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  PRAISE FOR KRISTOPHER TRIANA

  “Triana has a voice unmatched by other writers in his field. His short stories pack more punch than your average novel. Beware of this man’s words, for they are dangerous and contagious.”

  —Max Booth III, author ofToxicity

  “Triana’s work really brings the thunder!”

  —Jon Mikl Thor, musician, bodybuilder and actor (Rock N’ Roll Nightmare, Zombie Nightmare)

  “Kristopher Triana’s short story collection is a great read. His stories will keep you engaged and I have to say I am not easily frightened, but I caught myself white-knuckling a few times. Thanks for the ride, Kris!”

  —Liane Curtis, actress

  (Sixteen Candles, Critters 2, Sons of Anarchy)

  “Triana’s writing will make your soul feel like more maggots are raining out of it than in a Fulci film. It’s hyper reality crossed with the monsters under your bed — and they’re going to fight for your fear.”

  —Eric Martin,Guts and Grog

  MORE PRAISE FOR KRISTOPHER TRIANA

  “Kristopher Triana is one of the last, true badasses.”

  —Tim Morse, drummer of AxCx

  “Growing Dark is a nerve-frying collection of short stories.”

  —Tom Bryce,Shit Movie Fest

  “Kris Triana is bound to give the big boys of horror a run for their money! Whether it’s ‘quiet’ horror with a slow build or something incredibly extreme, Triana writes characters you care about, fleshing them out so well that you’ll cringe when he suddenly pulls the rug out from under you and viciously flays them alive. Seeing his name attached to any story guarantees you’re in for a great, ghoulish read!”

  —Matt Kurtz, author of Monkey’s Box of Horrors

  “Kristopher Triana is a great writer with a ton of imagination. His short stories are full of unique twists that keep you wanting more!”

  —Ted Prior, actor and director

  (Sledgehammer, Deadly Prey, Surf Nazis Must Die)

  GROWING DARK

  by

  Kristopher Triana

  A Blue Juice Publication - Palm Bay, FL

  Growing Dark, A Collection of Stories by Kristopher Triana

  Copyright © 2015 by Kristopher Triana and Blue Juice Publishing.

  All individual stories are copyright of Kristopher Triana.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Blue Juice, a division of Blue Juice Films, Inc.

  730 Campina Ave., Palm Bay, FL 32909

  Editor - Thomas Mumme

  Copy Editor - Megan Miller

  Layout Editor - Adam Miller

  Cover Art - Michael Crockett

  Cover Design - Adam Miller

  Crow Illustration - Cora Triana

  “From the Storms, A Daughter” was originally published inEarth's End, an anthology by Wicked East Press (2010)

  “Video Express” was originally published inThe Ghost is the Machine, an anthology by Post Mortem Press (2012)

  “Giving from the Bottom” was originally published inSpinetingler Magazine (October 2011 issue)

  “Legends” was originally published inZombie Jesus and Other True Stories, an anthology by Dark Moon Books (2012)

  “The Bone Orchard” was originally published inHow the West Was Wicked, an anthology by Pill Hill Press (2011)

  “Before the Boogeymen Come” was originally published inWretched Moments, an anthology by Pill Hill Press (2010)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015933758

  ISBN - 978-1-940967-96-7

  FIRST PRINTING.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means (except for short excerpts for review purposes), without the express written permission of Kristopher Triana and Blue Juice Publishing.

  All names, characters, events, and locales in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or places, without satiric intent, is coincidental. Printed in Canada.

  for Cora

  my everything

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the help, dedication, vision and lifelong friendship of Thomas Mumme, the best buddy a writer could have. Special thanks also goes to everyone at Blue Juice for believing in this project and putting so much effort into it. Thanks to Megan Miller for her editing skills and completing the difficult task of cleaning up my errors and occasional made-up words. Appreciation to the good folks atPost Mortem Press, Spinetingler Magazine, Dark Moon Books, Pill Hill Press,andWicked East Press for publishing some of these stories the first time around and for giving exposure to independent authors everywhere. Thanks also to my dog Bear for always being by my side as I type feverishly into the night.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  From the Storms, A Daughter

  Eaters

  Growing Dark

  Reunion

  Before the Boogeymen Come

  The Bone Orchard

  Soon There’ll Be Leaves

  Video Express

  Giving From the Bottom

  Legends

  From the Storms, A Daughter

  The rain was black.

  It fell upon the sullen landscape, just as it had for weeks now without ceasing —a fluid curtain of despair. Even daylight hours turned dusk-like now as it slammed down, its ferocity merciless. The storms refused to weaken or give the flood’s survivors even a moment of hope to breathe — the human survivors, anyway, for there were alwaysthe others.

  Lee thought about them now as he sped through the murk that used to be Main Street.Those others— the myths that had become popular conversation pieces inside the shelters.Just the crazy talk of the devastated, he told himself, the very sorts of delusions he’d seen in countless people who’d been stricken by the paralyzing backhand of sudden grief, including himself.

