The Dark at the End of the Tunnel Read online

  The Dark at the

  End of the Tunnel

  by Taylor Grant

  Cemetery Dance Publications

  Baltimore, MD

  2015

  “Masks,” A Feast of Frights from the Horror Zine, ed. Jeani Rector, Horror Zine, 2012; “The Silent Ones,” Horror For Good: A Charitable Anthology, ed. Robert Shane Wilson, Mark Scioneaux, R.J. Cavender, Cutting Block Press, 2012; “The Vood,” Box of Delights, ed. John Kenny, Aeon Press, 2012; “Gods and Devils,” Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF, ed. Robert Shane Wilson, Nightscape Press, 2014; “Dead Pull,” Tales from the Lake Vol.1, ed. Joe Mynhardt, Crystal Lake Publishing 2014: “Show and Tell,” Night Terrors III, ed. Theresa Dillon, Marc Ciccarone, G. Winston Hyatt, Blood Bound Books, 2014; “The Infected,” Cemetery Dance Magazine #71, Cemetery Dance Publishing, 2014; “Whispers in the Trees, Screams in the Dark,” Nightscapes Vol. 1, ed. Robert Shane Wilson, Marc Scioneaux, Jennifer Wilson, Nightscape Press, 2012; “Intruders,” Horror Library Vol. V, ed. R.J. Cavender, Boyd E. Harris, Cutting Block Press, 2013; “The Dark at the End of the Tunnel,” (appeared as “Spectres”) Fear the Reaper, ed. Joe Mynhardt, Crystal Lake Publishing, 2013.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Dark End of the Tunnel Copyright © 2015 by Taylor Grant. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cemetery Dance Publications

  132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

  Forest Hill, MD 21050

  http://www.cemeterydance.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-58767535-5

  Front Cover Artwork © 2015 by Ben Baldwin

  Dust Jacket Design by Joseph Sigillo

  Digital Design by Dan Hocker

  To Samantha and Zane, my lights at the end of the tunnel.

  Introduction

  by Gene O’Neill

  Different types of writing require different subsets of writerly skills. Sometimes there is overlap. But very seldom does a writer possess a high level of multiple skills in all types of writing. Some of the different skill sets are:

  Playwrights and Screenwriters—The form requires exceptional skill at creating believable dialogue that moves the plot along.

  Novelists—The form requires masterful planning of the big picture, juggling multiple storylines, and producing interesting exposition to an inevitable conclusion.

  Poets—The form requires precision and concision producing concrete imagery and emotional effect.

  Short story writers—The form requires economic use of language—never an extra word—to produce a measured ending that has perfect closure.

  Only the very best writers possess all these varied skills. These writers produce our most memorable literature—they are master craftsmen.

  Taylor Grant possesses a good measure of all these skills, as one might expect because he has written at a professional level in many different mediums. The proof, of course, is in the quality of the short stories in this collection. Every story here is written with the precise-concise language of a poet; the dialogue is crafted at a screenwriter’s level; the care and plotting is equal to a novelist; and each story has an almost perfect closure—often an unexpected but inevitable ending.

  Some of the stories have an underlying psychological theme bordering on madness—the lead character psychotic or at the very least sociopathic. Yet this isn’t just a collection about badguys, oh no. We, as readers, are able to root for most of the protagonists…Or if we can’t in a few cases, the endings are carefully ironic—the bad guy gets exactly what he deserves. A difficult technical writing skill is to always create a satisfying ending from the reader viewpoint. Each story ending here has that type of satisfactory conclusion.

  Taylor Grant accomplishes all of this because he is a gifted writer, his skill set cutting across all the major forms of writing. Other writers and colleagues, too, recognize his ability. My favorite story of this collection, the novelette, “The Infected,” although competing against much longer novellas, was a finalist for the prestigious Bram Stoker Award in the Long Fiction category.

  I would suggest that Mr. Grant’s fiction will garner many such writer awards; and I wouldn’t be surprised to see one or more of his stories produced on TV or the big screen in the near future.

  Taylor Grant. Write the name down, seat it with a magnet on your refrigerator, and then watch it popping up all over the literary landscape.

  —Gene O’Neill, The Cal Wild Chronicles, The Hitchhiking Effect, At the Lazy K

  MASKS

  Jonathan dabbed at the blood on his neck and licked his crimson-stained fingertips, savoring the sharp, coppery taste.

  “What the hell’s taking so long?” Margaret yelled from outside the bathroom door. “I’m going to be late for my spinning class.”

  Startled from his reverie, Jonathan noticed his reflection in the mirror and recoiled at the face staring back. He’d never smiled like that in his life; it was more of a grimace.

  “Hurry up, goddamn it,” Margaret said, pounding on the door.

  Jonathan’s fists tightened. He forced himself to take a deep breath before opening the door. “Sorry, honey,” he said, “I nicked myself shaving.”

  Margaret brushed past him, shoved him out the door, and slammed it so hard his scrotum tightened.

  With a familiar sigh, he continued his morning routine.

  ****

  Later, while crouched over his computer at work, Jonathan couldn’t shake the disturbing reflection he’d seen in the bathroom mirror—and that horrible gash of a smile.

