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The Dark Ones
by
Liam Brennan
This old town is fading and it happens the same way every night. I catnap with a
crumpled edition of The Weekly Intriguer blanketing me, in my rather
uncomfortable recliner, in my rather unfortunate looking bungalow, in my rather
unusual township of Elegy Falls, while reruns of a detested melodrama play on
the television. My aging collie, Basil, sits at my feet covering the
holes in my beloved slippers with his unkempt coat. At 12:39 a.m., the
television switches to a set of color bars that rouse me with an incessant
high-pitched tone that somehow instructs Basil to fetch his tattered leash. I
give the television a good knock on the side and being a predominantly old
television it shuts off instantly. The faithful companion drops his leash at my
feet as I throw on a trench coat and dark bowler cap to cover my rather
unattractive comb-over.
As we venture into the night I make sure never to forget a camera, in the hopes
that tonight may be my opportunity. Basil leads the way down the quaint
cobblestone path to the splintered picket fence with its squeaky gate. I could
oil the gate but choose not to for fear the Dark Ones might somehow change their
collective appetite. You've assumed already that I am senile no doubt, but I
assure you what happens next will amend those notions. The gate creaks open and
we step onto a road that stretches the
length of the town, our shadows crawling across the darkened roadway. The first
stop is number 346, a decrepit shack belonging to Mrs. Eliza McGovern who many
consider to be a kind-spirited, old woman with a soul so caring it would make
even our lord redden. When the night falls however, this could not be further
from the truth. I step to the front of the house and ready my camera, always
trying to hold the little red flash button down long enough to get that perfect
picture. I stoop to Basil's level and he shoots me a confused scowl. Through the
sizeable shrubs I spot her, or should I say it, with its shadowy frame lit up by
those eyes, those glowing yellow eyes. It swaggers throughout the house,
preparing for the feast that lies ahead. As soon as it appears, it vanishes. I
believe they can sense when one of us present even from a distance. Basil yips
and whines to keep moving, at his age he has no reason to fear them but I
appease his request anyhow.
Further down the blackened path, we arrive just outside the towering, turn of
the century Wells household. It once belonged to a large family with children so
innocent and pure at heart it nearly melted my very core. Over time they
vanished, just as they always do here in Elegy Falls. The only remaining member
of the family is Blanchard Q. Wells, the town sheriff (yes even the law has been
infiltrated), leaving me with no one to turn to except of course if I am lucky
enough to snap a clear picture. My heart does not beat quickly anymore; my pulse
is steady as a rock. Through the tall evergreens I spot him, or should I say it;
that thing with its massive frame and those eyes, those pulsating yellow eyes,
pacing across the porch. Normally Blanchard is a relatively small man. Of course
this had led to difficulty when attempting to detain various young delinquents
that pass
through on occasion. Naturally, the locals are always willing to lend a helping
hand to catch the young ones. I hold the camera up and snap a few shots as Basil
tugs hard at the leash and we're off.
Just a little further down now and we arrive at the main attraction, a little
barbershop with the distinctive red, white, and blue pole adorning the outside.
Despite having no reason to fear them at my age, the large glass windows always
make me cross to the other side for fear he, or should I say it, might spot me.
Sure enough, good ol' Jameson is pacing back and forth inside the shop; pair of
scissors in his hefty right hand is his weapon of choice for their bloodthirsty
hunt. Those eyes, those horrifying yellow eyes, reflect off the windows with
every turn of his head and menacing roar. I ready the camera and snap a few
pictures, although these ones tend not to turn out due to the reflection of the
flash in the glass, but it's worth a shot nonetheless. Basil is ready for the
final stop before our return to our shoddy sanctuary. He tugs on the leash again
and we're off.
At the end of the road stands the Elegy Falls Memorial Library, a typical
childhood consort in any small town, except for this one of course. Just outside
the thick, oaken doors, is where she, or should I say it, lingers. The
librarian, Mrs. Jane J. Drane, with her shin length skirt and golden spectacles
now traded in for a dark, colossal physique with those aforementioned eyes. The
children were terrified of her, not because of her generally frail appearance
but because of her unabashed temper. That temper was ripening this evening,
ready for the impending feast. I snap my pictures and move on down the road,
which leads right back to my splintered picket fence, my quaint cobblestone
path, and my unfortunate looking bungalow. There is no leaving this little town
for me and I know not why I've been spared. The cries of the young and pure are
now merely echoes of the past as the Dark Ones lost control of their increasing
appetites. My pictures never seem to turn out and The Weekly Intriguer will go
on without me for yet another edition. There is little youth left here in this
dying town but tomorrow when the buzzing color bars wake me from my slumber, I
will walk that road again.
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