Always Darkest (eBook)

Pendleton Weiss (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
596 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3178-0466-4 (ISBN)

Infos

There is a place held far from the world, secreted away within a prodigious and twisted wilderness, cupped by a perilous mountain range, and accessible by only the most remote turn-offs, far from any significant landmarks; a place known to the locals as that old, misty country. Every night, an inexplicable mist seeps from between the trees bringing for untold terrors, horrid and strange and deadly all. It is best to shun the place, best to leave it undisturbed, for otherwise... Well, it's best to Hope It's Fiction. Regardless of how optimistic or sheltered one might be, it is hard to ignore that things in that old, misty country are growing worse. More and more strange occurrences are breaking through, to the point that even the landscape itself seems to be bristling against some looming catastrophe. Most turn to Mr. Brightmore, the renown philanthropist and unofficial heart of the area. He has downplayed things - acknowledged an unusual number of disquieting events but promises that everything will get better soon. Reciting that old proverb: 'It's always darkest before the dawn.' Featuring 20 new stories set within and around that old, misty country, ALWAYS DARKEST prepares the reader for a collision of terrible forces and apocalyptic powers. Mr. Brightmore assures us that everything will turn out alright in the end. But even if that promised dawn never comes, you only need to Hope It's Fiction.

Even as a young child, Pendleton Weiss exhibited signs of being the melancholic, creative type. Intelligent and shy, he kept to myself throughout school; never partied in college and graduation came upon him during one of his country's economic lows. Thus, he found very mundane work not at all in line with his degrees. For a full seven years, for the lack of a vehicle, he walked five miles to work at the early hours between two and five AM, with little but his own pocket flashlight to guide him along the dark trail. This gave him plenty of time to stir his creative juices and grew his appreciation of horror, one beyond the simple affinity for the creature features of his young. The repetition - day after day - walking that same path until its twists and turns became second nature; every change became inescapably noticeable, revealing the effects of weather, alterations for landscaping projects, or another lonesome traveler out during those grim hours. There was plenty of time to fester and plenty of imagery to corrupt.

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There is a place held far from the world, secreted away within a prodigious and twisted wilderness, cupped by a perilous mountain range, and accessible by only the most remote turn-offs, far from any significant landmarks; a place known to the locals as that old, misty country. Every night, an inexplicable mist seeps from between the trees bringing for untold terrors, horrid and strange and deadly all. It is best to shun the place, best to leave it undisturbed, for otherwise... Well, it's best to Hope It's Fiction. While that remote collection of towns known locally as that old, misty country has always held a threat of danger lurking within the dimmest corners of its encroaching forest - monsters and phenomena beyond measure or understanding - the people who live there have always managed to survive (to varying degrees). Keep a light on and shun what bumps might be heard in the night. Outside of a few mysterious tragedies, most can live in relative peace; some might not even believe the rumors of their more experienced neighbors. Call it all superstition. Dare to laugh. Less so now. Regardless of how optimistic or sheltered one might be, it is hard to ignore that things are growing worse. More and more strange occurrences are breaking through, to the point that even the landscape itself seems to be bristling against some looming catastrophe. Most turn to Mr. Brightmore, the renown philanthropist and unofficial heart of the area. He has downplayed things - acknowledged an unusual number of disquieting events but promises that everything will get better soon. Reciting that old proverb: "e;It's always darkest before the dawn."e;He has a plan, though whether it proves a boon or a bane to those terrified constituents remains to be seen. How does his young daughter, Theodora Brightmore, fit into his scheme? And others are making a move too. The ruthless holdover, George Walter Michaels, seeks to reclaim a power once lost, using the poor Mimiko Talzman as a vessel to enact his bloody schemes. The enigmatic "e;Young Master"e; is dragging the unsuspecting Tully closer to the conflict. Alliances are forming. Machinations rumble to life. Blasphemous spells are being chanted aloud after untold ages. Featuring 20 new stories set within and around that old, misty country, ALWAYS DARKEST prepares the reader for a collision of terrible forces and apocalyptic powers. Mr. Brightmore assures us that everything will turn out alright in the end. But even if that promised dawn never comes, you only need to Hope It's Fiction.

