches, miniature universes in suspended animation.

The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers and hoots and howls.

Father Bannermane took to the stage.

Robed in black with a golden crucifix hung from a chain around his neck.

In one hand, he held a torch aloft.

The torch.

The conflict in Deana’s heart tore her soul right in two. “Be good,” her father had told her as a little girl. “And cast out sin.” A lesson she’d taken to heart. Always go to church.Forever stand in the light of God. Yet here strode good old Kendall, the young man who’d saved her family, the priest who’d taught her to love thy neighbour. Every fibre of her soul screamed this is not the way. The pot boiled over, and the words erupted from her lips before she’d had half a chance to stop them.

“This is wrong.”

Nelda turned her head. “Hm, what’s that?”

Deana didn’t hear her.

She’d already broken free of the crowd.

Deana launched herself up. She scrambled atop the unlit pyre; loose logs and kindling kicked free beneath her. Frantic footfalls, desperate claws that searched for handholds. A rocky mountain of precarious shingles. Behind her came yells and barked orders. Deana did not stop. At this point, she’d halt for neither man nor flame. Bedelia’s downturned head twitched at the sounds but did not lift. At the base of the stake, Deana gazed up into her face like Mary, who washed Jesus’s feet.

Bedelia’s eyes opened, crystalline with her tears. Redness stained the sclera, but the blues of the irises remained bright. “Puh…” A sigh rippled through her whole body. “Please.”

As if a woman on stilts, Deana wobbled to her feet. With every stuttered heartbeat, the pyre threatened to spill her into the crowd. And yet, it never did. Deana turned, body in front of Bedelia’s, arms extended like the saviour on the cross. From the corner of her eye, she saw Father Bannermane with his flame. The flame that would grow if she let it.

Deana sucked in a breath, pulled in until her chest could take no more. She, Deana Blacke, the quiet girl who would never say boo to a goose. The loudest she’d ever been in her life — the loudest she ever would be.

She bellowed at the top of her lungs.

“STOP!”

…And Everything Nice

Patricia Robinett banged the hogtied boy’s head on the barn door as she pushed her bicycle into the gloom.

He lay over the vehicle — face down, buttocks in the air — with as much dignity as he’d thus far gone through life. He grunted when the seat jabbed him in the gut and attempted screams as Patricia wheeled him to his fate. But to these protests, she’d paid no mind. It seemed no one else minded as well, for nobody stopped her along the way. Life is like a wheel. As they said, Karma had a lot in common with her old dog, Betty.

The bicycle had a basket with pink plastic daisies stuck on the front. White and pink paint coated the frame, which gave it a Victorian appearance. Or so Patricia thought. Pretty and dainty, it fitted the stereotypical image of a girl’s bike. Only the gagged child, slung over the side, ruined the aesthetics: that and the basket’s contents.

The cuteness of both cycle and child also jarred with the location — an old place. Its red paint had cracked, peeled and faded to an unpleasant brown. The horizontal boards of the exterior clung on for dear life, but many had since given up the ghost. A dilapidated wagon decayed out front, three out of four wheels now absent. Wild grass rose, waist height for an adult, near shoulder height for Patricia. A way through the swathes marked the course she’d taken, prisoner and all.

Broken shafts of light angled through the holes in the rafters, golden and warm. Motes of dust floated through the beams. A stale taste stung the back of Patricia’s throat, but the scent didn’t make her wrinkle her nose. A familiar aroma, the perfume of nostalgia and forgotten ghosts. At the sight of the worn-down interior, Darell resumed his efforts to wriggle and cry out. She knew she should have blindfolded him, too.

Patricia smacked one flabby butt cheek, the way a parent scolds a small child. With an open palm, hard enough to leave a red handprint beneath his clothes. “Quiet, you. Don’t make me poke your eyes out.”

At the threat, the boy ceased his fight. Incredible, thought Patricia, how the prospect of blindness sobered a hostage up.