  It’s just work-related stress, he thought. God, please let it be that.

  He couldn’t take another year like the last—and he sure as hell couldn’t afford the therapy, although it seemed clear he needed another session with Dr. Hatchman. He warmly recalled his former therapist’s signature western wear, bushy white beard, and perpetually rosy cheeks. He looked like Santa Claus moonlighting as a country-western star.

  Jonathan chuckled at the mental image, gradually returning to the job at hand. He attempted to analyze a spreadsheet of projected revenue figures for the next fiscal year, but found it impossible to focus. He glanced down and noticed his fingers tapping at the keyboard as if they belonged to someone else. The spreadsheet minimized on his screen and was replaced by a Web browser. Moments later, a parade of violent, sexual obscenities marched across his screen.

  He felt the twisted grimace of a smile invading his lips once again. He sat immobile at his desk, both repulsed and intrigued by the imagery on the computer. It was like driving past a particularly gruesome car wreck, not wanting to look—yet unable to tear his eyes away.

  And then he noticed his hands. Jesus Christ, my skin looks like…

  “Mr. Bailey?” a soft voice beckoned.

  Startled, Jonathan quickly minimized the images on his computer screen.

  A petite brunette with perfect teeth to match her perfect smile peeked inside his office. “Mr. Bailey, your three o’clock is here.”

  “Thank you…” Jonathan’s voice wasn’t his. It was deeper. Colder. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank
you, Jenny. Tell them I’ll be just a moment.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

  She raised her shoulders in that little shrug he hated and closed the door with a click.

  “Whore,” he heard himself mutter, feeling surprised at the venom of his tone.

  He turned his hands palms up, then down, studying every inch. They appeared normal again. It’s just work-related stress, he told himself for the second time that day.

  ****

  He’d chewed two of his fingernails down to bloody nubs by seven o’clock that evening. He swore if he had to create one more Power Point presentation he was going to rip the skin from his bones. In an uncharacteristically bold move, he ignored a handful of last-minute email threads and left early.

  Jonathan drove home, thinking about the bizarre events of the day with an increasing sense of unease. He longed for a session with Dr. Hatchman. Unfortunately, he’d already used up the allotment of counseling sessions his pathetic HMO covered. If he wanted to reenter therapy, he’d have to pay out of pocket—and he simply couldn’t afford that. He and Margaret were hemorrhaging money due to her obsession with home renovation, and he didn’t have the balls to stop her.

  He forced a deep breath; he was probably over-dramatizing. End of the year was notoriously crazy and he was simply overworked. Hell, a weekend by the pool with a few dry martinis, and he’d feel like a new man.

  Actually, I feel better already, he thought.

  Suddenly, two teenage boys in a gray Impala cut him off. Jonathan instinctively jerked the wheel to the right and nearly lost control of his Taurus but was able to straighten out. The pimple-faced driver laughed at him and pressed his middle finger to the window.

  Jonathan’s fingers coiled around the steering wheel like tiny, hungry pythons as he slammed onto the accelerator. He raced up alongside the Impala, honking his horn viciously. As the boy glanced over, Jonathan was surprised to see the boy react in fright and swerve away.

  It only heightened Jonathan’s bloodlust; he veered toward the Impala even more aggressively. The pizza-faced driver panicked—weaving into the far lane.

  But there was no far lane.

  Jonathan caught a glimpse of the boys’ faces frozen in screams as their car sailed off the road to be engulfed by the blackness below. The canyon was so deep that Jonathan didn’t hear the impact.

  He glanced up at the rearview mirror as he drove away, searching for any witnesses. He was relieved to see that the only visible headlights were tiny pinpricks—at least a mile in the distance. Whoever they were, they were too far off to have seen anything, much less identify his car.

  He exited the road at the next turnoff and took a dizzying maze of side streets to get home. As he drove through a desolate warehouse district, he caught a glimpse of his frightful reflection in the rear view mirror—and nearly lost control of his car. The Taurus spun wildly as he careened over a hill. He slammed on the brakes, flung open the door and tumbled out onto the oil-stained asphalt.

  Oh, God…Oh, Jesus…Oh, God, he thought, scrambling to his feet. His features had been horrifying, as if they were stretched over some monstrous thing beneath his skin. Is that what the boy had seen—why he’d looked so terrified?

  He walked aimlessly along some long-forgotten railroad tracks as the realization of what he’d done—the enormity of it all—began to sink in. He might have killed two young kids.

  Wait, he thought. Temporary insanity. Yes—that would be his plea if he got caught. It made perfect sense. He’d already been through a nervous breakdown the previous year. Dr. Hatchman was a character witness; perhaps he could confirm that Jonathan had a pattern of psychosis. Would it be a far stretch to say that he’d never fully recovered? He played out every scenario he could think of.

  He wandered silent streets until he’d formed what he thought was a reasonably convincing narrative. When he finally returned to his car, it took him an additional twenty minutes to find the courage to climb inside.

  He avoided looking into the rearview mirror as he drove home.

