(Serial and Milk: Available Darkness is a serialized horror story co-written by David Wright and Sean Platt. A new chapter appears here each Friday. If you missed previous chapters, you can read them here.)

“You did this?” Abigail asked the man without a name. She leaned in close to study the still smoldering corpses, but did so with a cool curiosity normally accompanied by a fossil brush.

Seeing a small child who should have been the picture of innocence looking down at death with such a clinical detachment sent a chill through his body. It started at his shoulders, slithered down his spine, and settled in his soles. Only the thinnest membrane held the torrent of tears welling in Abigail’s eyes, but not a single drop would ever fall for the fiends who tormented her.

He’d tried to keep her from looking; begging without touch, but she insisted, sprinting down the stairs in the absence of timidity. She demanded to see for herself, to know with certainty that the demons were dead and the breath of freedom was hers to inhale.

“How did you do this?” she asked before the backbeat of her own answer fell into the rhythm section of her reasoning. She raised a wavering finger and pointed upstairs toward the makeshift dungeon where she had accidentally touched him and nearly suffered the same fate just a few minutes before. “Oh,” she whispered, “like that.”

“Yeah,” he said from behind eyes that were about as hollow as they could be while still leading straight to a soul, “but I don’t really know how it happened. It… just did.”

“You’re him, aren’t you?” The understanding that had flickered across her face ever since he’d first entered the small, unspeakable chamber now danced across the insides of her eyes – like a torch suddenly tossed into the rage of a bonfire.

He gazed at the girl for a long and winding moment, trying to pull meaning from the tangled mess in his mind, knowing as he did, that there was truth there to discover.

“You know me?” he said. It was exactly half a question.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Her large dark eyes swam with a sense of awe amid a deep expression of love that even an amnesiac would have difficulty mistaking.

“How…” he tried to swallow his disbelief, “do you know me?”

She shook her head, then turned slowly and headed back upstairs.

He didn’t follow. He waited for a minute that felt like an hour until she returned with a folded slip of paper. She held it out, then seemingly thought better of handing him anything, and let the paper waft without ceremony to the edge of his feet.

He reached down, retrieved the paper and unfolded it all in what seemed like a single fluid motion. It was a child’s drawing, in crayon, of a man with dark hair, blazing blue eyes and the wings of an angel. The man’s hands were surrounded in large overlapping ringlets of red circles; undulating waves of fire as expressed by the quickly waning innocence of a child. He was ascending toward the heavens, hovering just above a burned body that could only have been one person – the bald man. Below the man, thick dark black lines, caked as if the crayon had been pressed repeatedly to its breaking point against the paper.

“I dreamed about you,” she said, “two nights ago. You saved me.”

The amnesiac’s head started to split along that seam that separates the impossible from the inevitable.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

Before the little girl could say anything, the man’s breathing picked up its pitch and the tiny hairs on the insides of his ears seemed to suddenly singe the skin around them.

Someone was coming.

“I have to leave,” he said walking toward the sliding glass door as another battery of images rained through his mind.

The old gas hog, keys dangling from the hook by the kitchen, garage door opener in the glove box, three $100 bills clipped inside a fold out map beneath the seat.

The amnesiac turned back around and started walking toward the kitchen. “Give me ten minutes, then dial 911,” he instructed, “You’ll be safe.”

Abigail didn’t cry. She instead threw him a look that made him wish she had.

“I have nobody,” she said in a voice so tiny it seemed as though it would perish amid the faintest of winds. “My family’s been gone almost as long as I can remember. Most of my memories are… there is nobody else.”

The amnesiac fell to one knee and put his hands behind his back. He wanted so badly to take her hand in his, wipe the tear veined grime from her cheek, and promise her his undying protection. Instead, he locked his eyes on hers.

“You can’t come with me,” he said – teeth clenched and jaw set, “the police will find a place for you. They can keep you safe.”

He stood up and found himself staring into two tiny marbles of hurt. He opened his mouth for a final apology, but fell to the ground, howling in pain as splintering pain shot like lightning through his head.