  He pushed away the morbid image of Helen that flickered into his mind.

  The rain had been bad from the start when, weeks ago, the clouds had formed over the Cape and had begun to churn like a witch’s cauldron. It had come forth like a squall, so fierce and unexpected that it was fascinating until it instilled panic. But it wasn’t until a few days later that the rain began to grow darker, and then became pitch black. It was inklike now. It was still water, not oil or sludge, but tainted rain pouring down into a ghost land.

  The small New England town of Waltower had been flooded for several weeks. As usual, basements were the first to go, then businesses and homes. The drainage systems had eventually backed up, and the flood had merged with the raw sewage in a sickening synergy. Emergency response from Washington had been slow and pathetic, and all public servants, including beat cops like Lee, had been working long hours without days off. It was grueling at first, but at this point Lee was past the stress of overworking. Even the terror concerning the children failed to sink into Lee any longer.

  He wasn’t exactly numb; he was just used to the suffering now, jaded. He’d been a cop for almost five years, and that was all the time his mind had needed to be pounded into a pit of negativity. Forty-five hours a week spent with the most damaged forms of human life; how many dead bodies had he seen, long before this black flood that offered many random, bloated floaters? How many nights had he sprung upward in bed to be comforted by Helen’s groggy embrace as he still shivered from the reflections of his workday? How many mornings had he searched through his family Bible for answers he could not decipher?

  The portable police scanner buzzed with a static-filled voice, bringing Lee back from his cyclonic thoughts. He slowed the boat, and a fragment of the sign from Sabuccili’s Pizzeria clunked against the side before drifting on past the fat carcass of a dog as it, too, bobbed on the water, carry
ing maggots like a dinghy of death.

  The receiver hissed with the crackling sound of Sergeant Harkman’s strained voice.

  “Calling all scouting units ...”

  “10-4, Sergeant,” Lee replied.

  Lee heard a few other scouting units reply as well, including Taidem, Monroe, Rodriguez, and Lee’s partner, Sarah Cohen.

  Harkman was to the point: “We’ve got more refugees from outside of Massachusetts coming in to use our shelters. We’re gonna need some of you back for escorting duties.”

  Pulling the others in, Harkman advised Lee and Sarah to remain on scouting patrol and to meet one another at Union Square, thereby giving each of them equal ground to cover before meeting back at the center of town. Lee could sense the apprehension in Harkman’s voice. He didn’t take it too personally. It was just pity, which Lee didn’t want or need from anyone anymore.

  A sudden thud brought him out of his thoughts. It was a quick thump that rocked the boat to the left, followed by splashing, like small limbs flailing in the water. He scooted over to the other side of the craft and peered into the rippling blackness below. He saw his own timeworn reflection in it, appearing far beyond his 34 years, his brow sunken above the two shaded caves of his eyes. At first he thought he saw a slimy tree branch spin up to the surface, but then the branch arched itself like the back of a mad wolf, and wheeled forward.

  This ain’t no branch.

  He wondered if it was some sort of fish that had washed in from the overflow of the river, but he could not make out any features. It was more like a slick, purplish, overgrown worm that churned, its off-black coat glimmering like a string of rubies. Before Lee could react, the thing had returned to the water, sinking, only to be followed by another. This one rose higher out of the water than its sibling had, its pointed tip flailing; the small, circular suckers of its underbelly feeling the damp air. These were not worms, or even snakes, Lee realized; they were tentacles, all belonging to one creature.

  Lee spun at the waist and grabbed for his floodlight as the second tentacle returned to the abyss of Main Street, descending. At first the light just shined on the surface of the water, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see debris sailing deep within the sludge: a rusted bicycle wheel, a flannel shirt, a headless Barbie doll. Then, suddenly, there was the smooth back of a swimming thing whose bulk had a triangular form, like a stingray. The sinew pulsated within its unconventional frame, looking like misshapen spheres rolling underneath its scales. One tentacle reached out in each direction, like a compass made of gelatin. Lee stared at the beast for a few moments before it sunk away, its final trace being but a few bubbles that rose, popped, and emitted a sour marsh gas. He stood up and shot the beam all around the water where the thing had lurked, but the creature had lost him, having vanished into underwater shadows.

  The rain grew blacker.

  * * * * *

  Less than three miles away, Sarah drew her own motorboat closer to the ruins of the library. The building was now a shell of itself, its pillars slathered in algae. Its windows, shattered from looters, looked like the jagged mouths of jack-o-lanterns, while the front doors had broken off and long since floated away.

  “Hello?” Sarah called out again, her echo bouncing back at her. She couldn’t see much through the doorway. It was submerged to a third of the way up. The water had leveled the area, and now she could coast right up — that is, if she really wanted to. There was something not right about what she had seen, something foreboding, and the silence that replied to her every time she called out caused her even more concern.

  She had to get people out of the town, whether they liked it or not. It wasn’t just a rescue mission anymore; it was the enforcement of the mandatory evacuations. She’d been through a few natural disasters before, and she knew from experience that there were always those stubborn folks who refused to abandon their homes and the town they’d always lived in.