  ****

  Jonathan watched the evening news and scoured the morning paper for several days. He discovered the brief news item while eating breakfast. It was a missing person’s story, with requisite quotes from worried family members and a reward offered for any information. As it turned out, fourteen-year-old Andy Creeter and seventeen-year-old Rusty Creeter—pizza-face himself—were brothers. The police considered it a runaway case due to the boys’ past histories and juvenile records.

  A conspiratorial grin crossed Jonathan’s lips. There were no bodies, suspicions of foul play, motives to uncover, or any living witnesses. If there were such a thing as a perfect crime, this came pretty damned close.

  He studied the news story for so long that his corn flakes fused into a single membrane floating aimlessly in his bowl. For a moment, he worried that Margaret might have noticed his preoccupation with the story—but she was far too busy renovating the kitchen.

  While she savagely attacked some drywall with a chisel and hammer, he made his move toward the sink and dumped his bowl of mush into the disposal. He was about to leave for work when he heard Margaret mumble “Have a good day,” with a distinct lack of interest.

  He started to offer his automated response, “You, too,” but was cut off by her vicious hammering. It seemed as if the only thing that interested Margaret these days was tearing things apart.

  Within a few days, he’d put the whole dreary Creeter affair behind him. A voice inside his head offered constant reassurance; told him that everything would be just fine.

  The voice wasn’t his.

  ****

  At work, others began to notice changes in Jonathan.

  The Tuesday morning executive meeting began as a typical corporate affair, with Don Henry, the company CEO pontificating about quarterly milestones and meeting stockholders’ expectations. Don’s formidable business acumen was second only to his quick-tempered nature. He had a reputation for verbally assaulting anyone who questioned his authority.

  Jonathan sat in a cold sweat, fighting an overwhelming urge to leap across the table and rip the son of a bitch’s tongue from his mouth. Adding to his discomfort was a strange and extraordinarily painful throbbing sensation in his lower back.

  Eventually, Don called him out. “Is there a problem, Bailey?”

  Jonathan dug his fingernails into his wrist to keep from laughing at the silver-haired man. When Don asked him again, Jonathan burst into such a howl of laughter that spittle flew from his mouth.

  The veins pulsed in Don’s neck. “What the hell’s so funny?”

  “You,” Jonathan heard himself say. “If you think anyone in this room gives a rat’s ass about meeting stockholders’ expectations, then you’re an even bigger corporate stooge than I thought.”

  Silence choked the room. All eyes bounced between Jonathan and Don Henry. No one knew how to react. No one dared make a sound. After an unbearably long moment, Don collected his charts. “See me in my office in five minutes,” he said and left the room.

  Jonathan snapped up his papers and started after Don, feeling the entire room staring into his back. As he reached the door, he turned to Peter McIntyre, a particularly sycophantic Director of Marketing, and snarled at him.

  Peter turned white.

  Jonathan could still hear nervous laughter from the conference room as he reached Don Henry’s palatial corner office. He didn’t bother to knock.

  Don stood before a large bay window, staring out at a spectacular panorama of the city. His voice was solemn. “Have a seat.”

  Jonathan plopped into one of the designer guest chairs and winced from an electric jolt to his tailbone. Don circled like a pin-striped predator sizing up its prey. “You’ve seen the African masks on the wall behind my desk?”

  Jonathan grunted; everyone in the office knew of Don’s collection of crude wooden masks and his
oft-told tales of traveling through the Dark Continent. Each mask represented a different human expression: joy, sadness, lust, anger…the entire spectrum.

  Don gave Jonathan a furtive glance as he stepped behind his massive oak desk. “Ancient tribesmen believed that by wearing one, you could draw power from the expression it represented.” He removed an angry mask from the wall, appeared to silently address it, and then peered at Jonathan through the eye slits.

  “You have a mask, Bailey. And it’s cracking. I can see it happening…hell, everyone can see it. Things have never been quite right since your…‘episode’ last year.”

  Jonathan thought: Oh, but it’s your mask that’s cracking, Don. I can see the fearful little creature behind the puffed-up façade.

  He leaned forward, matching Don’s steely gaze; he was still surprised by his own audacity. “What’s your point?”

  “My point,” Don said with a nervous tic in his eye, “is that I don’t want you anywhere near me or this office when you finally crack apart.”

  Jonathan rose to face Don. “You talk a lot about me and my mask, old boy, but what about yours?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a frightened little man,” Jonathan heard himself say, “hiding behind your self-important position like a child hides behind his mother’s knees.” He took several steps forward, moving around the desk toward Don.

  Don took an involuntary step back.

  Jonathan grinned, but there was no warmth there. “You know that beneath this pretense of boss and subordinate, we’re no different than wild beasts back in the jungle.”

  Don’s face was turning ashen. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Jonathan took another step forward, tightening his fists. “The truth scares you, doesn’t it, Don?”

  Suddenly, Don’s knees buckled and he stumbled back into his custom-made leather chair, gasping for breath. Jonathan loomed over him, well aware of Don’s history of heart trouble, including two heart attacks and triple bypass surgery. He leaned in and bared his teeth for effect. “Because once you lose your perceived advantage, you know I’ll eat you alive.”