Strands of Darkness (Revised)

1.

Phyllis Brook bumbled about within a nest of charts and diagrams. He was never still, filled with a frenetic energy that propelled him all about his small shop. Maps, in all their wondrous variety, covered the walls. Beautiful, antique, hand drawn maps; exquisitely detailed, lovingly made examples of a burning obsession.

The bell above the door tinkled, freezing the old man mid-step. His head whipped around, pinning the unfortunate boy with his gaze. It was hard to say who was more surprised: the man, at being interrupted, or the boy, confronted by a little old man with electric blue eyes and a head of messy white hair.

The stalemate lasted a few moments more before the boy nodded at him, breaking the spell, and entering the shop. He was an oddly serious child, the mapmaker could see, dressed in a maroon and grey school uniform. He glanced around, fascinated by all the maps.

Phyllis smiled. "Hello there, young man. What can I do for you?" He wrung his hands. His loose, dry skin shrivelled with each passing caress, liver spots rolling.

"I'm meant to be doing an assignment for school," the boy said, by way of explanation. "On maps," he added.

The old man beamed. "Well then you've come to the right place, lad, yes indeed! Oho!" He was all but clapping with glee. "The name is Phyllis," he said, shaking the young boy's hand. His hand lingered. He turned away, back to the recesses of the room.

"My name is Tim, sir," the boy said to Phyllis' retreating back. He thought nothing of the old man's reticence, more interested in what the shop had to offer. He walked over to the wall on the right, where a large map was hung like a tapestry. Hills, trees, mountains, individual cottages were all shown in detail.

The material was aged with fine cracks, but was still soft to the touch. It felt familiar somehow. Above the plains, in large fancy writing it said: Lyceum. He frowned. He hadn't ever heard of such a country. He turned to the next one. It seemed to be of the local town. So intent was he on the map, that Phyllis' approach went unnoticed.

"I have maps of every country and every world," Phyllis whispered in Tim's ear.

The boy jumped, a small scream escaping his throat.

The old man blinked, surprised. "Did I scare you?" he asked, head tilted. His blue eyes were hard, predatory.

Tim hesitated. There was something odd in the man’s voice. Mouth dry, he nodded.

Phyllis shuddered in pleasure.

"I made them all, you know," he said, running a gentle hand over the nearest. A faint smile lingered on his lips.

”I-I- really like this one,” Tim said, pointing to Lyceum. “It feels funny though.”

Phyllis stared at the boy, eyes half lidded. For the first time, he stood completely still, seeming to gather himself. "You can see that, can you?" he asked, licking dry lips. Puzzled, Tim nodded, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Phyllis placed the book he had retrieved on a cluttered table nearby.

"Not many people can see the truth," he said, walking to the door. He locked it, turning back to face the school boy. "Such individuals are… unique."

"Why did you lock the door?"

Phyllis came over toward the child, kneeling so they were face to face. He smiled at the boy's fear. "Lyceum is a far off place, lad, a much distant world," he said, ignoring the question. "And the material this map is made from, ah, it is a fine thing indeed. It lasts the longest, as you can see, but alas, its usage has long since faded in this realm of men... till now." He grinned, revealing sharp teeth that gleamed.

When had it gotten so dark? "I want to go home now," Tim said, backing away.

"I'm afraid it’s too late for that, Timmy," Phyllis said, herding the boy calmly into the back room. "I specialise in unique maps you see."

Tim stumbled, crashing to the ground behind the counter. He got the man's meaning well enough. "People aren't maps!"

"Oh but they are. Every little line on your face, every scar and mole," he reached out, running a hand lightly over the boy's face. "Tells a story; your skin becomes a map of your life. And I am the Map Maker." A silver gleam in his other hand drew Tim's eye. He screamed as the knife flashed toward him.

Crooning softly, he dragged the body into the back and set to work.

2.

People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision. Ivan knew better though, gazing into the pristine surface, waiting. He sat on a small crotchety stool, placed before the open double window, staring at the canvas in anticipation. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.

He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heat of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries bless the grey world with their presence.

The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.

He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures were harder to coax forth. This one took three days; rough stubble shadowed his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search. Exhausted, he smiled suddenly, then leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw. It always gave him a rush, the feeling of creating, of power; a brush with divinity that made him ache for more. The first bold stroke, the dark outlining shapes, things previously hidden.

