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  Children of the Dark

  Jonathan Janz

  Sinister Grin Press

  MMXVI

  Austin, Texas

  Sinister Grin Press

  Austin, TX

  www.sinistergrinpress.com

  March 2016

  “Children of the Dark” © 2016 Jonathan Janz

  This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Cover Art by Matthew Revert

  Book Design by Travis Tarpley

  Acknowledgments

  I could write a novel thanking all the people who deserve to be thanked, but I’m going to single out just a few and give my apologies to the rest.

  First and always, I want to thank my family. My wife, my son, and my two daughters are my reason for doing everything I do. You four love me, support me, and keep me smiling through fun times and challenges. I love you four more than you’ll ever know, and I’ll try for the rest of my life to be the husband and father that you deserve.

  Next, I want to thank my grandparents and my mom for their continued support. You three are amazing and have always believed in me.

  I want to thank my four pre-readers on this book: Tim Slauter, Tod Clark, Louise Fury (my agent), and my son. Tim, you helped me feel confident in the direction the book was headed. Tod, your enthusiasm for the project was invaluable. Louise, your advice and effort helped me a great deal. And Jack, though I left out the profanity and some of the violence when I read this to you, your feedback was crucial in shaping this narrative. You’re the smartest ten-year-old I know.

  Though Don D’Auria didn’t work on this book, Don’s fingerprints are all over my career. Don, your support and belief in my work has wrought wonders for my self-confidence. Thank you.

  And lastly, I want to thank Brian Keene. No writer has been as supportive of me and my writing as you have, Brian. You haven’t done all these things for me for any reward or recognition; you’ve done them because that’s the kind of person you are. People who don’t know you might only see the entertaining stories, the staggering sales, and the prestigious awards. What I see—in addition to an incredible writer—is a loving, devoted father; a generous helper of those in need; a tireless champion of new voices in the field; an artist who bleeds for his craft; and a genre scholar who refuses to let people forget horror’s astonishing history and heritage. For all these reasons and more, Brian, I thank you.

  And I’m proud to call you my friend.

  Now, if you’ve read these Acknowledgments, I’d like to tell you a story.

  Take my hand and come this way…

  Dedication

  Jack, this one’s for you. The ten years I’ve spent being your father have been the best of my life. I’ve never seen a son who is more supportive of his dad, and I want you to know it means the world to me. You mean the world to me. I love you, Bubba.

  “And men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, colors, sizes, and smells.”

  Ray Bradbury

  Something Wicked This Way Comes

  “Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.”

  Stephen King

  The Body

  PART ONE

  LEGENDS

  Chapter One

  The Championship and the Grudge

  The week I saw seventeen people die didn’t begin with blood, monsters, or a sadistic serial killer.

  It all began with a baseball game.

  Looking back, I wonder if things would have been different had we lost that night. You’d think that winning the league championship would have kicked off the best summer of my life.

  But it didn’t. That summer was my worst, and that’s saying something. Despite only being fifteen-years-old, I’d already had some shitty ones.

  I think that was part of it, our age. My best friend Chris Watkins and I had just completed our freshman year at Shadeland High, but despite our inexperience, we were two of the best baseball players in the school.

  That didn’t sit well with Brad Ralston or Kurt Fisher, who were two years older and had been the starting varsity pitcher and shortstop until Chris and I came along. On the night I’m talking about, the third evening of June, our head coach was in the stands watching. It made me nervous; Coach Aldrich was an enormous, bearlike man with tiny black eyes, a thick Hitler mustache, and though he hardly ever spoke, when he did, you listened. Like a temperamental Grizzly bear, I was always afraid he’d maul me.

  Coach Aldrich’s eyes were riveted on me as I stepped to the plate in the top of the ninth inning with two outs, my team trailing by one, and runners on second and third base. Mia Samuels was watching me too, and as much as I feared Coach Aldrich, Mia’s opinion counted for far more. Her striking blue eyes and black, punkish hair were a part of that—as was her body, if I’m being totally honest—but even more importantly, she made me feel like I was something other than a loser.

  There were maybe two hundred people in the stands, and the temperature was pushing ninety. But I tried to block out the crowd and the heat because Brad Ralston—Mia’s asshole boyfriend—was on the mound, and whatever flaws the guy had, he was a flamethrower of a pitcher. He’d already beaned me twice that game—a hard slider to the ribs and a screaming fastball in the hip—and I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to obliterate me again.

  I dug in, told myself to be brave.

  But when the first pitch howled in and nearly tore my head off, whatever bravery I had evaporated.

  Trembling, I stumbled out of the batter’s box to dust myself off. A voice behind me said, “Relax, Will. If he hits you, it might improve your looks.”

  I turned and saw my best friend waiting in the on-deck circle, his yellow aluminum bat resting on his shoulder.

  “Big words coming from someone as disfigured as you.”

  It was a lie, of course. Every girl in the school wanted to date Chris Watkins.

  He grinned his lopsided grin. “The longer you wait, the more your balls will shrink.”

  “You’re a prick, Watkins,” I said under my breath.

