The Sorrow King Read online

  She thought about the night he had made her hand all sticky. The last night she had seen him. The night she had told him, in so many words, she didn’t want to see him again. And now she feared she really might never get the chance to see him again.

  Still dwelling on that night, she thought about the field and the barn. That night had seemed so magical up to a point.

  Then she had a crazy thought. What if she could save him? What if he had attempted to kill himself, maybe by taking pills or something and was somewhere dying right now? What if he was at the barn? She had a strong feeling this was where he was. Or if not the barn, then at least that field. But of course he would be in the barn, she told herself. He would have ducked in there to get out of the rain, just like she had ducked into the Obscura. If he was there at all.

  The only thing she could do was try. If she could only manage to undo one of these things . . . Please, God, she thought. Let me help Steven and the Obscura is gone. I’ll never go in it again. No matter how bad things get.

  She stood up, her knees rain stiff, and without thinking any further, took off running toward the field at the outskirts of Gethsemane.

  The storm had let up. It even looked like the sun was trying to peek through. At least she didn’t have that to contend with.

  She did not jog. She ran as hard as she possibly could and told herself she was not going to stop until she reached the field. She guessed it was probably five miles away but tried not to think about it. She tried to make herself go blank, as blank as she was able to go in the Obscura.

  She ran, blanking away the pain and the fear and the panic.

  Nearly a half hour later, she reached the field, her lungs screaming, her legs rubber. She didn’t see any sign of Steven.

  Part of her wanted to believe he wouldn’t be there. Part of her wanted to believe he was back at home, perfectly okay. The whole thing with the Obscura was silly, right? It was just teenage paranoia or a guilt complex or something, right? It was ridiculous to think she could channel something that could cause these innocent kids to kill themselves, wasn’t it?

  No. He was here. She knew he was here. And somewhere deep inside she knew he was already dead.

  On the gentle slope leading up to the barn, her legs almost gave out. She had every right to be tired. It was probably only an hour ago that thing had used her empty mind to conduct its business. Using her like a puppet.

  She pushed open the creaking barn door.

  She felt a moment of relief when she didn’t see Steven sprawled out on the floor, an empty bottle of prescription medication rolling out of his dead hand.

  Then she saw the barn had a hay loft, a second floor, and what remaining energy she had in her body seemed to leave her all at once. She visibly sagged, not wanting to see if anything awaited her at the top of that ancient wooden ladder. Again, that deep down thought that something did await her. That thought sickened her.

  She climbed the ladder as quickly as she could but it was still quite slowly.

  She reached the top of the ladder and looked left.

  Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest and her body was immediately wracked by heavy sobs.

  Steven lay on the floor of the loft. His entire body was covered in blood. His lifeless eyes stared up at the rafters that could just as easily have been heaven or nowhere. The sickle protruded from his heart, the final in what appeared to be a series of blows.

  “Oh God,” she mumbled, fighting the urge to go over and lay her hands on his chest. If she did that, if she touched him, then somehow it could all be traced back to her. While part of her felt responsible for this, another part of her knew it was the action of another. She didn’t want to be blamed for it. To be blamed for this one would probably mean she would be blamed for all the ones that came before it, as well.

  She wished she had a cell phone so she could call someone, the police, so they could come down and take away Steven’s body. So he didn’t have to spend another minute in this cruel state, mostly alone in a depressing old barn with the implement of his destruction jabbing from his chest.

  She heard a movement from the shadows.

  She backed up until she remembered she was on the second floor and there weren’t any kind of guardrails to keep her aloft.

  Sidestepping her way over to the ladder, she kept her eyes on the shadows in the area just beyond Steven.

  A man emerged from the dark.

  A man? Elaine thought. No. This was just as much a monster as a man.

  He was only a man in form. He had the cruel physical makeup to be considered human but, the longer she looked at him, the more she realized it was an impossibility, like clay or wax hastily smeared over something more alien, more sinister.

  He was tall and thin and stooped. His fingers were long and the nails were pointed and sharp only they didn’t seem like nails so much as part of his actual hands. His black hair hung in a greasy flank down past his shoulders. And his face was the most striking, the most inhuman, part of him.

  It was long and pointed and moon yellow. There were no lips on the face, only a maw that, were it opened, would undoubtedly reveal countless fanged teeth. And where the eyes should have been were only dark sockets, descending into some kind of infinity.

  “Who are you?” Elise said, desperately wanting to be away from this thing that smelled like Halloween, burning wax and dead leaves.

  “I have many names.” The thing pointed down at Steven. “He called me the Jackthief. You know me as the god that haunts the Obscura.”

  “Then how are you here?” Elise moved down the ladder, talking as she went, hoping this stream of dialogue would keep the whatever-it-was distracted long enough for her to make a getaway. Although she knew if she tried to run, she wouldn’t get very far. It was only a matter of time before her exhausted muscles locked up completely. “How are you here when I am not there? I have to be in the Obscura for you to exist.”

