The Dark of You by S.M. Shade

Chapter Eleven

Reeve’s gone when I wake. My sleep was unusually deep, and I didn’t even hear him leave or feel him kiss me goodbye like he usually does. Lying in bed, I trace my finger over the slight scar on my hand. It isn’t nearly as bad as his will be. I didn’t need stitches, just kept my hand wrapped up. The similar ones that crossed my fingers aren’t even visible anymore.

Chances are I’ll never know exactly what happened last night, but I’m confident of one thing. He stabbed someone, and his hand slipped forward over the blade. Stabbed doesn’t mean dead—I know that from personal experience—but…there was so much blood.

The real question that needs answered isn’t who he hurt or if he killed somebody. No, the only thing I need to decide is if I can accept this. I’m not afraid of Reeve, not in the slightest, but can I continue with someone who grows more volatile every time we’re together?

Isn’t that why you want him?

The thought comes unbidden, but it’s not incorrect. I’m not blind to the fact that part of the reason I’m so affected by him is because he’s unpredictable and dangerous. Unapologetically so. I’ve never had a lot of use for others. Most people just rob you of solitude without replacing it with anything of value.

It isn’t like that with Reeve. He makes me feel alive. He makes me want to take risks and say to hell with any consequences. The awful truth is clear. No matter who he is or what he’s done, I’m not giving him up. Why should I walk away my days when I could dance along the sharp edges of life with him?

His words from before play in my ears. “I’ll always bleed for you.”

The vow wraps around my heart, and I know I feel the same. I’m already bleeding for him, letting out so many parts of myself. Releasing my beliefs about morality, my ideas of right and wrong. What difference does any of it make? The world is cruel and unfair. It doesn’t care what kind of person you are, whether you do good or evil. We’re all going to end the same.

He’s burning the world I’ve always known, and I’ll roll in the embers with him.

The buzzing of my phone pulls me out of my thoughts, and I glance over at it to see I have a text from my agent. She’s given up on calling. Instead, she asks that I check my email and get back to her on a time sensitive opportunity. It’s been weeks since I’ve bothered to check my email or get in touch with anyone connected with my professional life. The questions about how writing is going when I can’t write a damned word are too hard to face.

My email account is stuffed, but it doesn’t take me long to find her message and read through it, along with the attached document. It’s an unexpected opportunity. No doubt one most authors would give up an organ for, but I’m not sure how I feel about it.

One of my bestselling books, a fictional account of a real life family annihilator, has gained the attention of a studio that would like to make it into a movie. Lucrative isn’t a strong enough word for the amount of money this would bring in, but the truth is, I don’t need it. There’s only so much you can spend in a lifetime and with no family to pass it on to, why bother? Still, at a time when I’m struggling to feel like I can call myself a writer, I’ll admit, it’s flattering.

There’s someone I need to check with first.

I shoot a text back to my agent letting her know I’ve seen the offer and will think about it. Then I send an email to a man I haven’t heard from in five years. If I expected a response at all, I figured it would be days away, but I’m surprised a few minutes later when my phone buzzes and shows his name as I’m getting dressed.

Nash Fullman. One of the few people to have gone through a similar childhood horror.

“Nash, hi, thanks for getting back to me so fast.”

“No problem. You have something you wanted to talk to me about?”

It strikes me that I need to see his face when he answers my question. I need to know for sure he’d be okay with this. “I do, actually, would you be willing to meet? Just for a coffee or something so we can talk?”

His hesitation is understandable. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

“An opportunity has come up for Midnight Terror. I’d like to talk to you about it and see how you feel. There’s no pressure. If you’d rather not, it’s completely okay.”

“Oh, um…it’s fine. We can meet up. You just caught me off guard. Did you have a time in mind?”

He lives nearly four hours away from me, but what else do I have to do? “Are you available around five today?”

“Sure, but why don’t we meet at a park near my house? I’ll text you the address.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you there.”

My plan now is to clean up the blood from last night, grab a bite to eat, and start toward Nash’s town. I’ll take a bag with me in case I don’t feel like making the drive back, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m up until all hours anyway.