  “Want a hug?”

  “Piss off,” I muttered, and reentered the batter’s box.

  Ralston was grinning at me, clearly relishing how terrified I was.

  Don’t worry about that, I told myself. Don’t worry about Brad, don’t worry about Coach Aldrich. Don’t even think about Mia, who by the way is looking extraordinarily hot tonight.

  I glanced toward the stands, spotted Mia, and felt my cheeks and temples burn. Then, I brushed away several impure thoughts and readied myself for the pitch. As I did I saw Brad scuffing a cleat into the reddish dirt of the pitcher’s mound, the ball looking no larger than a hard-boiled egg in his massive hand. I caught a glimpse of the ugly, worm-colored scar on his wrist, remembered how he’d supposedly sliced it by punching through his bedroom window while in the throes of an ungovernable rage.

  Brad was still grinning, but I fancied I could distinguish the same maniacal rage in his eyes now as he stepped onto the pitching rubber.

  I raised my bat, blinked sweat out of my eyes.

  Brad checked the runners. I waited, bat aloft, and took a quivering breath. Brad started his motion. I tensed, expecting another fastball at my helmet.

  It blazed right down the middle.

  I swung.

  And smashed a fierce grounder at Kurt Fisher, the shortstop and Brad’s best buddy. I ran like crazy thinking I wa
s out for sure. I was a fast runner, but Kurt was built like a tank, had a cannon for an arm, and he was almost always accurate.

  I glanced to my left to see if the ball was traveling to first base already, but that’s when the night took its first surreal turn. Rather than fielding it cleanly, the ball rocketed under Kurt’s glove and skittered into the outfield. It was a routine play, one I’d seen him make a hundred times. But this time he didn’t. We plated two runs and seized the lead.

  Chris popped out, and we entered the bottom half of the ninth inning up by a run. Chris was pitching, so I liked our chances. He had an even better arm than Brad, which was why he was on the verge of overtaking Brad as the number one pitcher on the varsity team. No one had to say it, but if Chris out-dueled Brad that night, with Coach Aldrich in attendance, Chris might very well start the following year ahead of Brad on the depth chart.

  But Chris got into trouble. There were two outs, but the bases were loaded, and we were clinging to a one-run lead.

  Brad stepped into the batter’s box, a manchild who already stood six-foot-four and had homered eleven times that season.

  Chris’s first two pitches were out of the strike zone, the sweltering heat and the pressure maybe getting to my best friend a little. I hustled in from my shortstop position to calm him down.

  I said in a low voice, “Why do squirrels swim on their backs?”

  He shot me a look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Why do squirrels swim on their backs?” I repeated.

  His glare began to relax. “I know you’re gonna tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

  I stared at him, eyebrows raised.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, taking off his hat and mopping his brow with a forearm. “Okay, why do squirrels swim on their backs?”

  “To keep their nuts dry.”

  He shook his head but let out a small chuckle. “You’re a dumbass, Burgess.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m just fascinated by animal genitalia.”

  He was still shaking his head, but he looked like he’d relaxed about five ticks. “So what would you throw him here?” Chris asked.

  “Brad’s not gonna be swinging. Just throw a strike.”

  Chris cocked an eyebrow at me. “And if he hits it?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll field it.”

  The umpire appeared at my side. “You two done swapping recipes?”

  I nodded at Chris. “We were talking about the new Stephen King book. It’s about a pitcher who stalks an umpire because he kept making bad calls.”

  “Very bloody,” Chris put in.

  The umpire grinned. “Morons. Let’s play ball.”

  I nodded, tapped Chris on the back with my glove, and returned to my position.

  Chris’s next two pitches were pure gas, scorching fastballs that Brad could only watch as they zinged by. The next pitch was a change-up that Brad swung out of his cleats trying to hit.

  Strike three.

  The championship was ours.

  Chris and I and the rest of our team exploded with jubilation. It’s a wonder none of us got killed in the scrum on the pitcher’s mound. At one point Chris was hoisted onto a couple guys’ shoulders, but their balance sucked, and he ended up facedown in the dirt.

  But he never stopped grinning.

  Neither did I. I spotted Mia and Rebecca gazing at us from the other side of the fence, and though their boyfriends had just lost the championship, they were applauding along with the rest of the crowd. I didn’t dare read too much into that—sports can bring out weird emotions in people—but I won’t lie. It made me feel even better.

  My good spirits lasted for about three minutes. I wanted to keep celebrating, but I had to take a piss. If I jumped around on the pitcher’s mound any longer, I was going to have an accident, and then I’d be known as the guy who couldn’t control his bladder rather than the one who drove in the game-winning run. So I slipped away from my teammates, exited the field, and scurried around to the dingy cinderblock bathroom. I jerked on the door handle, but just my luck, the damn thing was locked. I was about to dash into the adjacent woods so I could relieve myself when I heard a raised voice that made me forget all about urination.

  I paused and stared at the gray bathroom door, the dented metal rusting in several places.

  “…didn’t concentrate!” a man’s voice shouted.