  “What was once true is not true anymore. I needed you to help build my strength. I needed your little empty head to escape, to get out and breathe the sorrow. Now I’m strong enough to do it on my own. And so we meet in the flesh.”

  Elise hopped off the last rung of the ladder, looking up at the Jackthief . . . Was that what he had called himself?

  “Has it always been you? How long have you been using me?”

  “Only since you moved to Gethsemane. Imagine how happy I was to find a vessel like you. And all those years you thought the Obscura was made just for you. When you came here, I felt the same thing. Like it was made just for me. Like your empty little head was made just for me.”

  “So you’re here now. You’re real. What do you need me for? Are you going to let me go?”

  The thing would have laughed if it was capable of such a sound.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You know far too much. Besides, there is much left to our little story and I think I might need you some more. You’re far more useful than you realize.”

  Then Elise tried to run but her legs locked and she went tumbling across the floor. The Jackthief was upon her with his cold sharp hands.

  “No. I most certainly cannot leave you alone so I’ll take you with me.”

  And Elise felt him pressing down on her, felt the same feeling she felt when she was in the Obscura, all her pores invaded as the Jackthief absorbed her into his twisted body . . . or maybe he put himself into her. The only difference was, this time, it was as much pain as pleasure. Now, it no longer mattered.

  She had gone out.

  Twenty-four

  Connor Crashes

  Connor had planned on leaving work early that afternoon but once he was ready to go, a nasty looking storm blew in and he decided to stay at the store and wait it out. The windshield wipers on the car were shit. Today, work hadn’t had the therapeutic effect it normally did. He had hoped it would take his mind off Steven but that didn’t work. He thought about the boy at nearly every moment and knew he should probably be
home, waiting for him to come back so they could have another talk, rather than here at work.

  Steven worried him. He had never left for the entire night before. Connor tried to soothe his mind. Gethsemane was a safe town and he seriously doubted any kind of harm could come to Steven. Maybe he had decided to make up with his girlfriend and they had spent the night out somewhere. That wouldn’t have bothered him—Steven was, after all, nearly an adult—but he wished he would have at least called so he didn’t have to sit at home and worry.

  He took a cup of coffee to the back of the store and worked on some markdowns that desperately needed tending to. Sometimes he thought working in a high volume used bookstore was something like being a postal worker. It never stopped. He would leave for an evening and, by the time he came back the next morning, the books would be stacked on the counter, waiting for him or his assistant to price them. Most of them were garbage. He hadn’t realized that before getting into this business. He thought he would find all those really obscure books he had always heard about but (before the advent of the Internet anyway) were nearly impossible to find. Instead, it was just more and more of the standard fare, paperbacks with gaudy covers containing the same stories that had been told over and over. But there was still enough of what he liked for him to slake his thirst. It was a great job, he had often thought. How many other jobs would allow him to have books virtually shoved under his nose? Not many.

  So he decided he would stay there until the storm passed but once he got started on the stack of books, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop until they were finished. For what he lacked in anal retentiveness at home, he more than made up for here at the store. By the time he finished, he was shocked to find it was nearly nine.

  Shit, he thought.

  His brain was immediately aflame with thoughts of Steven. Maybe he should call before he set off back home. At least if Steven answered the phone then that would be another half hour he didn’t have to worry. But Steven didn’t answer the phone. It rang its customary six times before the answering machine picked up. He had never bothered personalizing the message so it was that of an automated, strangely British female, asking him to please leave a message.

  “Steven, it’s your dad, pick up if you’re there.”

  Of course no one picked up. It wasn’t time to panic yet. He figured Steven probably wouldn’t have picked up even if he had been there.

  Connor went up to the front counter to tell his coworkers he was taking off. They were a couple of newer people, younger guys, and he knew work would cease when he left. Oh well, he thought, it wasn’t like this was their career. The store didn’t really pay them enough to care anyway.

  Outside, the storm had made the air steamy. He climbed into his car and wished it had air conditioning. He settled for rolling down the windows and turning the radio to a loud rock station that would hopefully take his mind off Steven during the drive home.

  But part of him thought he shouldn’t be trying to take his mind off Steven. Maybe on Steven was exactly where his mind should be. What if something was wrong with him? While it wasn’t like him to stay out all night, Connor had to admit Steven had been strange these past few weeks. He wouldn’t have been entirely surprised to come home and find that Steven had moved out. Things just hadn’t felt right between them.

  Also, there were the suicides.

  He didn’t want to think about that. Not only did he not want to think about any kind of harm coming to Steven, he thought it was an injustice to Steven to actually think him capable of such a thing.

  Unless he couldn’t help it.

  Yes, he answered the voice in his head. Unless he couldn’t help it. But how is it that someone can’t help committing suicide? He found that thought ludicrous. No one can be forced to commit suicide. It has to be something the person wants. And he definitely didn’t think Steven wanted that. Then again . . . with the way he had been acting.

