Dark Places

Dark Places

By Shaun Allan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Shaun Allan

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9883828-8-6

ISBN-10: 0-988382-88-1

Singularity Books

www.singularity-books.co.uk

In association with

Myrddin Publishing Group

www.myrddinpublishinggroup.com

Credits:

Editor: Connie Jasperson - Cover: Lisa Daly

* * * *

Dedication

For all the writers that need to write and all the stories that need to be written.

For Mrs. Me, for being the light in the dark places.

* * * *

Also by Shaun Allan

Sin

Zits’n’Bits

Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth

Final Entry

Computers Don’t Wear Pink Pyjamas

Rudolph Saves Christmas

* * * *

Visit Shaun Allan at

www.shaunallan.co.uk

Read Singularity’s Point, the Diary of a Madman at

http://singularityspoint.blogspot.com

* * * *

Praise for Dark Places

"Will keep you guessing"

"He paints a surreal scene that sucks you into the terror."

"Wow, a brilliantly written story!"

Acknowledgments

Sitting at a PC, the Muse strikes me. Not with a fist, but with an idea - though it takes as much force and leaves me reeling. A strange creature, part court jester, part shadow, it insists on playing with my thoughts, taking them by the hand and leading them astray. Into the darkness. Into the night.

Along the way it dances on the souls of those it passes, and it is these that I find that I must mention for it is these that the Muse steals a piece of - a hair, a smile, a frown or simply a look - to create the stories herein. I mention them to give back that which has been stolen. That which the Muse has played with and twisted into a tale darker than the smile that plays on its wicked lips.

Connie, editor extraordinaire and she who has compared my writing to that of James Joyce. Honour indeed. I thank you for your comments and your suggestions. The Muse took a strand of your hair and used it to create a web to hold this book in place.

Zoe, whose 'dark place' inspired the title piece for this collection. The Muse stole a part of your shadow and fashioned a story and an ambience. I hope that taking some of your darkness left some light in its place.

Fraser, of the dead. Your descriptions of mortuaries and the innards of... well, innards, was invaluable. The Muse opened you while you slept, just to check the colour of your own heart. I wonder if it left a scar.

Debbie, for telling me about the dragons. The Muse took a second of your childhood and used it to create a world of paranoia. That's OK. You've plenty left.

Jack, for being such a fan of Sin, you deserved your name to be in this anthology. The Muse wandered along the halls of your mind for an age, but then couldn't find its way out until Eternity's End. It was a bit peckish by then. Luckily it likes bacon butties.

My thanks are with you.

Contents

Mmmm

I Am Death

So

Reflections

This Night

Dark Places

The Coming of the Storm

The Last Dance

The Beast Within

Outside

Darkness

The Feast

Candle

Patient Solitude

Host

The House on the Moor

Feel

The Silence

You

The Glass

Look For Me

There Be Dragons

Time

Fair of Face, Black of Heart

Untitled

Joy

"Furor est in tenebris utriusque.

Debemus facere proelium cum nostra daemones."

"There is darkness and madness in each of us.

We must do battle with our own demons."

Mmmm

I look out of my window

At the darkness outside,

But it's the darkness within

That makes me feel I should die.

And the rain 'gainst my window

Cascading down,

Is the tears that I feel

When I feel I could drown.

I sit watching the T.V.

But don't see what I see,

I just surf through the programmes

Not wanting to be.

And when I'm eating my dinner,

The food has no taste,

It just ends up in the bin

Going to waste.

Going to waste, I feel I should die.

Not wanting to be, just thinking 'Why?'

Some people take their chances.

Some of us 'Seize the Day'.

Others just take what life throws,

And watch as it just fades away,

As their life goes astray,

As their dreams fly away.

I know which of these I am,

Whether I like it or not.

If it happens, it happens to me,

So I guess I'll just take what I've got.

But I wish that this was not so.

I wish I could DO,

Not just go with the flow.

But I don't.

But I can't

So I look out of my window,

At the darkness outside,

And I sigh.

I Am Death

I think that...

I think that I am Death.

I am the Grim Reaper. My cloak is in for dry cleaning (some of those stains are murder to get out) and my scythe is in the shop being sharpened. Still, though, I am Death.

I wander the world, plucking souls from the living like feathers from a chicken. Not that I've ever plucked a chicken, nor would I consider doing so. When I eat said deceased poultry, it no longer looks like it did when it was running around laying eggs. Well. I would assume they didn't drop eggs as they ran around, but you get my point. I can feel the pull as the soul desperately tries to keep hold of the body that has been its vessel throughout its life.