The amnesiac teetered back, the protest “not again” barely leaving his lips before he fell into another alien memory – this time of the bald man, just as the stranger was laying his death touch on him. The amnesiac tumbled backward through the sliding glass door, crashed through the grass and descended into another void.

His mind’s eyes flickered on a memory he had not recognized. Of the girl, alone, walking along a surreal landscape of impossibility. Decaying urban streetscapes surrounded her.  Corpses, human and otherwise lay in the street, being torn apart by blurred creatures he could not make out. Above her, a red sky was a swirling chaos of fast moving black storm clouds which seemed not at all clouds, but in fact, a darkness eating at the very fabric of the world.

As his mind swam slowly to the surface of reality, he encountered an angel, blurred against the harsh of the ceiling lights. As the image drew focus, he was met with the almost maternal smile of the girl, sitting over him, waiting for him to come to. That’s when he realized why she was a blur. He was crying.

His heart ached at her concern. He couldn’t believe that someone so broken could find the capacity to care for another soul.

He slowly sat up, ignoring the piercing pain in his body.

She pointed to a pile of suitcases, already packed and arranged by the door.

“You won’t be safe with me,” he told her, knowing she didn’t care.

Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. It was 5:02 a.m. He needed to quickly find a place to hide. The few moments of available darkness were rapidly receding to the morning light.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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(Serial and Milk: Available Darkness is a serialized horror story co-written by David Wright and Sean Platt. A new chapter appears here each Friday. If you missed previous chapters, you can read them here.)

Commander Jack Baldwin narrowed his eyes at the charred bodies as his team processed the crime scene. While the bodies were burned through, the clothes remained completely untouched by flames.

“You ever seen anything like this?” Cherry Heights Police Chief Arnie Williams asked.

“Obviously,” Baldwin said in a voice both tired and strong, eyes still fastened to the withered husks, “you’re the one who responded to the memo that we’re working these murders.”

The chief looked down at his shoes, chagrined.

Baldwin was maybe twenty years younger than the town’s police chief, who was on the wrong side of 60. However, it was Baldwin who carried the jaded look of a man who’d seen five lifetimes of action. He also wore the look of a man who was used to calling the shots and waiting for the yes sirs! Which is exactly what he got when he and his 10-member team arrived on the scene and brushed the locals aside and put a clamp down on the media.

“So, do you guys have a profile of the unsub?” the chief asked, a nervous half-smile flirting with his lips.

For the first time, the agent turned his head to meet the chief  in the eyes.

Williams was no different than the other cops Baldwin usually met when he arrived in small towns like this. Eager police looking to show their little knowledge of serial crimes to the FBI agent. Baldwin wasn’t sure which he liked least, the small town lapdogs or the asshole city cops, who wouldn’t cooperate until Baldwin put the fear of God into them. Since the lapdogs were easier to control, he decided that he liked them more, but just barely.

Besides, this case was still fresh and he might need the chief’s cooperation if another body popped up soon. So he swallowed hard and responded.

“We’re still working on the profile,” Baldwin lied, holding the chief’s stare for a long moment until the old man retreated and found something else to occupy his time.

According to the chief, the two bodies were Randy Webster, a local bar owner with a penchant for hard drugs and violence. The woman was his live-in girlfriend, Stacy Harrison. Their next door neighbor heard screaming, though saw nothing, and called 911. Three hours later, just before dawn, Baldwin’s Special Investigative Team was on the case.

Baldwin leaned in to look closer at the ashen bodies being examined by Agent Leslie Chang.

“Are the burns the same?” Baldwin asked the pathologist.

“Yes,” Chang answered. “they seem to be.”

It had been three months since his unit had been called to one of these familiar scenes, two states away.

Baldwin’s team was one of several working under the Escalated Threat Division of the Bureau, which handled unexplained phenomena that posed a threat to society. The team served the dual function of not only solving crimes but also removing threats, a job they performed exceedingly well.

This particular case was proving a bit more difficult.

Seventy three murders in the course of six years. All the victims had been found in the same condition. They weren’t just burned completely through, they were burned without any accelerant. No gas, no chemicals, nothing. And the point of origin for each fire was inside the body, not outside.