  “Hello in there?” she called out again.Damn it, not another hide-and-seeker.

  She knew she wasn’t seeing things, even if the rain was capable of creating illusions from the dim light. She knew that as she had come closer to the library, she’d heard a distinct splashing, like feet stomping through the water. She’d directed her floodlight at the opening in the building, and a short, white, human form had ducked for cover when the light had hit it. She’d seen only a twitch of pale skin as the body sloshed away behind the walls, looking like a filthy porcelain doll skipping about in a frenzy. Then there was darkness, with only silence as a companion.

  “There’s a mandatory evacuation!” she said. “You need to come out now!”

  She’d called out to this person several times now. She was no longer trying to coax them out, she was ordering them. Still she received no reply. She shone the light into the doorway, but a few feet away. She could see that the library offered only slight shelter, its roof leaking in many places. Her light revealed the flooded lobby: the bowed bookshelves, tilted and submerged, some of the paperbacks sailing about.

  The boat was too wide to make it through the entrance. Though it was a two-door entryway, there was a strong divider in the middle. She hated the idea of getting out of the boat and stepping into contaminated water, but Sarah knew that this, too, was part of her job, and she wasn’t about to abandon her code now. She would just have to hope that her galoshes and her fisherman slacks would be a secure enough shield. Balancing herself with her flashlight in hand, she maneuvered over the side of the boat and onto something that wasn’t as sturdy. It was soft and malleable, and as she moved, it moved too, spinning beneath her. She fell backward, the blob pushing out from under her. She braced herself against the boat, and her skin went gooseflesh as the thing she’d stepped on rose to the surface. Her free hand reached for her shoulder holster. She brought her pistol out just as the gray mass reached the surface of the water.

  Sarah knew, as soon as she could see it, that it wasn’t alive. Directing her light on it, she could make out the many sores that covered it, wounds so fresh that they still trickled brightly with blood. Poking at the mass with her pistol, she managed to get it to spin, flipping it over.

  She realized then that it was a human torso.

  Horror pounced upon her, her heart hammering. For this wasn’t merely another sad floater like all of the others she’d had the misfortune of raking in. No, this man had been savagely ripped to pieces. The flood could have drowned him, but something must have severed his limbs, decapitated him, and eviscerated him so that half of his intestines spilled outward. It was not an old corpse either, for she quickly ascertained that the decomposition was meager. Only bloating had begun on the pruned flesh, the man’s skin having turned grayer with death.

  Suddenly she wondered what had been holding it down beneath the water.

  Sarah climbed back into the boat so hastily that she dropped her flashlight and the motorboat rocked as she fell back into it. She peered over the edge, looking down at her flashlight as it sank. It spiraled as it descended, its beam illuminating the mysterious murk, revealing a galaxy of churning index cards and pencils, as well as a gray severed hand and some disconcerting sinew from an unrecognizable piece of the carcass. But as the beam circled the library, something else came into view.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered.

  The face Sarah saw deep within the water bore a complexion white as polished ivory, intensifying the inhuman blankness of its expression. She could see thin strands obscuring the features, either hair or seaweed or more sinew upon its bulbous head, hanging down before its eyes. The eyes were all pupils; expressionless, black orbs like a shark’s, too far apart and not exactly level with one another. As the light fell further, Sarah could see that this face bore no nose, only nostrils. Beneath this, a mouth was chewing, the lower jaw propelling its jagged teeth, tearing more flesh away from the mangled leg of the carcass. Then the beam of light fell further downward, spinning to the right of this piscine thing that lunched upon the dead man’
s pieces below.

  The terror Sarah felt upon seeing this, though all-encompassing, was not quite as disturbing as the fact that it had triggered her memory. Though not identical to that of the monstrosity below, there was another face she knew of that was eerily similar. Though the two faces were not one and the same, she understood immediately that there was a connection, one that made Sarah’s blood run cold.

  “Beth,” she whimpered.

  She thought of some of the snippets of conversation she’d heard in the shelters, the stories that were told each night. She’d dismissed it as mass hallucination, even after what had happened to her partner, Lee, and his poor wife, Helen. Even now, as she struggled to start the motor, she didn’t want to believe any of it. The madness of it first outweighing the horror of it, then the horror of it germinating within her until her entire body began to shudder like an open gate in an aimless October wind. On the third pull, the motor came alive and, just as the water beneath it started to foam, a wave splashed toward her. The creature, startled by the motor, erupted from the corner, its wiry arms flailing as its misshapen head shook, its hair whipping in the dank. It shrieked like a tortured raccoon.

  With a scream of her own, Sarah began shooting, and as the flash of the gunfire created a strobe light in the catacombs of the library, she could see that the upper body of this thing she was now firing upon resembled that of a young boy.

  * * * * *

  Lee wondered now if the legends could be true. He knew he was caving in to the notion just by thinking of them as legends rather than as mad nonsense: the tales of family tragedies in which missing children had been found as twisted versions of their previous selves.