She pushed the bicycle further into the barn, beads of sweat upon her brow. On either side, posts stretched up to the roof. Sectioned off parts of the barn lay in shadow — where she guessed that the farmer once shod the horses. Or something like that. Rotten bits of hay and straw lined the floor, with mildewed piles in the corners. On the walls, pieces of equipment — and tools for which she had no name — hung upon rusted nails. A ladder, several rungs snapped, rose into the loft. Patricia squinted, but she could see nothing of interest up there.

She tipped her bicycle in the centre of the room and spilled the bound boy to the floor. He landed with an inelegant grunt, and sawdust coughed into the air upon impact. Behind the tied pillowcase that gagged him, Darell groaned. He rolled over and shot her a red-eyed glare. Patricia returned it right on back, without so much as a blink.

Patricia rolled her bike — now light, without Darell Wheeler to weigh it down — back to the entrance. She leaned it against the inside wall and peered through the open door. The long grass wavered in the breeze and whispered its sibilance. The path she’d taken lay flat, but she couldn’t do much about that now. No people. No couples walked by, hand in hand. No cars buzzed past on the main road. Instead, in the background, crickets buzzed and a bird chirped. She grinned and pulled the door shut. It groaned and squealed, an old soul with sore joints.

From the cute basket with the daisies, she grabbed her tools. A red spray paint can, and her father’s hunting knife. Patricia sauntered back over to Darell, who’d worm-crawled half a meter. She allowed him to have that much. Here or there, it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Patricia uncapped and shook the can with the knife tucked into her waistband. Around the boy, she sprayed a five-point star. Darell cringed away from the paint as if the wet red stuff shared something in common with the other wet red stuff. Patricia took her time with this; the lines all came out straight, the proportions of the star all equal. Many a graffiti artist would have nodded in approval at her work. She sprayed a ring around the star to finish and connected each point.

Patricia’s breaths paused when she connected the circle to her start point. The crickets outside no longer chirped. The bird no longer sang. The wind itself had died, the whispers of the grass now silent. As if the very air itself held its breath in anticipation. Beneath their weight, the floorboards groaned and sighed like a behemoth.

Patricia capped the paint, tossed it in the direction of her bike, and straightened up. She pulled in a deep breath and extended her arms. As if to cradle the scene. He’s got the whole world in his hands. He’s got the whole world in his hands. She spoke as loud and deep as she could muster, her voice even and calm.

All while Darell squirmed in the centre cavity of the inverted pentagram.

“I give to you, Lord Satan, a gift.” She paused, groped for the words. “A present. A sacrifice. A gift. A tribute, if you will. Lord Satan, I present to you…” She crouched down and ungagged the boy — silenced him with a single finger. He knew better by now. “Speak your name.”

The boy squealed, whimpered, and regarded her with bovine simplicity. His lips — stretched in a perpetual pout — quivered. “D-Darell. Darell Wuh-Wuh-Wheeler.”

“Darell Wheeler.” Patricia nodded. “Do you know why I’ve brought you here, Darell? Do you know why you’ve been chosen?”

Darell’s wide eyes widened even further. The stench of his sweat — pungent and rancid — stung her nostrils. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I was taking the jokes too far, honest. That’s all they was. Jokes. I swear! And—”

“A simple yes will suffice. Darell.”

His mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth. He nodded. Up, down. Up, down.

“I give to you, Lord Satan, this school yard bully.” She rose to her feet. “This sexist, racist, little pig.”

The barn groaned around her.

“He is yours for the taking, Dark Father.”

The floor beneath her feet shuddered.

“All I ask in return is something slight. Something that is yours to give.”

The groan grew to an ursine growl.

“Give me, O Lucifer, the strength to fight back.”

The boards danced, up and down, a piano played by a ghost.

“The strength to take on big bullies, such as the not-so-bright Mister Wheeler, here.”

High-pitched, above the din, came Darell’s puppy dog whine.

She closed her eyes. “Dark Father, hear my prayer.”