Usually when a body is on fire, it stops burning as soon as whatever fuel was used to ignite the fire was depleted. That wasn’t the case with these victims. They continued burning at an elevated temperature, the body using fat as its fuel, until there was nothing left but cinders. Unlike most fires, the fire in these cases was limited to the victims alone and never spread to surrounding areas nor even consumed the victims’ clothing.

The deaths were most similar to cases of spontaneous human combustion, except for the fact that these cases had signs of foul play.

Unfortunately, beyond the method of the murders, there was nothing else tying the crimes to a suspect. They seemed completely random and spread throughout the country. The past two years, the murders had been occurring mostly on the east coast. Tonight, found Baldwin’s team in the mountainous region of North Carolina.

Baldwin turned the wedding band on his finger, one of his few nervous tics. He thought of his former wife, Julia, Victim number 43.

Suddenly, an excited voice erupted from the basement, “Jackpot!”

Baldwin shouldered his way past the locals and down to the basement where Agent Harris was standing beside Agent Roberts in front of a closed circuit TV monitor. The screen was frozen on the image of a shirtless young man with dark hair swinging a chair at a giant bald man, one of the two victims upstairs.

“This is our guy,” Harris almost whistled, pointing at the screen,  “We’ve got him.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Thanks to everybody who entered  the Collective Inkwell Creative Fiction Contest! You wrote some great stories.  Judging them was difficult, which is why we enlisted the help of two other bloggers to help score them. We each read the stories and graded them on a scale of 1-10 and took the top three numbers to determine our winners.

Like I said, picking the best of the great was tough! Many of the scores were close and a point or two separated winners from the rest - it was close!

Thank you to everybody who entered. We are very impressed with the creativity of our readers! Thank you for entering and for making this contest so much fun to hold! Given the feedback, this will not be the last such contest here.

Here are the winners and their stories. We’ll be in touch with you this week to discuss your prizes (detailed below)

The Prizes

• First Prize: A Thesis Premium Wordpress Theme pimped out by David Wright. Chris Pearson’s Thesis Theme from DIYthemes.com is hands down the BEST Wordpress theme out there. From SEO-optimized back end to endless customization options to a million other things, which we’ll get into in a future post, Thesis rocks! Heck, its our theme of choice here at Collective Inkwell – and also at BloggerDad and WriterDad. Thesis retails at $87, but you’ll get your very own copy for free! Additionally, you will receive a custom header for your site as well as some basic modifications for color and design. In order to win the custom theme, you MUST have your own hosted Wordpress blog. You are also responsible for uploading and maintaining your theme after delivery. We will help out with customization and the initial Thesis setup, though. Maintaining the theme’s updates and future design modifications will be your responsibility. Don’t worry, though, as you will receive your own personal Thesis license and access to the incredibly helpful Thesis support forums.
• Second and Third Prizes: Your choice of a custom banner or Twitter background page drawn by David Wright or custom writing or editing from Sean Platt of your choice (including About Page, Services Page, guest post, SEO optimized post, general piece of ghostwriting – anything less than a thousand words).

First place

Emma Newman

How could she have known that crossing the street would mean so much? She hadn’t seen the man sitting outside the café in the sunshine. But as soon as she saw him, she knew she had to go to him.

In the Saturday afternoon heat, the pavements were busy, crowded with tourists and residents alike. She hated the city in the summer. So did he.

“What are you doing here?” she asked nervously.

“Looking for you.” He gestured to the white metal seat. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I shouldn’t,” she replied, glancing around.

He sighed. “No-one is taking any notice of you. Sit. Please. We need to talk.”

She moved round to perch on the edge of the chair, clutching her bag to her stomach. The little wrought iron table between them was bare, with a small umbrella that cast a cooling shadow over him but left the glare on her. Her fair skin would burn soon. She knew he was staring at her, even though she couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead, she watched the waitress, hurrying between the tables, taking orders faster than the poor girl could serve.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said and she pressed her lips together. “Don’t be like this. Look, I know you want to talk to me. You crossed the street.”

She sighed and looked across the table. His tweed jacket looked so odd amongst the cotton and linens of the other patrons. He hadn’t changed, hair still long, tied back in a ponytail, small round glasses. Those eyes. She shivered.