An empty hallway greets me when I step out of my bedroom. The drops of blood that led to the bathroom last night are nowhere to be seen. Even the bathroom where the worst of it was shows no sign of what went on here. Reeve’s bloody clothes are gone too. He must’ve cleaned up before he left.

It’s good that I have something to do today, something else to think about. Instead of making breakfast, I decide to just get on the road and stop at a drive-thru. It’s an overcast, warm day, not a bad day for a long drive. It’s still a novelty to drive without anxiety grabbing me, but there’s no nervousness today. After stopping for a coffee and breakfast sandwich, I pull onto the highway, crank up one of my favorite playlists, and enjoy myself.

The park where Nash asked to meet isn’t hard to find. He responds to my text that I’ve arrived to let me know he’s in the picnic area alongside the playground. We’ve only met once, briefly, over five years ago, but the first thing I notice is he seems a bit different. There’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.

“Nash, hey. Thanks for meeting with me. How have you been?”

With a smile, he gestures for me to sit down across from him at the picnic table. “I’m doing fine. How about you?”

Just fucking a stranger who may have killed someone yesterday. Same old.

“I’m good.”

“Daddy!” A screech turns our attention to the slide where a small boy sits at the top, waving at Nash. “Watch me!”

We both watch as he slides down, falls into the dirt on his butt at the bottom and bursts into giggles. A woman standing nearby shakes her head and laughs when he leaps to his feet to do it again.

“Your wife?” I ask, unaware he had gotten married.

“Yes, Gail, and that’s my son, Ben.”

“They’re beautiful.” Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. He’s built a life, a family. The last thing I should do is draw attention to it.

“It’s been hard, with the economy in the dumpster and everything, but they’re worth it. What did you come to talk to me about?”

Right. Time to get to the point. “I’ve had an offer to make Midnight Terror into a movie. Theater release, not streaming.”

He runs a hand over his lips. “Did you accept?”

“I haven’t responded. I won’t agree to anything without your approval.”

“That’s why you’re here. To ask for my stamp of approval?”

“Not exactly. I’m not sure if I want to do it either. I want to know how you feel about it. You know the books never mention your name and set the story as fiction, but that won’t hold up with a movie. One Google search will bring up what inspired it. Your story.”

He nods, but remains silent, thinking.

“You know I went through a similar thing. But I’ve always kept who I am a secret, hid behind a pen name, to escape from that past. If you’re trying to do the same, I won’t ruin that by bringing attention to you. I’ll turn it down and it won’t be a big loss to me. I just want to get your honest feelings about it.”

Nash lost his family to a killer. A family annihilator. At six years old, he hid in a cabinet and listened as the man killed his parents and two sisters.

“Has it worked for you?” he asks. “Hiding from it?”

It’s not a question I expected, but my answer is honest. “In some ways. It’s still made me who I am. Can’t run from that. But not having people around me know and treat me differently because of it has been an improvement.”

He sighs, and rubs his chin. “I’ve gone the other direction, I suppose. For the last few years, I’ve been accepting speaking engagements about recovering from childhood trauma. People know my name, but I’d rather they associate it with healing and strength.”

“That’s an amazing way to deal with it.” So much braver than mine.

“I’ve thought of trying to write a book as well, a personal account. God help the editor that would have to clean up my writing, but I think people would be interested.”

“They definitely would. I’d be happy to set you up with my agent or publisher if you’d like.” They’d jump all over this opportunity.

A smile spreads across his face. “That’d be great. When it comes to your movie, do what you like. Maybe it’ll help push my book,” he chuckles. His son’s giggles fill the air, and he smiles over at him. “I don’t mean to be rude and cut things short, but if that was all you needed to talk about, I’d like to spend some time with my family. Working two jobs, I don’t get enough of it.”

“Of course.” We both get to our feet. “It was good to see you again.”

“You too, Darcy.”

Once I get to my car, the decision’s been made. The movie can happen, and while I’ll absolutely talk to my agent about Nash’s book idea, money won’t be an issue for him much longer. He’ll get to spend every second he wants with his family. My agent can take her cut of the money offered for the movie rights, and the rest will go to Nash. Someone who has worked so hard to get a happy ending.