An enormous crack rent the air, a lightning strike on her position. An explosion buffeted her. A gust tore at her hair, and she staggered a step back. Wood splintered, fragments rained. Rotten eggs, thick and sulphurous, plumed into the atmosphere. The sudden certainty that another had entered the room. The sense of a chasm, open like a flower. Something shifted its weight — a stamp of hooves. A loud, heavy breath. Like a horse. But not a horse.

Patricia Robinett opened her eyes.

And came face to face with the Devil.

Ten feet tall and precisely as she’d pictured him. All red skin and demon horns and yellow eyes and mouth so full of teeth that it couldn’t close. He even held a pitchfork, either painted red or so red hot that it glowed. He shuffled his feet — cloven hooves. He looked around the barn. The cat’s eyes took in everything.

And then he spotted Patricia and did a double-take.

“YOU?” A demonic voice filled with bafflement. “YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SUMMONS ME?”

Patricia nodded. She did not lower her gaze, nor did she take a knee. “I did, Dark Father. I, Patricia Robinett. Have you heard my prayer, Satan?”

Satan thumped his trident on the ground; spikes raised to the heavens. “I HAVE.”

“And…?”

The Devil seemed to ponder for a moment, one Machiavellian eyebrow raised. He smiled. “I AM ABLE TO GRANT YOUR—” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this, little girl. Maybe if you were older, but…”

“Patricia,” said Patricia.

“Hm?”

“My name’s not Little Girl. It’s Patricia. P-A-T-R-I-C-I-A. Patricia.”

The Devil’s grin became something more genuine. “Well, you see, you don’t actually need me… Patricia.” The first human name he’d spoken in a millennium. He pointed with his horns to the hogtied boy. “You caught him all by yourself. So, you see, you don’t need my powers.” Inspiration struck, and the Devil added the cherry on top: “The strength was in you all along!” He smiled at that.

Patricia looked down at the boy, consternation upon her tiny face. The horned, hoofed, torturer of the damned had a point. She had gotten this far by herself. Did she need — need — infernal powers? Besides, she didn’t very much like the idea of indentured servitude to the Man With the Pitchfork. She looked to Darell, whose fierce eyes begged her to end this madness.

After a minute, she started to nod. She looked up at Satan and smiled, and the Devil couldn’t help but smile back. Who could not return the honest grin of a pigtailed eight-year-old? Not Beelzebub, for sure.

“Gee, you’re right, Satan!”

Satan blushed. As much as a demon with red skin can blush. “Aw, shucks, well I—”

She pulled the knife from her belt, dropped to her knees, gripped Darell’s hair in her fist.

And slit his throat.

Blood — bright red and vital — spurted across the scene, pattered against the floorboards.

“Oh.” Satan retched and dry heaved. “Oh God.” Satan took a step back, away from her.

Patricia smiled and watched as the boy bled out, a mess of liquid gurgles and choked cries. When he’d gone, she wiped the blade clean on his trousers and pocketed it again. She got to her feet, did a little hop on the spot and smirked up at Satan. “The strength was in me all along!” She giggled.

He watched her go. Her blonde pigtails swayed, and a whistled tune danced on her lips. She tossed the spray can and the hunting knife into the basket — the one with the pink daisies on the side. Once out the door, she hopped on her bike and rode off. Patricia turned and waved — all cheer and smiles. “Thanks, Satan!”

When she’d left earshot, Satan armed the beads of sweat from his forehead.

“Jesus Christ.”

Art of the Deal

Cyril Hurlbutt woke up to the sound of water as it lapped against a shore.

It took him a few moments to register what could be wrong with that — a pleasant sound. It had always soothed him to sleep, ever since a small child. So, what, pray tell, bothered him so? Cyril frowned. One of his feet remained planted in the land of dreams, and the other hovered above grounded reality. Eyes still scrunched shut, lower lip curled down like the pout of a toddler. The cogs of his brain — rusted and old but still quite functional, thank you very much — struggled to turn. Then, at last, it came to him.

It couldn’t be right because they wouldn’t summer in his beach house for another two months. The night before, they’d fallen asleep — after making sweet, brief love — in his penthouse suite.