“I didn’t see you actually. And then when I did, I only came to tell you to leave me alone.” She watched him fold his arms.

“You need me.”

A pain behind her temples began to thud with her heartbeat. Not again.

“I don’t, I don’t need you anymore. It’s different now. I’m… life is better now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You said that that last time. ‘I don’t want you to help me,’ you said. ‘I can do this by myself’ you said. Then look what happened.”

She scowled. “What happened?”

He pointed at her left hand. “That.”

The wedding ring glinted in the sunlight. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous!” his head tipped back and he laughed bitterly. “No. No Katie. Not jealous.” He dropped his face back towards her, eyes burning. “Furious.”

“Please don’t cause a scene. I’m happy now, really, I don’t need you any more.” She swallowed hard, noticing the other people looking at her disapprovingly.

The moment was broken by an inappropriately cheerful melody coming from her hand bag. She hurriedly pulled out the mobile phone and looked at the number displayed on the front.

“Checking up on you is he?”

She took the call, turning away from him.

“Darling, are you alright?” her husband’s voice sounded tinny. “You’ve been gone ages.”

“The shop… ran out of milk,” she lied. “I had to come further into town.”

“Katie, are you ok?”

She shut her eyes, drew in a breath. Her chest was tight. “I’m fine,” she finally answered.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

“No Tom.”

“Don’t lie to me, godammit. I saw the signs. Damn. Where are you?”

Her companion lent across the table. “End the call,” he ordered.

“Katie? Where are you?”

“End the call.”

Shaking, she pressed the button and her husband’s voice cut off.

“Good.” He sat back in the chair. “Now, let’s talk about what you are going to do.”

She turned off the phone before the second call could begin the ring tone, and dropped it back into her bag. “That’s nice of you,” she muttered. “You’re making it sound like I have a choice.”

He pushed the glasses back up his nose. “You do. Leave him now, or later.”

“I don’t want to leave him!” she hissed across the table. The couple at the table next to them were stealing sideways glances at her. She reddened.

“But you know you have to. Otherwise, it will be worse for him and you.”

She massaged her temples, the headache tightening a band around her forehead. “But I love him, and he loves me.”

“Love? Don’t be so childish!” he spat. “You think you can love like they do?”

“Yes!” she felt tears coming and hated herself all the more for it.

The neighbouring couple dropped money on the table and left hastily. She sank in the chair, knowing that others were staring. He merely laughed at them.

She watched him, looking at the people around them with such disdain. Anger, like a solar flare erupted in her chest.

“How dare you come back!” She fired at him. “I was doing just fine! Why can’t you
leave me alone to live my life!”

“Because you’re not one of them,” he replied calmly, patiently, as if she were a child. “And you never will be. Now I ask you again, will you leave him now? Or let this drag out and become… tiresome?”

“I don’t have to leave him,” she replied fiercely. “I don’t have to do what you tell me any more!”

The mocking amusement on his face dissolved into anger, and his eyes fixed her with such intensity she could almost feel them pressing into her like rapier points. “Yes you do,” he replied, voice measured. “Otherwise it will get very difficult for you. Do I have to remind you how difficult I can make things for you Katie?”

She twisted the handle of her bag nervously, summoning the courage to stand up to him for the first time in her life. “I refuse to let you do this to me again.”

He shook his head sadly. “So be it,” he sighed and touched the table lightly with his index finger.

Its metal legs rattled on the pavement as hundreds of spiders burst up through the wrought iron spirals, spilling out like blood rushing from a wound. She screamed and leapt back, knocking her chair over. Then she was running, tears streaming down her face as she hurtled herself into the crowd, his laughter ricocheting off the buildings.

Faces blurred past her, protests, shoves, people swearing as she careered into them. She fell, pulled her shoes off and then got up to run again, the concrete hot beneath her feet. His laughter echoed all the while as the soft surging sound of a thousand spiders swarmed into the street behind her.

She hit a person that didn’t move aside. Hands grabbed her arms and she struggled, began to scream.