* * *

I’m feeling good about my decision on my drive home. Nash has such a different way of dealing with his trauma than I do. He didn’t run, didn’t change his name or try to hide. Hell, he still lives in the same town where the murders took place.

This highway passes on the outer edge of Carterville. It didn’t occur to me to stop on my way past the first time. Honestly, my brain seemed to just edit those signs from my notice, but as the miles count down, the temptation grows. What if my writer’s block is trauma related somehow? Maybe I’ve run so far from who I was that I’ve lost the part of me that could channel that little girl’s anger and fear into stories.

When the exit to Carterville approaches, I take it without giving myself a chance to change my mind. It doesn’t take long for familiar places to surround me, though changed by time and circumstance. Some areas have grown and some have withered in the eighteen years since I’ve been gone.

This was my home. The town where I was born, and the place I ran back to when I was homeless. It holds a house where my family was destroyed by a teenage boy, and the only home I ever knew where I was some semblance of happy. That was also shattered in part by a teenage boy and my naivete of thinking I wouldn’t get pregnant.

When I ran away, I knew better than to go to Helena. They would look for me there, and she could get in trouble if she let me stay. My plan was to sneak and visit her once some time had passed, but I never got the chance. She died of a stroke two weeks after I was removed from her care. Strokes are common in women her age, but I know, it was the stress of having me taken away. She was a good person. The best. The system didn’t care.

While these thoughts swirl in my head, the car seems to have a mind of its own. When I pull to the side of the road and look up, I’m parked a few spaces away from Helena’s old house. It’s painted a different color—yellow instead of white—and the porch swing is long gone, but otherwise it looks the same. It isn’t difficult to picture her coming out of the front door with that smile she always wore, or kneeling beside the walkway explaining to me the best flowers to plant and how to nurture them.

A few lights glow inside. Someone lives here, likely a family, judging by the minivan in the driveway. The upstairs window illuminates while I’m sitting there. My desk was in front of that window. Many countless hours were spent writing while sunlight poured in through the glass. This place and what I learned here made me who I am every bit as much as my first home. I wish I could’ve told her that. Thanked her for everything.

Sadness tugs at me as I pull back into the street and keep driving. There’s no nostalgia for the school I pass. Other than having Helena for a teacher, that place was always a nightmare. Sometimes I still dream I’m walking the halls, looking for a way out.

This little side trip is only making me feel worse. What I should do is get back on the highway and go home. But I won’t. Because I can’t run forever.

Though a lot of my foster placements weren’t far from here, I’ve never been back to this house. Even the name of the street became a word not to be spoken in my mind. Traub. The neighborhood is as ugly as the name. Rundown houses and apartment buildings, every fourth one or so abandoned and rotting. Weeds reach through broken concrete sidewalks toward a world that hates them as much as it seems to despise me. Overgrown yards half hide the junk scattered over them.

A few kids play basketball down the street, and an old man on a porch follows his wife’s call announcing dinner inside. No one pays me any attention when I park in the front of my earliest home. It’s been built up to such a demon in my head that I’m not sure what to make of the reality. It’s just a dilapidated house with a sagging roof and crumbling porch.

It sits empty. It must be hard to sell a house where a serial killer massacred a family. My gaze moves to the empty lot next door, stuffed with weeds nearly waist high. The Babysitter’s house no longer exists.

What am I doing here? What purpose could this possibly serve? My memories of this place are nothing but a few flashes that I can’t trust are the truth. Even the exterior of it doesn’t look familiar. Without understanding why, I know I need to go inside. Maybe it’s just a victory scream of survival. I might be fucked up, but I’m still here, back where everything fell to hell.

The front door’s locked. My shoes crackle over broken glass from one of the windows as I cross the porch and step off onto the scrubby lawn. Someone must own it, or maybe the city mows because it isn’t overgrown, but cut so low that powdery dirt shows through more places than not. The back door doesn’t have a handle, but gives easily when I push it open.

What I find isn’t the piles of trash and alcohol bottles I expect. Maybe in a neighborhood flush with abandoned houses, this one wasn’t worth the bother. A few streaks of graffiti, faded with time and dust, are the extent of the vandalism.