He could see it now: a street encrusted in filth. Against a blur of people walking by a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole. The dark rain water pooled, glacial and still, nursing in its centre, a perfect flower. Brilliant red petals fanned outward, a contrast so vivid it seemed to leak into the water, while in the centre a soft gold shone.

It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image flickered. Ivan was confused; this had never happened before. Always his genius would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, falling silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas.

He raised a shaking hand, only now aware of the blood streaming from his nose. His breaths were rapid and short, pupils dilated. He flushed, a wave of heat rising up from the floor to his head. All the while his hands jerked and flashed erratically over the page with a will of their own and a sinister world came to life. He could see the few trees he'd individualized from the forest, sway in a breeze. He felt his body go slack and lean in, drawn closer. His head flew backward and a massive sneeze rocked his body, spraying the art with blood, freeing him from its grasp. His mind was numb with shock, mouth agape in silent terror. But he couldn't stop. The painting had to be finished.

Night descended on the outside world and cold stars glared down on the city. The hectic rush of man and machine slowed as lights and nylon signs burst into life. Ivan reached to the side, losing the pencil and acquiring a small, fine brush. He began to gently but firmly apply pressure, smearing his blood into a light haze. The painter in him knew this shouldn't be possible, was aware that normally the blood would dry and be difficult to spread. It was as if the laws of reality had been suspended just for the unfolding of this... nightmare.

After many hours Ivan stood back, exhausted and still. He felt not the usual triumph, but a hollow emptiness. Never had he created something so powerful, so dark that it tugged at his soul even as he watched. Vaguely, he was aware of a gnawing horror. When one paints a vision, a world, he gives away a part of himself; the art is a reflection of innermost self. But this, Ivan knew, was not one such. It had nothing to do with him. “Zis is no’ right,” he said aloud.

Behind him, a voice answered: “But it is beautiful nonetheless.”

Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing there was a tall man, richly dressed in black velvet. Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: of dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee. The man reached out a hand. "And so are you," he finished, gently cupping the surprised artist's chin. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face.

The force of the blow sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, and continued to fall. The man watched, impassive, but silently regretful as Ivan began screaming. The painting sucked and tore at him; pulling him in. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat.

The man stepped forward, stroking the map that had brought him here. He studied the painting for a moment, as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine,” he said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.”

3.

The hiss and crackle of static filled the room. The blue glow of the television illuminated the couch and the bedraggled form of the boy sleeping on it. He shifted slightly, weight pressing down on the remote. Immediately the static vanished, replaced with a current affairs program and the crisp, clear tones of a news reader could be heard:

‘Good morning, and welcome to this urgent report. Today, police confirmed that another person has gone missing, the latest of a series of bizarre missing person cases that have left authorities baffled. Simon Green, 16, is only the most recent of what began with the case of little Timothy Roberts…’

Paul Brook awoke. He stared blearily at the screen for a moment, confused, before leaping forward in alarm.

“Shit, what time is it?” he muttered. He cast about for his phone, finding it wedged between cushions, and cursed as he discovered he was late for school. He had just begun his senior year at Plenetary High. Constantly late, forever dreamy, he was the prime target of many a teacher’s lecture. Not that it had any effect. He ran a hand roughly through his messy locks, hoisted his bag, and left for school with a sigh.

The day passed in a blur of shouting faces, mumbled apologies and heart-felt groans. As he walked away from yet another lecture, toward the end of the day, Paul wondered why he even bothered. He was sure that if it weren’t for his friends, he’d have left a long time ago. Well, that and his mother. She had cancer. Every day he had to face her painfully thin figure, and those too bright eyes that gleamed with hope when she saw him. He couldn’t bear to dash that hope, and so everyday continued the charade.

‘How are things at school, honey?’ she asked.

He forced himself to look into her eyes, and lie. ‘It’s going great mum, really.’

A wistful smile twisted her lips and she turned away, so he didn’t notice the tears slide down her face. He stared at the white hand clutching the hospital sheets, and tried to imagine they were at home and everything was okay. It never worked.

Paul shook himself, trying to think of better things. He didn’t want to brood today. The final bell rung and with a clatter and scrape of moving chairs, everyone packed up and left. Paul was slower to his feet today, even though normally he’d be the first out the door. He didn’t feel well today. As he left the school grounds, he was joined by best friend, Nick. Immediately the mood changed, and within moments they were laughing and chattering. Nick had that effect on people. Good looking, with dark hair and blue eyes, he was an athletic freak and resident popular kid.