“Katie!” Tom’s voice penetrated her terror and his face came into focus in front of her. He was holding her, shaking her gently. “It’s me, Tom!”

Sobbing, she threw herself into his embrace and felt his arms wrap around her.

“It’s ok, I’m here,” he said softly and for a moment, she felt safer. But then she sensed a presence behind her and twisted to see the man in his tweed jacket walking effortlessly through the crowd as it parted naturally around him.

“Go away!” she screamed at him, but he ignored her.

“Christ,” Tom said, turning her back to face him. “Katie, can you see him again?”

“He’s there!” she gasped, with the voice she had as a child in the night, waking from the terrors.

“No darling, he’s not.” He held her at arms length. “Look at me.” She forced herself to look at her husband, his warm brown eyes. “He’s not there Katie. He’s not real. Now we’re going to go home, and you’re going to take your meds, and we’re going to call the doctor, ok?”

Meds? Yes… the tablets, they would make him go away, how could she have been so careless? She nodded and allowed him to steer her through the crowded street, burying her head in his shoulder as they walked.

“You can’t keep running from me Katie,” a voice called from far behind. “You’re not one of them. You can’t deny what you are forever!”

She squeezed her eyes shut, focused on the scent of Tom’s aftershave. She only opened them again when his arm moved suddenly. He swept something from the back of his neck and onto the pavement. A blood red spider scurried away.

Second place

Paisley (Paisley Thoughts)

The Last Word

How could she have known that simply crossing the street would mean so much? Sirina used the edge of the sidewalk like a tightrope. Her heels hung down while her toes clung on. Through the window all she could make out were rows of shelves like forgotten soldiers. Above the expanse of dull glass, red letters declared, ‘Closing Down’. A car spun past. Warm air stirred against her caramel thighs Cuban-style. Instinctively, her arms turned into wings to stop her tipping over. It was time to move. Sirina placed one foot firmly in front of the other.

She pushed on the glass door. A feeble tinkle announced her entrance. Lines of shelves were as dark and empty as the interior. A young girl, out of her depth, was mirrored in the shop window. Sirina stared at where she had come from. Turning her back on the sunshine she faced the gloom and ran her fingers along a shelf. It was cool and smooth. Nerve-endings flickered. An obstacle blocked her progress. With Braille-like delicacy she felt around the edges. She looked down. It lay, like it had, from the beginning.

The girl lifted it up. The light from behind illuminated the script. Words hung like floating islands. Her finger traced each letter then came to rest on the colorful marlin. The book was compact with just enough substance to rest on a lap. Creamy pages fanned releasing a mustiness testifying to its endurance. A saffron sleeve covered the book like a robe and the swirls and strands of ‘Ernest Hemingway’ leapt alongside the marlin.

Without hesitation the young girl slid the book under her blouse. It nestled beneath her heart. She turned towards the light. A final tinkle and her green eyes challenged the brightness. Cuban sunshine won and she squinted before once again crossing the street. Her ribs felt the sharpness. Each pierce reminded her. She had to deliver the book.

Sirina walked and walked. She walked towards a small white building on a green mound surrounded by two shades of blue. Peppery heat made her lick her lips and she tasted the sea. It reminded her of the fish her father caught. Shining ovals laid flat against burning coals while pale yellow butter sizzled over silvery flesh. There was no smell of cooking and the door was closed. Serina knew it wouldn’t be locked. All she had to do was turn the handle. A window allowed her to glimpse the other side.

Her father sat on a chair. Behind him was the turquoise sea. A man stood beside the chair. His dark suit was an offence to the sea and the sky and the sun. It absorbed all the colors of joy. The same way he absorbed every tree and every fish. The pain beneath her heart told her to be silent. It was as if her father placed his rough fingers to her lips. Silence called the fish.

Crouching down, she pulled out the book. For the first time the girl saw the back cover. Beneath golden shards of sunlight a fisherman sat in his tiny boat. The sea was calm and he waited. Sirina waited. Shadows fell. She listened to the whisper of the sea. Darkness came. The moon’s allure made the sea heave. The door opened and shut.

