The Dark Man

The Dark Man

I pray as I step across the threshold – both that I’ll find him, and that I won’t – out here in the middle of nowhere, a two-hour’s drive from town where Rob was last seen. Where investigators are still following up on dead-end leads.

From the moment he went missing, I guessed Rob had gone off to explore some abandoned house or factory, to take more photos for his book. Had he met with foul play? Was he injured, or trapped somewhere in a locked room? Police found his stolen car halfway between here and town. Many took that as a bad sign, even a dreadful one, but I haven’t given up hope. The car showed no evidence of violence or a struggle.

I’ve never been here before – Wraithe Mansion – infamous as a haunted house where many have gone missing over the years, and the only abandoned place Rob told me about that I haven’t already searched. This might be my last hope of finding him, alive or not.

I grip the heavy metal crowbar and ready myself.

“Rob? Rob! Rob, are you here?”

My voice rings against the hard bare floors, walls, ceiling. I listen long and hard for a voice, a thump against a wall or door.

With all the windows gone, iron gray light floods in – bright enough that I switch off my torch, stow it in my bag. What a huge, crumbling pile of a place. Cold, empty, long-abandoned. Just the kind of house Rob loves to explore, photograph, write about.

I call out again. No answer. No sound, except for the whistle of wind outside among the leafless trees.

I cautiously sniff the air. No scents of decay, or of rotting –

Four feet ahead, I see them – boot prints tracked across thick dust on the floor. We’ve hiked and explored together for ten years, and I recognize them as Rob’s.

I rush in, through the foyer, past a grand, sweeping staircase, half of it collapsed to rubble. Then into a huge, vacant parlor with a high ceiling, where I freeze in place. At room center sits Rob’s bag, one of his Polaroid cameras a foot away, on its side. But no Rob.

Moving closer, I study the riot of boot prints around the bag, and what appear to be drag marks tracing a straight path deeper into the house. Wide grooves in the dust end halfway between Rob’s bag and an enormous hearth. Nothing beyond that, not even footprints. No blood drops or spatters. No weapons, like clubs or knives. No shell casings. A bunch of Polaroid prints lie scattered near his bag. But where the hell is he?

My hands tremble while gathering up the photos. I review them, in numbered order from a fresh film pack. Hang on – these are black and white, and Rob always shoots color. First shot, taken just inside the front door. Second shot in the foyer. Third shot here in the parlor.

Something else is weird. The staircase appears structurally intact, and, here in the parlor, several mullioned windows remain, two huge Victorian sofas sitting near them. They’re nowhere to be seen in the house now.

I examine more closely and see people, or rather slightly blurred versions of them. At least a dozen men and women, half of them lounging on the sofas, the others standing, staring blankly into the camera’s lens like deer into headlights. Their clothing style looks quite vintage.

An empty film pack box labeled “Color 600 Film” lies near the bag. That’s what’s loaded in the camera. So why are these shots in black and white? I switch on the camera, point it at myself, close my eyes, press the shutter. The flash goes off, and a fresh sheet of film whirs from the slot. I extract it, wave it around like Rob does. Frame nine. The image of my blurred face materializes in color.

So I examine frames four through eight, all of them in monochrome like the first three. Four and five are more parlor shots, taken at different angles, all of them showing furniture, people. Frames six through eight make my blood run cold. In number six, a tall, thin figure stands near the hearth. Quite obviously a man, his features too blurred to make out specifics. He wears dark clothing, with long spindly limbs and eyes that look unnaturally bright. His image is translucent – the furniture, walls, and windows visible through him.

In frame seven, the man appears nearer in the frame, his legs blurred. He was definitely moving toward the photographer, toward Rob. Frame eight shows a blurry chaos. Enormous hands reach toward the camera. Two eyes burn at frame center, aglow with an otherworldly light. He looks like… pure evil.

Afraid the mysterious figure is here, perhaps holding Rob captive, I hurry through the house, my crowbar at the ready in case someone leaps out at me. As I move room to room, floor to floor, the light begins to wane, and the wind rises. Through windows, I see heavy snow falling. All the rooms are empty and absent of Rob’s boot prints. I’m soon back at the parlor entrance. Snow blows in the windows, settles into a thin layer on the floor.

I forgot to check the forecast this morning, and now I’m regretting it. At the rate it’s coming down, I could be stranded here for quite some time. Damn! Back at the front door, I watch snow pile atop my car – a couple inches already, and by the darkening of the sky, this could be the start of a blizzard. Back in the parlor, I breathe hard, my nerves a wreck.

I lift the camera, take another shot. The flash strobes the room with a hot white light. As the glow dies away, I extract the sheet, sling the camera around my neck, and wait.

A monochrome image materializes. White becomes gray, gray turns to charcoal, charcoal to black. The windows appear first, then the furniture, covered with blurred people, sitting or standing near the walls.

Something blocks nearly a third of the frame. My heart seizes, and I back up, a burst of cold sweat sheeting across my body. It’s a man’s face, terrified, eyes wide open above a checkered shirt. Rob…

His face is twisted with fear, a large bruise on his cheek. Near the bottom of the frame, he’s holding something across his chest – a sheet of paper, scrawled clumsily with ink that’s run down the page in places.

GO NOW!

