Adermoor Cove Part 2: Love Hurts - 7. Chapter 7

The front door was open.

Lane stared at it from the armchair and wondered what it was doing open. He’d fallen asleep in the armchair with a blanket spread across his lap, but it didn’t stop the chilly morning air from seeping into his bones.

“Charlie?” he said.

Only eerie silence answered. Charlie hadn’t answered because Charlie wasn’t in the house. He stood up, bones feeling stiff. He was afraid. The front door shouldn’t have been open, but for some reason it was. Had Nora returned to finish brainwashing him?

No, it’s something else. Something worse. It’s here. Whatever it is, it’s finally here.

A full minute passed before he was able to make himself move towards the door. A stark, unnameable terror traced its cold fingers along his flesh, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He felt like a cold child caught in a nightmare. Beyond the door he could see the grey morning sky and the path leading up to the garage.

Charlie left the door open. He never leaves the front door open. In fact he’s always reminding me to make sure I close it behind me.

Something’s wrong.

He was tempted to go back into the bedroom and check, just to make sure, but it would have only delayed what he already knew. He went to the door and opened it the rest of the way. A gust of wind blew his hair back from his face. The garage doors were open which meant Charlie was in there, but he could hear no music playing. Charlie always played music while he was working on his cars. Lane wished he had the gun but couldn’t remember what he’d done with it. And there was no time to look for it. Charlie was in trouble...he could sense it. He pulled his jacket from the coat rack and slid it on.

He walked out to the garage. The wind blew at him relentlessly, as if trying to repel him; by the time he reached the garage his ears and face stung, flushed with red. He could see Charlie’s beloved toolbox sitting next to the car, the lid folded open so Lane could see the tools inside. He expected to see Charlie’s long legs poking out from underneath the car, but they weren’t. The radio sat in its usual spot on the countertop, spitting static from the speakers. Lane walked over to it and flicked it off.

Silence but for the wind.

He wrinkled his nose. A rotting smell was coming from inside the garage and he was just noticing it now.

The smell of something dying.

Go back inside and search for Charlie, he told himself. He’s not in here.

Lies, another voice said in response, perhaps also his own.

Instead he followed his nose towards the smell, drifting deeper into the garage. He moved stealthily, unaware every muscle in his body was tense.

It didn’t take him long to find the source: A black, pulsing stain that covered the whole wall of the garage. Black fluid trickled from it, spreading into a puddle on the floor. Something within it moved, alive. He didn’t want to stick around to find out what the hell it was. He just knew he’d seen it or something like it somewhere else. He couldn’t think of when or where but he knew this was the thing... the danger he’d sense coming for him.

The darkness.

He turned, about to search for something flammable, anything he could kill the thing on the wall with, when he bumped into something.

No, someone.

He felt fingers clamp around his wrists, strong fingers that belonged to strong hands. A terror as black as the dark stain on the wall seized him and Lane lashed out blindly, not thinking about who it was he was striking and not caring. He pushed at the person as hard as he could. It was like pushing at a brick wall but his fear and adrenaline lent him a strength he otherwise wouldn’t have possessed.

Lane stepped back and realized it was Charlie. It was Charlie who had grabbed him with the attention to hurt him. Confused, Lane took a step forward, hoping he hadn’t hurt Charlie, and stopped.

There was something wrong with Charlie.

He stood just within arms reach, stooped like a drunk, looking at Lane with eyes as black as night; eyes not human. And there was recognition and hate in those eyes but it was not Charlie looking at him; it was the thing from inside the stain. Somehow it had gotten inside of him.

Lane swallowed his heart. “Charlie?” he said. His voice came out as a low squeak.

Charlie let out a scream and lunged at Lane. His blackened eyes flashed in the gloomy morning light, full of murderous intent. Lane took a step back and almost fell back just as Charlie’s powerful fingers were about to close around his throat. Charlie let out another howl, one that sounded almost frustrated, and lurched towards his helpless lover.