My heart starts to speed up and sweat pops on my skin. It’s not a reaction I understand. I don’t remember this place, but some level of me must. The kitchen’s painted a chipped blue, and I can’t remember if that’s what it was before. There are no appliances, only a rusted sink and dusty counters. My foot slips on a loose tile. A faint scrabbling sound comes from somewhere, and I grab my phone out of my pocket to use the flashlight. The windows aren’t covered by drapes, but years of grime block most of the light.

Standing still, I listen, but don’t hear anything. Probably just a mouse. The door hanging ajar at one end of the kitchen shows a set of stairs leading down to the basement. Tingles race across my skin while I stare down into the darkness. No. Hard pass. I’m not going down there. Instead, I pull the door shut a little too hard, and the bang of it makes me jump.

Jesus, Darcy, relax. There’s no one here. A few deep breaths help, and the sound of my footsteps echo through the empty room as I round the corner to face the hallway like I might find a monster waiting. It’s just a hallway lined with closed doors and wooden paneling that’s long since needed replacing. A faded memory surfaces.

The first room was mine, my brother’s was next to the bathroom. My parents slept in the one on the end. The noise I heard before returns, like fingers scratching at a door. Fear nails me in place. It’s coming from their room. Shock pours frigid water into my bones when the knob to the door starts to turn. Back, forth, and back again.

Get out. Get out. He’s back, Somehow he’s back. He’s been waiting for you and this time he won’t leave you alive. The words beat through my head, but I can’t move. Without a sound, the door opens.

A man steps out of the bedroom, and I can’t breathe. It’s him. It’s Joey. I remember him. Countless memories slam into me of a monster disguised as a skinny neighbor kid. He played outside in the sprinkler with us, showed me an easier way to tie my shoes when I couldn’t get the way Dad demonstrated, always gave me chocolate milk. Choccy milk. It was choccy milk, Darcy. He killed your parents, made you breakfast, and said you were a good girl.

All of this pours into me in a matter of seconds while I stand unable to move. My body drains away from me, leaving only the terror of a five year old girl. He starts toward me, and my chest fills with bottled screams that can’t escape, any more than I can.

Thirty years. It’s been thirty years. It can’t be him. Can’t be. Can’t be. The words echo in my mind and darkness creeps in around the edges of my vision as I watch the boy walking toward me begin to change. His form becomes elongated, his features rippling like water when his skin is pulled like taffy, stretching until he’s taller, wider. His hair grows darker, his eyes erupt into a luminous green, and the hands that reach for me are terribly familiar.

“Reeve.” The shout of his name comes out a whisper as my brain finally trips a protective breaker and sends me into a blackness where I’d be happy to remain.

My head hurts. Something smells bad. Old and musty. Consciousness drips in, returning by degrees until I’m struck with the memory of where I am. The thumping of my head when I sit up too abruptly makes me cry out.

“Easy,” Reeve says, and my feet scramble against the floor, trying to put distance between me and anyone in my vicinity. It doesn’t register with me for a moment that he’s really here.

“Joey…he…came after me.”

As soon as the words are out, I know I’m wrong. It’s impossible for so many reasons, the biggest being the version of him I saw hadn’t aged a day.

“No one else was here. You’re safe.”

“I fainted.” Rubbing the sore spot where my head struck the floor, I wince. “I remembered him. Freaked out and fainted.”

Reeve kneels in front of me. “We should get out of here. This isn’t good for you.”

“No, I need this and—wait, what are you doing here?”

My hand disappears into his. “You need me.”

His stalking knows no bounds. “You get how that’s creepy, though, right? Did you follow me all the way to that park?”

Another smile is his only response. I’m not going to push the issue. I’ve learned most questions are a waste of breath. Besides, I’m glad he’s here. The house feels a lot less threatening with him by my side.

A small burst of dizziness claims me then passes almost as quickly as I stand up. “You know who I am. Do you know what happened in this house?”

“I do.”