Textauszug

BAD OMENS

A contrary cry overcame the jubilant broadcast of the archaic box television. Carter glanced up from the touchdown graphic, inspecting the ceiling for some phantom trace that the sound had been real. He lowered the volume without looking, a practiced reflex by that point. Eyes drifted to a corner above, snapping toward the slightest perceived change: a waft of cobweb too high to clean away; a glimmer of sunlight reflected off something outside, bounced through multiple rooms, its origins unknowable; the creak of a floorboard. He waited expectantly. A sweep of new color proclaimed a commercial on the television. He grumbled his lips into a frown before restoring it to its previous volume.

The chair had yet to become comfortable. If it was a simple matter of age, he could get used to it. And the chair was old, its linen covering worn in patches, the cushions so lumpy as to threaten its rectangular dimensions. It held a smell too, though none worse than the room. He failed to place it, did not want to place it. Shifting his weight to the other armrest, his rear slipped back down into the deep groove. It was an inherited shape, one that he did not fit just yet. Not yet.

The huff from above, a dramatic exhale, exasperated, could not be heard through the separation between the floors (less so for the volume of the television), yet he knew that one was made. It always preceded her coming. The scampering feet, rapid blows kicking out, heel-focused, intentionally loud, drummed out her approach. Out from her private room - not a study per se - into the hallway, a pause in front of their bedroom, a pause at the top of the stairs, then the rolling crescendo as she stormed down into the entryway. Her voice finally calling out his name or title, the fake search forcing a protracted air.

But she knew exactly where he was. He could not escape her.

Maria Noble burst into the room with a flourish, halting the moment her foot touched the green shag, in a way that threw her long black hair out like a wave. A swaying reach before settling. Her face was fixed tight in an almost expressionless mask, the mouth a pinched neutral, the eyes as always. Were he to guess, she held back a fury, one spurred by his audacity at not hurrying to her aid. It drew a small wince from his cheek.

The reaction was twice muted.

He tried to practice his own restraint, to equal her newfound maturity. She always projected a quiet intelligence, reserved to the point of impropriety; after they graduated, it worsened by substantial bounds. Or improved. It was a confusing mess, one that Carter had yet to untangle. The female mind is Gordian in its complexity, and he was far from Alexandrian.

It was hardly something quantifiable, but the clothing would be the key element he could point to. Gone were the simple (if expected) dresses of a high school student. Her current attire included a white blouse with sleeves rolled to the elbows and puffed at the waist, a slim blackish dress that fell like a column down to her ankles, and the toes peeking from below it hinted at dark stockings, transforming her feet into shadows. Earrings and make-up, a dime-sized watch face loosely wrapped to her wrist with a golden chain (a mother’s heirloom perhaps, one too sentimental and valuable for youthful schooldays). She looked more like a teacher than a recent student, down to the ink stains on her fingertips.

They had begun indoctrinating themselves with the responsibilities of adults. Bills and taxes and all the duties of independent livers. Moderation, which rubbed him worst - almost worst. Maria took to it quicker; she often walked him through each discovered necessity with a seeming familiarity. Carter did his best, knowing he better step up quick. For his pride, for her.

But more so, his reaction was tempered by repetition. These attacks of superstition were happening with increasing frequency. Her father warned of her occultism from the first; weathered it for the sake of his teenage lust while dismissing it as a common phase among quiet, dark-haired girls. Such waves had yet to break.

She stood at the border of the room, silently waiting, the intensity of her eyes blasting out. Carter found himself cringing away, fleeing from them, fleeing further, past the television and the restored ball game, the images made taboo from his upwelling guilt. He started out of the chair, one leg extending, the other planting a foot on the cushion, caught between launching and reaffirming his position there. Another chanced look saw Maria unchanged. Less patient and more resolute.

Carter suppressed a defeated sigh and fully rose to his feet. Took a step, opened his mouth to inquire as he started another. Satisfied, Maria marched forward, swift, graceful sweeps of her legs, the sharp slicing of black fabric; she overtook him before the half-way mark.