GET HELP!

TAKE NO PHOTOS OR

HE WILL TRAP YOU TOO!

Why the hell can’t I see him? My mind races as I take everything in. Adrenaline pours through me.

“Rob, I see you in the photo! Call out to me! Touch me! Stomp on the floor! Anything! Tell me how to help you!” I move my hands through the space Rob must have occupied. The air there feels too cold. It numbs my fingers, and I pull back, while hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

I try to calm myself, clear my mind. Gotta think this through. My sole conclusion beggars belief – two parallel planes of reality.

I re-examine frame eight, with the evil person, or force, or demon, reaching out to grab Rob. And perhaps drag him into that black and white nightmare…

Then I see something, or someone else in my own parlor photo. At the far end, a tall, fuzzy-edged man, dressed in black, stands in an arched doorway. His eyes appear too large, too bright, as if emitting their own, cold light. They bore into me.

The same dark figure from Rob’s shots.

Rob’s last photo – the dark man was almost on him, reaching out to attack. So what about now? What about me? My skin begins to crawl. Is some invisible, spectral figure an inch away from me, about to grab me and drag me from this world to the other?

Suddenly, every movement of air, every rustle of sound startles me. I spin left, right, brandishing the crow bar with both hands. Would it matter, this chunk of metal? Rob must have put up a fight, too, but it wasn’t enough, was it? Though I don’t think he saw it coming, whereas I’ve been warned.

I hold my position for a minute or two, but nothing strange occurs. Got to calm down, keep my composure. Then I command myself – don’t drop your guard! Something evil is here, and you’re in danger!

I’ve no fucking clue what to do next. Flee the scene to get help, before I get snowed in? What if this view into the black and white world is some fleeting event, and I’d lose my chance to help Rob? And the others, too?

I have to risk one more shot. Over near the windows, where people are hopefully still gathered. If I can get a closeup of the others, police might be able to match them against whoever else went missing here. First, however, I stash all the existing prints in a zipped jacket pocket to secure them.

I heft the crow bar. My plan – snap the shot and spin to face that far, arched door, where I last saw the dark man. Use the crow bar if I have to.

Despite the cold, slicing wind, sweat is pouring off me. My heart is racing so fast it’s thumping in my ears.

I switch the Polaroid to wide angle mode and go for it.

I rush toward the windows, then stop, press the shutter with my left hand, spin, drop the camera, wrap both hands around the crow –

Powerful hands reach through a sudden haze of numbing-cold air, as if the atmosphere between us is crystallizing in a deathly chill. His monochromatic hands, forearms grip my shoulders. Painful cold sears me. Crushing pain immobilizes me. I gasp in a humid, stinking outbreath, reeking of rotten flesh. Two dazzling, white-hot coals for eyes, but I refuse to look at them.

“Don’t look!” I shout out to no one but myself.

My own shout brings me back to reality. I bring the crowbar up hard, horizontally, into his forearms. The impact frees me. I jump back a step, swing the crowbar in a roundhouse, connect with his ribs. Most of his body is now visible, towering a foot above me. Hollow, echoing shouts reach through the haze. Sounds like other people. And Rob – I hear Rob, too.

Then the dark man is upon me, arms moving quickly to grip my torso. I bring up the sharp end of the bar. Hard, into his throat, his chin. His enraged scream deafens me, leaves my ears ringing. He sounds part man, part – beast. Then some other force – something from my left, blasts into his right side. Between both impacts, his arms tear loose and he staggers off to one side.

“Nate! Run! Run!”

I hear the words as distant, muffled, but I can tell it’s Rob. He must have launched himself into the dark man to give me a fighting chance.

In a second, with the camera slung around my neck, the print still jutting from its front slot, I run, run as fast as I can for the front door. Ten seconds later, I’m out the door, into the blowing wind, the heavy snow, across the weeds and dead grasses, toward my car.

Unlock the door, swipe snow from the driver’s side of the windshield, jump inside, slam the door. Jam the key into the ignition, and the engine starts immediately. Thank God I’ve made it this far.

Then a powerful force slams my side of the car, the one facing the house. A translucent, fading version of the dark man is there, as I shift into first gear, spin out in the deepening snow. Then I’m back on the narrow, rutted dirt path that leads to the main road.

My shoulders ache, the skin atop them stinging, as if I’m frostbitten. I’m still jumpy as hell and keep glancing to my left and in the rear view mirror, expecting the dark man to suddenly materialize in the seat beside or behind me, but he never does. It’s just me in here, I keep muttering to myself.

The snowfall slackens to light flurries by the time I reach the paved road, but I continue on for another ten minutes before pulling over to properly clear the snow from my car. Then I head back toward town. And home. And the police.

During the drive, I alternate between joy and dread.

Rob is alive – somewhere, somehow. But is there any way to get him back?

And how I will ever convince the police I wasn’t behind his disappearance? Even worse – how can I get them to take my claims seriously – a parallel black and white reality at Wraithe Mansion, with a dark, demonic monster guarding the portal between our world and another?

I drive in silence, through one snow squall after another, my wipers on, the roads nearly deserted. Somehow, I have to find a way. Whether it involves the police, or my and Rob’s friends, or both, I can’t decide. But we have to rescue Rob. There must be a way…