  Connor told himself to stop thinking thoughts like that but he couldn’t. His mind just raced on and on and he found himself thinking again of the great conversation, when Steven had told him his mother’s ghost had said he would be dead within two years and while he thought they were in the clear he realized it had actually been slightly under two years since Alison’s death and a small shiver ran down his spine.

  No. Not that. Steven most definitely is not dead. Maybe mad. Maybe hidden away somewhere. But he couldn’t be dead. Just couldn’t. Because if Steven died then what, really, did Connor have?

  Not much. That was the answer. Not much at all.

  He pulled into the driveway and again felt that shiver of fear, that weight of doom when he didn’t see Steven’s truck parked out on the curb. He went to the house, fumbling with the key, and finally managed to get the door open. When he walked in, he went straight to the kitchen. The light on the answering machine blinked a few times and he hoped one of them was from Steven but figured it was probably just his own earlier message along with a couple of telemarketing hangups.

  When he pressed the button to play the message and heard that he was supposed to call the Gethsemane Police Department, his first thought was that Steven had maybe gotten into some sort of trouble. Maybe he had gone on some sort of bender and took off driving. Maybe he had an accident.

  After calling the police station, Connor’s world changed forever. The idea of a DUI or drunk and disorderly had never seemed so tame in his life. He had a brief conversation with an Officer Bando. Most of the conversation had slipped his mind by the time he turned off the phone and put it in the cradle. Only a few things stuck with him.

  He had to go to the police station.

  Identify Steven’s body.

  Steven was dead.

  Stab wounds.

  Ten of them.

  Self-inflicted.

  Suicide.

  Steven dead.

  Suicide.

  How could that be?

  How could that be?

  Why didn’t he realize things were coming to this?

  He didn’t go to the police station right away. He didn’t think he could even focus enough to drive. His insides felt like they were sizzling, threatening to jump through his skin. He picked up the phone, the bearer of such awful news, and threw it as hard as he could into the living room. It hit the wooden front door and cracked apart. He thought that felt good. He opened cabinets forcefully, pulling out the ceramic plates and dropping them on the floor, throwing them against walls, listening to the satisfying pop and shatter, reveling when they loosed a chunk of drywall. The commotion was so much better than sitting there in silence.

  Once the kitchen was demolished, he moved into the living room. He started with the bookshelves, pulling at first random volumes off and then raking away whole shelves, the books falling onto the floor where he kicked at them, hoping for a torn cover, busted spine or ripped page. Once the shelves were all cleared, he yanked one of the cases itself from the wall and beat the TV to hell with it. He cried the entire time he did this. He felt irrational yet knew what he was doing. He did it because it was the only thing he could do. To destroy everything in the house was to destroy everything that came before Steven’s death.

  Steven’s death. Those words were like vomit in his mouth. They shouldn’t exist. They were things dreamt up by a cruel sadistic god.

  He went into Steven’s room and ripped down the parachute, a cloud of dust coming down with it. He pulled down all the posters of brooding rock stars and morbid artwork. He piled it all in the middle of the room and, when he realized he was seriously considering touching a match to the mess, he realized he had gone as far as he could go. He backed up until a wall stopped him. He slid down the wall, the tears flowing, his whole body shaking and, putting his head between his knees, he sat there for a very long time, smelling Steven around him. He wanted to take some kind of snapshot of that smell because, he realized, it would only get fainter and fainter over time before fading away completely.

  He drove slowly t
o the police station. It wasn’t until he was in his car, pulling out of the driveway, that he realized he didn’t even know exactly where the police station was. He had never had a reason to go there in the past. But he thought he knew about where it had to be. Probably near the municipal building downtown. He had to go there a few years back to straighten out a tax situation. Hell, the police station was probably in the municipal building.

  The drive downtown seemed to prepare him for the night of horror awaiting him.

  There seemed to be more people outside than usual, especially this late.

  He didn’t think any of them looked right. He thought about the deer he and Steven had seen. Jesus, that was just yesterday. It already seemed like a year ago. He thought about what Ken had said. About this town being poisoned. Connor had treated him like he was crazy.

  Poisoned? Not my town, he had thought.

  But now he saw that Ken was right.

  The people who milled about the sidewalks were thin, pallid. They looked dead. Ken had seen the dead. Hadn’t he told Connor that? An eternity ago on a semidrunken morning of hooky while sitting on the park bench and staring at the water tower. Yes, Ken said he had seen the dead and he had said he had seen them go into the water tower.

  And if the people who roamed the sidewalks were not dead, then they were at least very sick.

  Poisoned.

  There didn’t seem to be much life left in them and when Connor would check the rearview mirror, many of them were not there. By the time he reached the police station, he had convinced himself he had hallucinated the whole thing. There were not any dead people out skulking the streets of Gethsemane. He had created those dead people in his head and he had created them with the hopes he would see Steven amongst them. Hoping he would see Steven so he could stop the car and tell him to get in. Tell him he was going to take him back home and yes, true, the house was a little broken right now, but they would be able to put it back together and make everything okay . . . just like they had once before.