“Look at this,” she said firmly. Too much of a command infused the tone to truly sound worried, yet her eyes were stretched even further, the interest overwhelming. Her hands were cupped in front of her, squeezed close, fingers and palms forming a bridge. Carter felt the stab of her nails in his stomach as she drew up, felt too the brush of her knee. They huddled together, their heads casting a conspiratorial shadow over her presentation. Maria breathed out, “Do you know what this means?”

In her hands lay a set of small tiles, imperfect rectangles of bleached something. Markings interrupted their worn smoothness, jagged cuts defined by a red ink (he assumed) bled into the gaps to accentuate the depth further. A squiggle, a cross, some others; some flipped over, hiding their symbols.

Did she care about the trinkets themselves? Were they damaged? Did the positions matter? Carter had no idea. An intrusive thought suggested a joke about dominoes, but he suspected it would be less than appreciated. “I dunno.”

“Well,” she began, “I was upstairs cleaning - organizing some books mostly, sorting piles back onto the appropriate shelves - when an urn fell over. The blue marbled one.”

“You knocked the urn over,” Carter interjected stupidly. A quick confirmation of the event would have been helpful, should have been. He looked at the pieces in her hand, though he recognized them as not a part of the aforementioned urn.

“No.” Maria’s mouth pinched shut, forcing the conversation to a biting halt. She did not resume until Carter looked her in the eyes and apologized. “I was on the other side of the room at the time. Never near it. It fell on its own. And shattered.

“It would not do to leave such a bad omen alone, so I threw the runes. This was what came up.” She forced the trinkets forward for inspection once more. Carter looked between them and her face, lingering more on her hands when each rising glance revealed the same unvarying, unblinking eyes staring back. Wide milky pools with black floating things at their center; he held no desire to further the metaphor. His mouth opened and shut a number of times, without comment or effect.

The sigils were pressed close to his face. “This means tragedy and death.” Her tone held a smattering of concern, perhaps too liberally applied to be wholly faked.

Carter clasped his hands over hers, folding them together in no small part so he would not need to see their occupants anymore. “Maria, sweet Maria. I know, it’s alright. We need to move past it.”

He had not been counting the days, not with the whole affair coming on like a whirlwind. Less than a year after he started dating Maria, he found himself taking the ultimate step. What choice did he have? Her father had just died.

She found the body one afternoon, just after Carter came over. As was his custom, he waited in the entryway. Rocking on his heels, hands behind his back. A call up the stairs got her finishing her preparations; the commotion could be tracked by the creaking of the floorboards. From the first, the lack of noise on that lower floor struck him as odd. No television coming from the other room. But after the first awkward conversation with Mr. Noble, Carter had made it a policy to keep his distance; the man did not like him, though he seemed powerless to dissuade his daughter’s interest. Otherwise, the boy might have made himself comfortable while he waited; roamed; found the man and chatted in the interim. Instead, he looked about the old building, tracing his eyes along the horizontal seam of cracking paint that separated the original ground floor with the upper. Wondered at the reason for the addition. Practiced his whistling until the poor tune felt too intrusive.

Just as he reached the limit of gaucherie, Maria flew down the stairs drumming out a quick approach. She clasped him, kissed him on the cheek, but wriggled free of his hand. Before they left, she wanted to say goodbye to her father. The notion surprised Carter, with lengthy reflection transforming the uncharacteristic show of affection into something worrisome. Whenever he had come over previous, Maria’s porcelain countenance had always hinted at some tension whenever the two men were in the same room together; it only became apparent under extreme scrutiny, but she often pressed closer to Carter, acting as a boundary toward any potential masculine bonding; ever since that first meeting. Thus, in worsening fashion, each mounting visit saw her hurry the boy away from her father, hustling him out of the house before any extended conversations could begin.

It made the longer wait that day all the more troublesome. Off she went, leaving him alone on the threshold, the front door open, circling deeper into the house to pay her dues. Her voice lilted through the house as she searched, never souring with worry when...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 13.5.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3178-0466-4 / 9798317804664