Would it be so endeared if the body was instead, perhaps, a kettle, or a bean can, or a Salt and Vinegar crisp packet? I doubt it. Something about a body, though, makes people want to stay wrapped up in the flesh. To feel the heart within beating. To know there's blood pulsing through the veins. And when they trip or they cut themselves shaving or they fight, and blood is spilled, at least they know they're alive.

Until I come along, of course. Until I make them the equal of a certain finger licking chicken.

Until I suck out their soul like the Saturday night Lottery Double Rollover Jackpot. Except, there's no six numbers. There's no bonus ball. There's no car, cruise or cottage by a lake.

There's simply me. Death. Screw that ticket up and toss it in the bin. It doesn't matter what numbers you had. You're not going to win.

Hey, that rhymed. I'm a poet. Who knew. Maybe I should bring out a book. Odes of the Reaper. A best seller in all the dungeons and dark back alleys and places no-one dares to go.

The Consequence of Life

To live is to die

To smile is to cry

To hope is to fear

To speak is to hear

To laugh is to taste

The bitterest waste

To lose is to win

To do good is to sin

To cheer is to sigh

To know is to ask why

To live is to die

Maybe I should stick to my day job, eh? Leave the poetry to those that have a heart and have a... well... a soul. A heart that still beats and a soul which still feels that beat. I'd have a hell of a time finding a publisher anyway. Most people can't see me until it's too late. Not the best idea, is it, to talk to a publisher or agent in the moments before I take their soul and watch their beloved body crumple?

I think I'll leave it. I hardly have time anyway. Being Death is a busy job. It takes up almost all my time. People need to die at all hours of the day and night. If it wasn't for Sky +, I'd never catch an episode of Coronation Street or Doctor Who.

Really, you'd think that dying could be timed better. A sign on the door of my non-existent door:

Business Hours

Mon - Thur

08:30 - 16:30

Fri

08:30 - 19:00

That'd give me my evenings free and, hey, I don't mind a bit of overtime on a Friday. Dedication and all that. But no. It's Flexi-time in the worst way. Midnight to midnight if I'm lucky. There's an interminable period of time between the end of one day and the beginning of another - at true Mid Night - when forever fits neatly into a heartbeat. The Null. Any stragglers, those I didn't get around to in the meagre twenty four hours that I had in the previous day, I have to bag then. It's like my buffer. I often wear myself out in that Null. I dash about like a headless chicken, unplucked. I can't let the Null go on for too long because...

Well... the last time that happened...

Anywho.

I think that I am Death.

Why do I think it? Why do I not know? I feel the pain of the dead as I take their souls. I see the instant that their skin pales a fraction as the blush of pumping blood ceases. But...

Does this make me a devil? Does this mean I'm a demon? I don't feel that I am. I do not feel either devilish or demonic. I just feel... normal. I do the things I do because I must. I turn Living into Lived because it is the way of things. I could, I suppose, be asking if you want fries or to Go Large. I could be telling you the groceries I have just scanned and bagged for you will be £87.36. More than that. They are only jobs. Means to pay your bills and so on.

I could be breathing. I could be eating. I could be sleeping. I could be doing things which must be done but take no thought. Things done because they just are.

I am Death because I am. You breathe because you don't know how not to.

But...

I was once a man. I was once a person. I breathed and ate and slept. I paid for groceries and said no, I don't want to Go Large, thank you very much.

I was not always the taker of souls. I, once, had one of my very own.

Michael Connery. No, not me. The man whose bed I stand at the foot of. 34 years old. His wife of five years sleeps beside him. They've been trying for a baby for the past four years. They've been unsuccessful. It's neither's fault and they know this. Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has deemed that they should not have children together. Man, in his finite wisdom, has deemed that they should ignore Nature and take things into their own hands.

Not always a good idea.

In this case, however, Man wins. She will find out in two days that the very first session of IVF they had, and the only one they can afford, has worked. She will - she is now - pregnant. She will have a boy and he will live a long life. She will not live such a long life, but it will still be more than short. A happy medium, I would say.

Michael Connery, 34 and father to a child he won't meet, will die tonight. In a moment, to be precise. He hasn't done anything wrong. There's an undetected irregularity in his heartbeat. He has, sort of, noticed it on occasion. A sharp intake of breath, a kick in his chest. Indigestion, surely. He likes his fry ups. The bacon butty. Food of the Gods.

Actually, I've never met