Instinctively, Lane ducked beneath the truck. He clawed at his the ground with his fingers and kicked with his feet. He was almost completely underneath the truck when he felt Charlie’s hand clamp around his ankle. “Charlie!” Lane screamed. “Let me go!”

But Charlie didn’t let go. He began pulling Lane out from underneath the truck, backing towards the garage door. Lane scrabbled helplessly at the ground and kicked out hard. He felt his foot connect with Charlie’s gut. Charlie lost his balance and fell back against the table; tools and cans of spray paint fell from the table onto the floor with a series of deafening clatters. Lane took the opportunity to crawl out from underneath the truck. He scooped up the first weapon within his reach, a crow bar, and turned to face Charlie. There was a strange stirring sensation within Lane, as if something which had been asleep had just woken from a long hibernation.

It was a familiar feeling.

And like water in a dam it was building.

Let me in, a voice within Lane demanded.

No, I can’t.

Charlie had gotten to his feet once more and was coming towards Lane again, his teeth bared into a feral grin.

Don’t resist. I’m a part of you. I always have been, I always will be.

The lights in the garage were flickering. One of them shattered in a shower of glass; Lane felt a scar cut his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The volume knob on the radio was turning itself; suddenly the radio exploded outward. The ground beneath their feet cracked, shaking itself free from the earth. And somehow Lane was doing it all, just with his mind, just by thinking about it. Lane’s eyes were no longer dark blue but mystic white. Lane had the sensation he had floated out of his body and was now watching the scene play out before him. Inside there was only the power, which had been repressed this whole time.

The thing controlling Charlie’s body did not run away. It charged.

The crow bar flew from Lane’s hand with a mind of its own. The end of it hit Charlie with such impact it pinned him to the windshield of his newly finished truck, shattering the glass. Now he looked like a child sitting awkwardly on the hood, feet hanging above the ground. His face stared at Lane lifelessly - there were no final words of goodbye, only stillness.

The tide within Lane stopped flowing. There was a sinking sensation, the feeling of being pulled down by gravity. He felt woozy. His ankle hurt from where Charlie had grabbed him. Now he looked at his dead lover and thought, What have I done? How did we get here? None of it seemed real. Charlie’s corpse simply looked like a prop in a movie. But he hadn’t just been a prop.

We were going to get married one day.

Lane looked at the black stain on the wall and knew what he had to do. He got in the Mustang, Charlie’s Mustang which was now his, and backed out of the garage. Smoke began to pour from the entrance of the garage. Inside the cabin he packed his clothes into a trash bag. With each passing second the reality of what had happened became more solidified: I killed him. I killed Charlie. There was something inside of him powerful enough to kill. Perhaps it had always been there, beneath the surface, lurking about without him taking notice.

No, you’ve felt it before. You’ve always felt it. You just forgot.

There was no time to grieve for Charlie. He knew he couldn’t go the cops; they’d never believe him and he couldn’t risk letting the darkness infect them as well. That meant he had no other choice but to run.

He threw the trash bags in the back of the car and drove down the road until he reached the general store. It was hard to believe he’d been here not two days ago to pick up the ingredients to make Nora eggs benedict. He’d never gotten the chance to make her favorite meal.

Lane ducked into the phone booth. He glanced at the road, wondering when he would hear the sirens. How long would it be before someone was alerted to the fire? He slid four quarters into the pay phone’s slot and quickly dialed Nora’s phone number. It immediately went to her voicemail. “Mom,” he said, voice threatening to break on him. “Charlie’s dead... something got to him. I don’t know what it is, but it made him attack me. He tried to kill me... so I killed him. I didn’t have a choice.”

He leaned against the wall of the booth and tried to find the last words to find what he needed to say. He was aware of each passing second. He knew he needed to say more, to explain the rest, but he couldn’t find the words. So he said, voice quivering, “I love you, Mom,” and put the phone back in its cradle.