| Fiction |
WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Whispers in the dark is a weekly short story in which weird
is the norm. An exercise in strangeness, the stories are
never to be taken too seriously, but should never be taken
too lightly. For if you lay awake long enough in the dark,
you’re bound to hear a whisper sooner or later.
Eater
By Paul Milligan
Petey ran as fast as his two legs (one good, the other
oozing blood) could carry him through the dark. He couldn't
see more than a few feet in front of him, the moon was
hiding behind the dark clouds overhead, but he was aware
that he had run into some sort of thicket. Thorns and twigs
and all manner of sharp pointy things poked and grabbed,
pulled and tugged at his skin, hair and clothes, but he
continued to press on, undaunted by either the fresh pain
from the cuts and scrapes or the deep gash on his thigh.
Though even in the dark it was obvious to Petey that the
faster he ran, the faster the blood ran from the leg wound.
He wouldn't be able to keep up this pace for much longer.
But when he heard the heavy steps and breaking branches
behind him in the distance, he put all thoughts of rest out
of his head and continued to push through the bramble.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, just as the thicket
began to feel like running through razor wire, Petey burst
through the last of the brush and tumbled head over heals
down a steep hill. He rolled, over and over down the wet
grassy slope and continued rolling as the wet grass gave way
to wet pavement. He rolled a few more times into the street,
his limbs slapping against the gravel, then came to stop and
lay motionless for several seconds. He wished he could lay
there forever, just go to sleep right there on the cold, wet
road. His muscles ached, his cut leg throbbed as blood
coursed from the wound. The hundreds of tiny scratches and
tears he received in the razor wire-like bramble began to
itch and sting. If only he could close his eyes for a
minute. That's all . . . just a tiny minute. But then he
thought of Dieter's face, what it had looked like. Steinbach
and Hoyt . . . they were both dead too, and looked no better
than Dieter had when Petey found him. He forced himself
slowly and painfully to his feet, falling twice before
gaining solid footing.
He rubbed his eyes with sore hands, and then gazed up the
hill at the brush he'd just trampled through. It was still
dark but he could make out movement inside the thicket. It
was coming towards the hill. Petey suddenly became much more
alert, which was a decidedly good thing as he just able to
avoid the car that was speeding down the road toward him. He
dove out of the way and landed in more wet grass on the
opposite side of the road, but this time he did not tumble,
but skidded slightly. Petey looked up quickly, spitting dirt
and grass from his mouth and watched, as the speeding car
got further away.
"Stop . . ." Petey called out, but his voice was barely
audible over the sounds of the cars engine, the crickets and
other such noises that emanated from the dark. His voice was
hoarse from screaming so loudly only hours before, as he'd
watched Hoyt being cut apart, one small piece at a time,
with a dull kitchen knife.
Petey tried to stand, but this time he was in too much pain.
His wounded leg would not cooperate and his hands were numb
from the cold. He tried to stifle a cry and did so but, as
if his body was in desperate need to put the tears
somewhere, he lost control of his bladder for the second
time that night. It was warm, refreshingly warm against the
chilling air, but it was also uncomfortable and made Petey
want to cry even more than ever. Instead of crying though,
he pressed on. Unable to climb to his feet and run, he began
to pull himself slowly along the ground, grabbing fistfuls
of grass and dirt, tugging his way to freedom. For a moment
he thought that he would be better off waiting by the road,
that someone would come along and see him and take him away
from this hellish waking nightmare. Then he remembered the
rustling in the thicket above the hill and knew that he
could not turn back.
Petey heard another car pass and looked back. As the car
sped down the winding road Petey watched it with regret.
Then something else caught his eye. There was a figure
standing on the other side of the road. The figure was
almost imperceptible, but Petey saw it nonetheless. The
figure must have spotted Petey too, because it began to
walk, steadily and with purpose, across the road towards
him. Petey whimpered and began to pull himself faster. He
put all his strength into clawing his way across the wet
grass, hoping in vain to find some hole or ditch to hide
himself in. He had almost reached the edge of another hill
and was about to roll down it when a large meaty hand
grabbed his hair and yanked him up. Petey tried to scream,
but his cry turned to a soft hiss in his throat.
"Now what you go runnin' off for?" said the large,
silhouetted figure.
". . . kill me . . ." Petey managed to squeak, "Please? Just
kill me."
The figure just laughed as it held Petey by the hair and
dangled him off the ground. Petey cried. The figure lowered
Petey to the ground and, still holding him by the hair,
began to drag him across the road and back up the hill.
Petey did not fight, nor did he scream or cuss or make a
nuisance of himself whatsoever. He merely cried as the huge
figure pulled him back into hell.
"Cain't kill you yet boy," said the figure, chuckling, "Gots
ta keep that meat warm and tender-like. You don't wanna ruin
ma meal does ya?"