  A muffled answer, the voice belonging to someone younger.

  “Don’t give me that! You choked, plain and simple.”

  Another response, this one something about being nervous.

  A harsh bark of a laugh. “You want me to feel sorry for you? You were nervous, so now that little Burgess bastard is gonna start at shortstop instead of you. Jesus Christ Almighty.”

  My stomach muscles contracted. I realized who this was and why this was happening. Kurt Fisher’s dad—an overzealous drill sergeant of a father if ever there was one—was berating his son for making an error. As if Kurt didn’t already feel lousy enough.

  “I’m sorry,” Kurt muttered.

  “I am too!” his dad answered, a biting edge to his voice. “I’m sorry your coach had to watch you forget everything he taught you. Everything I’ve taught you. Hell, I don’t know why I even bother.”

  Kurt said something I couldn’t make out. Then I heard a sniff.

  “Ohhh,” his dad said. “You’re gonna cry now. Sure, that’s gonna make everything better. For God’s sake, how old are you?”

  Kurt didn’t bother to answer. I didn’t blame him. I felt like crying myself.

  “Get yourself together,” Kurt’s dad growled. I heard a rustling sound within the bathroom, a couple footsteps. “I wanna get the hell out of here.”

  I bolted toward the woods before Kurt or his dad could emerge. I didn’t want Kurt to know I’d heard the exchange, didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. It was funny—he’d been an asshole to me for as long as I could remember, but it wasn’t until that moment that I gave a thought to why.

  If I had a dad like that, maybe I’d be an asshole too. Of course, I’d never had a dad at all, and for once, I was thankful for that.

  I remained hidden several feet from the forest’s edge, peering at the bathroom door. A moment or two later, Kurt exited, followed closely by his father. This time Mr. Fisher wasn’t speaking at all, but he was glaring at the back of his son’s head as though he wished Kurt would die. I wondered how sad he’d be if something actually did happen to his son.

  My hands shaking, I unzipped my baseball pants and peed on a maple tree.

  ¨

  When I finished my business in the woods, I found Chris behind our dugout stowing his bat and batting helmet. I was opening my mouth to tell him about Kurt, but soft footfalls from my left stopped me.

  Mia and Rebecca.

  In the combined glare of the overhead ballpark lights and the softer glow of the full moon, Mia’s spiky hair looked glossier than ever, her stunning blue eyes a bit feline. She wore an electric blue tank top that showed a strip of brown skin above her jean shorts. And though the tight clothes weren’t skimpy, they certainly didn’t hide much.

  Not that I was complaining.

  Mia had on pink flip-flops. I noticed her toenails were painted the same blue as her eyes and wondered if that was something girls did. My only knowledge of female behavior came from my mom, who never put effort into her appearance; my six-year-old sister, who was too young to know anything; and the Internet, which I only got to use at Chris’s house. Needless to say, I was mystified by girls.

  Rebecca was smiling at Chris, and though I’d always been obsessed with Mia, I completely understood why Chris wanted so badly to date Brad Ralston’s kid sister. She had long blond hair, light blue eyes, and though she didn’t display as much flesh as Mia, she definitely had a nice body.

  “You sore?” Rebecca asked me, and because I was so transfixed by the sight of Mia, it took me a moment to register her meaning.

  I pla
yed it cool. “Brad doesn’t throw that hard.”

  “The hell he doesn’t,” Chris said. “Coach clocked him at eighty-five this spring.”

  Rebecca tilted her head. “I bet your fastball is better.”

  Chris blushed violently. I restrained the urge to laugh at him. Though Chris had a slew of girls pursuing him on a regular basis, Rebecca was the one he really pined for. Seeing him act so shyly was something I wasn’t accustomed to. I made a mental note to tease him about it later.

  Mia stepped closer to me. “Are you okay? I think I heard your ribs break on one of those pitches.”

  It was my turn to feel awkward. My throat was so dry I could hardly avoid coughing, but I managed to say, “I shook it off.”

  One corner of her mouth turned up. “Because you’re a big tough man?”

  Chris snickered. “Will doesn’t even have armpit hair.”

  I glared at him but couldn’t summon a good comeback. Truth was, he was right. I didn’t have armpit hair yet.

  Maybe sensing my embarrassment, Rebecca asked, “How’s Peach?”

  “A pain in the ass,” I said.

  “Be nice to her.”

  “You kidding?” Chris said. “Will’s practically her dad.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, but Rebecca gave me an approving look. She always asked after my little sister, probably because Rebecca had a caring heart. But there might’ve been another reason, one I didn’t want to think about. For a moment, I wondered what kind of pain Rebecca might be feeling…

  She said, “You know, you two made my life miserable by winning tonight.”

  “Think Brad’s gonna be in an ugly mood when you get home?” Chris asked.

  “How could you tell the difference?” I asked. “Isn’t he always in an ugly mood?”

  “Not always,” Mia said.

  My insides shriveled, and I stared bleakly toward the empty baseball diamond. Why did Mia have to be dating Brad?