Nodding, I pull my hand from his and start down the hall. The first door on the right was my old bedroom, but the room itself isn’t familiar when I step inside. Green walls and a rotting mattress on the floor. Reeve remains silent and follows me back out of the room, sliding his hand into mine again while I stare at the door to my parents’ old room.

Do I dare?

People lived here for years after I was gone. I’m sure there won’t be any signs of what I saw that day. There’s no point in coming this far and not facing the reason I’m here in the first place. My hand trembles on the doorknob while a long forgotten conversation plays in my head.

“Always knock before you come in, Darcy.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

The urge to knock, implanted so many years ago, is still there. The thought of who or what might answer sends a streak of terror through me. I need to stop spooking myself. It’s just a room. It’s just going to be another empty room.

And it is.

But I only get a glance at it before it bursts into the color I hate most. A few frantic steps backward slams my back against the hallway wall. My legs fold, and I curl up there, burying my face in my knees. “Red!” I sob. “A world of red. He turned them red.”

The horrific memories imprinted in my child’s mind thirty years ago are now clear and it’s obvious why I chose not to recall them. Blood. So much blood. On the walls, the floor, the bed. Covering the bodies of both my parents and Louie. It wasn’t paint. Paint doesn’t pour out of your brother’s throat into a puddle on the floor. It doesn’t make your Mama’s dull eyes stare through you.

Reeve sits beside me, his body touching mine while I take some deep breaths and fight to get a hold of myself. I never should’ve come here. My mind had plastered over that day for a good reason, and I ripped the cover off.

We sit there for what feels like a long time, until the already insufficient light begins to fade. He doesn’t speak, but for once his silence isn’t frustrating. Sometimes there are no words that can help, and knowing when to just be there for someone is as important as knowing what to say.

Eventually the thoughts in my head reveal themselves aloud as I stare at the floor. “This place, what happened here…made me. It determined the course of my life. Left me perpetually alone and full of bloody stories to tell. I hate when I get asked why I wanted to be a writer or how I come up with my ideas. He gave that to me. He created me and destroyed me simultaneously. He should’ve killed me.” My voice wavers. “I wish he had. Why didn’t he kill me instead of leaving me alone?”

Reeve slides a hand up my nape to lightly grip my hair and turns my head until I’m caught in those potent eyes. “Even a psychopath can recognize a fire he can’t put out. He wasn’t stupid enough to waste the life of someone as remarkable as you.” His other hand slips around to join the first, cupping the back of my head firmly. “And you aren’t allowed to throw it away either.”

“You don’t understand!” Jerking away from him, I get to my feet. Before I make it another step, he grabs me, and pulls me into his body. Strong arms wrap around me.

“I do. I know how the lifeless night can climb inside you. I know about the hours spent begging the sun to rise in hopes of finding relief, but it’s thin and short. I know those nights and days intimately, how they pile up and wear you down.”

My face wets his chest, and his arms tighten around me.

“You aren’t alone. You’ll never be alone again. Wherever you are, I am.”

Something that’s been stretched taut inside of me my entire life loosens, and the relief is indescribable. Brought on by his words or the recovery of some of my memories, I’m not sure. All I know is I changed in that moment, standing in a dusty hallway that’s growing darker by the second. For better or worse, I found something in the place where I lost it.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiles down at me as I step back and wipe my face. “Let’s get out of here.”

An empty street waits for us when we exit and walk to my car. “Wait. You’re riding back with me?”

“Yes.” He opens the passenger door and gets inside. Okay then. Did he not drive here? I mean, I’ve never seen him drive, but this place isn’t exactly accessible any other way. The walk from any source of transportation would take days.

“How did you get here?” I ask, getting in and starting the engine.

“Stole a car.”

His nonchalant answer catches me off guard, but he’s completely serious. His impassive expression remains in place while I stare at him. The whole situation suddenly strikes me as funny. His eyebrows rise at my sudden burst of laughter. “Of course you did! Because how else does the discerning stalker follow his target across state lines.”

It doesn’t matter. He can refuse to answer my questions, show up covered in blood, follow me in a stolen car, none of it changes what his presence does for me.

For the first time, I feel like I’m not living against my will.