Now that Cyril gave it much thought, the absence of the body next to him became clear. His wife. His fourth wife, to be exact. Kaytee-Angel Leonard. Her actual name. A double-barrelled first name. Not as classy as her parents had hoped. Twenty years old and about as sharp as a tennis ball. A natural blonde, too. She needed no dyes. That had been one of Cyril’s prerequisites in a new wife. The previous three had been brunettes, and look how those marriages worked out. Something in the pigment of their hair turned them crazy, Cyril guessed.

His empty arms groped for her, but he swiped nothing but cold air. The hairs on the backs of his arms prickled. “Kaytee?” The name came out as a mumble. “Angel?” Cyril forced his eyes open and tried to sit up. Instead of softness beneath — genuine stingray, not cheap — he felt something hard. And rocky. It bit into the tender flesh of his palms.

Cyril froze halfway up, in a pop of joints and a click of bones. Like Dracula, as he emerged from the crypt. His eyes widened. His breath gasped out of his lips in a trail of vapour. Somewhere inside his chest, beneath a hearty layer of fat and flab, something juddered.

No four-poster bed. No king size mattress. No duvet, filled with eagle feathers and sown by Middle East orphans, covered him. No sleek, minimalistic furniture. No gentle, romantic purple lights — soft enough for sleep, bright enough for navigation. No polar bear rug. No black and white art pieces on the walls. No walls, for that matter.

Overhead, the roof of a cavern reached up into shadow. Sharp-toothed stalactites dangled above and wobbled like half-melted icicles. Open space loomed on every side. This place, this chamber, stretched on with no end. And not too far away, down a slight slope — movement. Orange glows. Glints in the dimness. Lights reflected in the water.

Cyril squinted. He’d left his glasses on his bedside table back in his penthouse suite. Something occupied a space in the river. It bobbed and swayed there. A boat? And in front, motionless, a black silhouette stood. Cyril grinned — rescue would soon be at hand.

A building collapse of some sort. Yes. That explained it. Whoever had built the condo — Mexicans, Cyril guessed — had done so on the cheap. The idiots had constructed it over an abscess in the ground. And, over time, the support had weakened. At last, unable to hold up the complex any longer, the whole thing had given way and spilled its guts beneath. He, Cyril Hurlbutt, had escaped with his life. Thank God. No idea where the rest of them had landed, but good for him. A shame, but no actual loss. He had insurance, and he had his other homes. And there could always be wife number five — Kaytee-Angel had gotten a bit too old for him, anyway.

He waved to the figure, but they did not wave back. Too surprised to see a survivor. Cyril could picture the headlines now. MULTIPLE FATALITIES AS BUILDING COLLAPSES, BRAVE BILLIONAIRE THE SOLE SURVIVOR. A song in his heart, and nothing but his satin PJs to cover his modesty, he stumbled to his feet.

Loose scree and rocks covered the cavern floor. No doubt Cyril would shred his poor soles as he made his way down. He waved again at the figure. “Hello!” Cyril’s voice echoed through the chamber. “You there! Yes, you! Come here! I have no moccassins to protect my feet. Carry me.”

No movement. No response.

“I said you there! I need your assistance!”

The water plinked and plonked. The figure did not budge.

Cyril frowned. He put his hands on his hips. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded. “I’m Cyril Hurlbutt. The Cyril Hurlbutt. Heir to the Hurlbutt fortune and empire! And I’m asking—” He shook his head, started again. “Demanding that you help me! You can’t very well expect me to walk down to you barefoot, can you?”

The silence suggested that the stranger did expect such an injustice.

Cyril took a tentative step. He grumbled. Not too bad, though. He took another and another. He could manage, with his can-do spirit and his keen eye. After all, he’d succeeded with nothing but the shirt on his back and the 20 million from his father. “I’ll have some choice words for your manager, when I see him,” he said under his breath. “You’ll be out of a job by the day’s end, and homeless by the end of the month.” He chuckled to himself. “Yes, we’ll see. If I have my way, and I always do.”