In the moonlight, her father still sat on the chair. The lines were free of dried fish. The pot was empty. She lowered herself to sit at her father’s feet and started to read, ‘He was an old man who fished alone…….’ She read and read guided by the moon and the stars. Her voice rose and fell with the swell of the sea. When she finished, Sirina put the last book in her father’s worn hands. He placed it on his lap.

Third place

Kool Aid

Well, this is odd, he thought to himself. It was as if he was watching himself from behind, like a witness, not a participant. Everything seemed to revolve slowly around him; taxis and busses crawled by, pedestrians were mime artists moving through Jello, even the birds flew at half-speed.

The Witness tried to shout, “stop!” but he couldn’t. The Participant was so focused on his feet shuffling forward, he wouldn’t have heard anything anyway. Certainly not the truck slowly approaching the street corner.

He peered at the Participant. He looked sharp; his hair neatly cropped around his ears and collar. Square shoulders balanced the waist that was just starting to fill out from lack of regular exercise. Strong legs, encased in clean – probably new – jeans, looked like they would normally take long, confident strides. Not today.

The Participant stared at his feet. His shoes had the look of comfortably worn leather but closer inspection allowed one to see they were barely used. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

The Witness couldn’t understand why the Participant wanted to disappear. He was an average but good – looking guy with gentle eyes that were currently avoiding the others on the busy sidewalk. He was well liked at work and just recently got a promotion. He had friends to hang out with on the weekends. So why the melancholy?

It was truly as though he had become a separate entity from himself, as he watched himself approach the curb.

“Excuse me.”

The voice resounded in his ears, echoing like far-off thunder in the canyons of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

Her voice woke him and the Witness crashed back into the Participant, halting his feet just before stepping into the street.

“Yes?” he mumbled.

“I wondered if you could help me?”

He looked at her, his brown eyes slowly focusing on her hazel ones as she came towards him down the other crosswalk.

“I can’t really manage these bags on my own. Do you mind?”

That’s when he saw the braces around her arms and supporting her weight. She was missing a leg.

“Uh… Sure…. I guess.”

She glanced at the truck passing to her left then laughed. Her laughter flowed through his thoughts like a soft rain filling the dried riverbeds of the canyons in his mind. His brow creased slightly at her laughter.

“Sorry, I just feel silly asking for help sometimes. I can usually manage on my own.”

He nodded mutely as he reached for the two bags dangling from her wrists. They were those reusable grocery bags everyone seemed to be carrying these days. He looked awkwardly at her absent leg.

“My name is Julie. What’s yours?”

“Michael,” he muttered. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “You can call me Mike, though. ‘Michael’ is for work.” This time, his voice had a little more life in it.

“Thanks again, Mike. I usually carry a backpack to the market, but today I needed more things. I ran out of everything this week! I thought I’d be able to manage these bags, since they seem so easy to throw over my shoulders, but they keep falling down my arms.”

“Sure, no problem.” Flowers were blooming in those dark, dreary canyons, bringing some color back into his barren landscape.

“Um, where to?” He asked, glancing again at her. This time it was her face that received the attention.

“Oh, not too far. Just down the block, in fact. I like being within walking distance of the market so I have a small studio apartment above that old shoe store. You know the one.”

No, he didn’t, but he went along anyway.

“So… Uh…” He tried to ask, but she beat him to it.

“I was hit by a truck. The doctors tried to save my leg, but it was too messed up. That was a couple of years ago, or so.”

The Witness stirred to life inside and whispered to the Participant, “You would have stepped in front of that truck if it hadn’t been for her.” Mike shuddered, wondering what had him so distracted before.

“I’m glad I could help you,” he said, smiling a little.

“Me, too,” she beamed back, smiling enough for both of them.

They reached her apartment door and as she grabbed her keys, she turned and looked at him.

“Would you like a drink? Some soda or tea? I also have bottled water. Please don’t say ‘no’, it’s my way of saying ‘thank you’ for your help.”

The canyons of his soul teemed with life as he answered in the affirmative.

Knowingly, she smiled brightly and turned to go inside.

The Witness, still awake, looked at that knowing smile, laughed softly to himself and wondered. How could she have known that simply crossing the street would mean so much.

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