They moved within the stream of students heading toward the station; a great migration of exuberant youth. It was Friday and they had every reason to be excited. They had happy, healthy families to rush home and greet. Thinking of this, Paul felt the happiness bleed away from him, and saw the same effect occur on Nick’s face.

‘What’s up, mate?’

‘Nothing, just thinking of my mum.’

‘Ah.’ Nick shifted, uncomfortable.

At that moment, Paul hated himself. Who was he to spoil another’s day? With an effort, he pushed the dark thoughts away, and concentrated on being happy. Or what passed for it anyway. After a while, the tension eased and they talked good naturedly of the footy and upcoming assessments. At a cross-road, Paul led his friend away from the rest and headed toward the library. It wasn’t far away, and they had research to do after all.

It was a strange, murky day. The type everyone hated. Brooding grey clouds smothered the light, but still the heat was stifling. Speeding motorists steadily chugged out polluting fumes, making them cough and splutter as they crossed the street. Again, silence stretched between them.

‘So, what’s going on with you and Samantha?’ Paul asked, desperate to start the conversation again.

‘Huh? I—we—what are you… how the hell did you know?’ he finally protested.

Paul couldn’t help but laugh at the wounded puppy look Nick was giving him. As if he’d thought he’d done a great job of hiding his new found romance.

‘Oh, you know, I have my ways,’ Paul said airily.

In truth Nick had been strutting around the grounds all week, chest puffed out and proud, like a prize winning peacock. Paul wasn’t about to mention that though.

Up ahead a cluster of buildings huddled together, as if afraid. Gradually, they crept closer, looming above the boys. A biting cold wind cut into them, slicing through the meager protection afforded by their clothes. Big, fat droplets of rain began to fall, smacking into them, at first singly then in torrents. Breathless and drenched, they skidded to a halt in front of the library entrance. The automatic doors slid open. The shadowed interior beckoned. Nick looked back at him.

‘Come on already, I need to go to the toilet.’

‘And what? You need me to hold your hand?’ Paul snorted, but followed him anyway. He needed to go as well.

They approached the toilets. There was movement in the upper levels, but nothing distinct. Again, Paul was struck with an odd feeling. Irritable, he pushed open the door and was instantly bathed in harsh UV light. Smooth, gleaming white tiles covered the floor, reflecting the light as waves. Rows of cubicles stretched away. Within one of them, someone was whistling.

Despite being the one to bring them here, Nick didn’t go to the toilet. Instead, he approached the mirrors, and stood there adjusting his hair. Paul made a noise of disgust and found himself a cubicle. He relieved himself, listening to the whistler. It was an odd tune, and one Paul felt he ought to remember. At the same time he felt his stomach clench, sickened, as a thick metallic taste flooded his mouth.

Somewhere further down, a door creaked open.

Despite this, no footsteps could be heard. It was the song that approached, dark, swelling with ugly promise. Everything in Paul screamed at him to run, to hide and cower; trembling, he resisted. It sliced into his gut, penetrating his roiling insides, coiling there, serpentine. He dry heaved, hunched over. It was under his skin, crawling, invading, and probing sharply. It lanced into his eyes. It was, he realized, searching him. Two, glossy dark shoes halted outside his cubicle. Paul felt his heart lurch. Sweat dripped down his face.

After a moment, the shoes slid on. Suddenly the pain was gone, and Paul sucked in air gratefully, shaking with relief. He knew he should call out, give warning, scream—But he didn’t, paralysed by fear. He heard a brief scuffle, a muffled shout, and then nothing. The tune continued, triumphant, and full.

He was vaguely aware of opening the door, of rushing to the piles of clothing and empty bag of skin and bones that were all that remained of his best friend. Then he remembered screams, terrible gut wrenching wails of horror and flashing blue and red lights. He was numb to it all. He heard only the song.

A comforting blanket was placed about his shoulders and he was led away, a strong authoritarian voice assuring him everything would be okay. He was placed in a police car and driven away.

Hours passed. He stared blankly out the window, and only after a long while had passed, was he aware of what he stared at. Long swathes of desert greeted his eye. He frowned.

‘Hello?’ he said. Or tried to anyway. All that emerged was a strangled croak. The cop said nothing. Licking his lips he tried again.

‘Hello? Officer?’

Nothing.

‘Sir? Hello? Where are you taking me?

Silence was the only answer he received. He began to breathe heavily, panic setting in.

‘Help me!’ he screamed. He thrashed. He pleaded and begged but heard nothing in reply.

After a while, the officer began to whistle.