As he got closer, he realised he’d guessed right about the boat. But not any old boat. A Venetian gondola. A strange kind of rescue operation. He needed a speed boat. An orange one. A life vest, a medical check-up. Fluids, bandages. Not a romantic trip.

“Now, what’s the meaning of this?” He gestured to the boat. “Just what exactly are you trying to pu—”

Cyril’s words died in his mouth.

He saw the figure.

For the first time, he saw him — illuminated by aflame torches.

A man, yes. Grey stubble dotted the chin and cheeks. That much offered him relief because a man could handle the job of disaster search and rescue. Some things needed a firm grasp — no fraught emotions of a woman. Good to see. None of that pansy PC rubbish.

But everything else churned his stomach.

A grey anorak — smothered with brown stains — hung down to the man’s shins. He’d pulled the hood up and over his head so that it now obscured half of his face. Cyril could not make out the man’s eyes, only the tip of his nose and his thin mouth. His lips curled into a slight smile. Black goloshes rose to his knees, wet and slimy. In his hand — grey, mottled skin — he clutched a splintered oar. Unkempt nails hooked around the shaft, long and sharp and yellow.

For this time since waking, Cyril asked the real question. “Who are you?”

The smile widened to reveal pointed, grey-black teeth. “The ferryman.” He extended his other hand, and Cyril recoiled. The man’s smile dropped. “Obolus.”

“What?”

“Obolus.”

“I-I don’t—”

The man sighed. “Danake.”

“Are these words you’re saying?”

“Danake.”

“I really don’t—” Realisation struck. “Money? You want money? For a rescue operation?” He snorted. “You Mexicans are all the same.” Cyril shook his head, rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out his billfold. He almost asked how much, then caught himself — lesson one in deals and bargaining. Always be the one to set the price. He pulled a ten free, slipped it into the man’s hand, and suppressed a shudder when their skins came into contact. So cold, so dry, so hoarse. “There,” he smiled. “That ought to do it, hm?”

The ferryman scrunched the note up without so much as a glance and pocketed it. “Climb aboard.”

Cyril eyed the gondola. It looked as though it had existed back when his grandfather — Cyril the first — walked the Earth. “Just where, exactly, are we going?”

“Climb aboard.” The ferryman pushed past him and strode into the water. It splashed up over his feet, ran down his encrusted boots. Then, with more grace than Cyril had given him credit for, he hopped up into the gondola.

Cyril looked down at his bare feet, then at the black liquid, and then at the ferryman. He ignored the fact that the man had shoved him — a kindness, in his opinion. “You expect me climb up there myself? This is inexcusable! This is monstrous! This is—”

“Climb aboard.”

Cyril gritted his teeth and bent down. He rolled the bottoms of his pyjamas up, as best he could, to avoid the water. “When we get back, you are so dead. I’ll have your head on a god damn platter.” When he got back up again, he saw that the ferryman had watched him with a smirk. Cyril muttered to himself about people from south of the border.

He took a step into the tar-black waters.

He gasped as the brine stole his breath. “Jesus Christ!” He splashed his way towards the boat. It seemed further away than when the ferryman had boarded. The water sloshed up and soaked his PJs — the attempt to keep them dry now in vain. Cyril reached up with the gimme-gimme hands of a child. “Help me up, man!”

But the ferryman did not.

Cyril hooked his hands over the lip of the gondola and hauled himself up with all his strength. The boat rocked, but the ferryman remained upright. Cyril’s upper arms strained, his heart hammered, his head throbbed. His bare feet kicked at the water, scrambled for a hold. He felt unable to breathe as he struggled. Darkness encroached on his vision, the black corners softened.

And then he tumbled in — a mess of damp cloth, rank sweat, winded gasps, and animal grunts. He thudded to the floor of the boat with much less dignity than he’d intended. He lay there, splinters against his back, as the water drip-drip-dripped to the wood.

“Oh, oh my God!”

The man in the anorak watched him a moment longer.

“I should take back my money for that.”

The ferryman chuckled, turned, and helmed the gondola. “No refunds.”

A quiet plink told him that the oar had entered the water.

Cyril scuttled to the bench and eased himself onto it. He watched as the man steered the boat out into the waters. Soon, the shoreline vanished into the murk, and all became a featureless blur. Only the yellow-orange flames marked their path, placed at indiscriminate points. It seemed as though they hovered in place.

“Just where are we going?”

No answer.

Cyril cleared his throat. “I said, where are we going?”

No reply. The ferryman continued to steer the boat through the ink. His oar dipped into the waters with an almost relaxed motion. As if he had all the time in the world. As if there couldn’t be anything for which he must rush.

Cyril slammed his fist against the side of the boat. The ferryman paid it no mind, despite how the gondola rocked afterwards. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore people who are talking to you? Especially your betters! Answer me, damn it. What kind of paramedic are you? You haven’t even checked me over! For all you know, I’m about to bleed out. I could die!”

“That seems unlikely, Cyril.” A pause. “You’re already dead.”

“Don’t talk rubbish!”

Down went the oar, up came the oar.

Cyril guffawed and flapped at him. “No, that can’t be right.” He turned his hands over, pinched the flesh. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Definitely not dreaming. Plus. I’m too rich to die.”

The ferryman said nothing and continued to paddle in silence.

“I-I even paid for the latest rejuvenating treatments!” He nodded to the man in the anorak. “State of the art, they were.” He whistled. “Not cheap, you know.” His nose wrinkled. “Not that you people would know anything about that.”

An imperceptible move of the ferryman’s head. “Yes. I know. A young-blood transfusion, wasn’t it?” His bloodless lips curled. “How decidedly vampiric. He should like that very much.”

“He?” Cyril’s brow furrowed. Would God like that? He had no idea. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing of which the divine would approve. As if on cue, a sulphuric whiff of eggs stung his nose, made him wince with distaste. “Oh. Oh, God, what is—” What is that? But Cyril already knew. Not Him. The other Him. The one you hoped never to see.

As if having read his thoughts, the man in the anorak nodded. “Yes. Him.”

Panic flooded his senses, the smell of blood in his nose. A wave of heat shuddered through his out-of-shape flesh. “Is—” He licked his lips. “Is this for the exotic bird that died out for my factories? That good-for-nothing creature would have become extinct anyway! That was a prime spot of rainforest.”

Plink, plonk.

“Or was it that oil spill my company was responsible for? I-I tell you, that could have happened to anybody! It was just bad luck, that’s all! If you take me, you should take everyone else involved in fossil fuels!”

Splish, splash.

“Or is it those sweatshops I setup in east Asia? Or the tax evasion and fraud I committed? The greenhouse emissions? The underpaid workers, the wage theft? Tell me, damn you! Tell me!”

Ahead, a hole blacker than black loomed out of the gloom. The gaped maw of a snake.

Cyril clenched his jaw. He could get out of this, he knew. Everybody had their price; you had only to figure out how much. And what currency. For some people, cash and shiny objects did the trick. For others, you had to dip your toes into more insidious waters. But he didn’t mind — whatever helped to hammer out a deal.

“What do you want? Money?” Cyril nodded, spittle flew. “I’ve lots of it! More than you can dream of. It brings great happiness. Women, girls, boys, whatever you like — you can buy them all when you have this much! More than 98 per cent of the rest of the world. Riches you wouldn’t believe.” He snapped his fingers. “You can have it. A quarter? A half? Three quarters? A third? Name your price, damn you!”

“I think you’ll find,” said the ferryman, “that it’s not me who is damned.”

The open mouth of the tunnel yawned. Utter blackness loomed within, no more torches or candles down there. Cyril’s heart stumbled over itself. The blood in his veins turned to ice.

He lurched to his feet, unsteady and bilious. He strode forward and smacked a firm hand on the ferryman’s shoulder, hard. A ripple of nausea told him he shouldn’t have done that. That he shouldn’t touch this thing disguised as a man, not now, not ever. But — what the hell — in for a penny, in for a pound. Cyril yelled as loud as he could go.

“What do you want?”

The ferryman turned to face him. His smile grew more expansive than ever, and the teeth inched longer. “Your soul.” The two syllables thudded down like the stone of a tomb.

Cyril took one stumbled step backwards, tripped, and landed on his ass. He didn’t even feel it. His roar became a whimper, and the tears now flowed. “Will you just tell me, please, where we’re going?”

With one gnarled grey hand, the man in anorak reached up and slid his hood down.

Cyril tried to suppress a scream.

He failed.

He understood — at last — that you cannot bargain for some things. No matter how hard you try.

The man had no eyes — only ragged jelly in the holes. The scratch marks around the gaping wounds indicated he’d clawed them out himself. He grinned, wide and toothy. A string of saliva stretched out. In the beads of his spit, the last lights of the underworld glinted and winked out. “Oh, we’re going somewhere new.” The ferryman sucked on his lips, puckered them inwards into his wet mouth. “Mm-hm. Somewhere not even I’ve been before. You see…”

The darkness of the cave swallowed them.

“There’s a special place in Hell for you.”

Silence, except for the distant sound of water as it lapped against the shore.

Captain Bounce

Tristand David grinned at the advert on the side of the bus stop.

The poster mimicked the front page of a newspaper — even the fonts matched those of the national rags. The picture showed a family: a father, a mother, a boy and a girl. Various ethnicities to try and get the inclusivity vote. Whatever helped sell, Tristand didn’t care. Each hung in suspension, mid-air. Limbs flailed. Hair splayed away from heads, flung out at odd angles. Mouths open in ‘O’s, agape. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Their expressions could be anything from surprise and excitement to abject terror.

BREAKING NEWS!!! GRAVITY GETS TURNED OFF!!!*

Beneath that, a smaller text gave a proper explanation. Tristand hadn’t wanted to add the second bit — only the company name and slogan. People had more brains than corporations realised. Something to which he’d always held firm. Never assume that others lacked intelligence. But his lawyers had insisted. A security blanket, they’d called it.

*Only joking. April fools! But if you want to feel weightless, try Captain Bounce’s trampolines! Laugh in the face of physics!

It ruined the joke, in Tristand’s opinion. But, whatever. Rules are rules. You couldn’t argue with those law dorks. They had your back when things turned south. One time, a toddler bounced up and off a sixth-story balcony. In Tristand’s eyes, the parents deserved the blame. But that didn’t stop a big nasty lawsuit. Thank God for those law dorks. Either way, the ad drew the eye with or without the over-explanation.

Trampoline sales for Captain Bounce had declined for the past ten years. Yet, the industry continued to rise. The global market would be worth $7,000 million by the end of the decade — a compound annual growth rate of 17.2 per cent. Competitors had used viral marketing to gain an edge, such as the goofy video of a dog on a trampoline. He bounced on all four paws. They’d left Tristand’s company in the dust, but this would put Captain Bounce back on the map. Tristand knew that comedy would be the way forward for the company.

Sure, it had cost the company a lot. But, they placed an ad at every bus stop, in every magazine and newspaper. They even purchased digital ad space — on social media, banners on websites, etcetera. The same poster loomed before Tristand. For one day alone — April Fools’ Day. The marketing campaign of a genius.

People would read it. People would laugh. Or, at the very least, smile and guffaw. And then? They’d rush out to buy trampolines — the temptation of weightlessness too rich to resist. The carrot dangled, and who could deny the desire? Nobody. And, most important of all, whose trampolines would they buy?

Captain. Goddamn. Bounce.

Tristand checked his watch. The working day had not yet started, but things would soon stir. He inhaled and looked to the sky. Not a cloud dotted the heavens, the sky above a clear steel-blue. It stretched on for eternity. Boundless. Endless. Like the future for Captain Bounce.

A scream rent the air.

A smack against the concrete.

A splat.

Hot wetness sprayed over him. Tristand flinched and recoiled, the smile on his countenance not yet wiped away.

On a neck that bobbed on a spring, he turned to the direction of the commotion.

Red.

Red everywhere.