Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (38 page)

Confident in his new ability, he started to think of the
best way to showcase it to the world. He would be bigger than
Houdini, More famous than Copperfield. He would finally show everyone
that he was just as good, if not better than Andy Levine. He knew
that in order to do it, he would need an illusion so spectacular that
there could be no doubt of his power. But first he had to do one more
thing. He had to perform the experiment on himself.

V

He wasn’t quite sure what would happen when he
pictured himself in his mind and willed the symbols to come. But sure
enough as the intensity and speed of the process increased, he began
to feel a lightness in his stomach and a tingling of his fingertips.
The symbols intensified and as they approached the crescendo he felt
his stomach lurch—it was the same sort of feeling as when you
drive a car over a dip in the road too quickly, then his ears popped
and he knew he had arrived. He wasn’t sure what to expect when
he opened his eyes, but the reaction wasn’t one that he had
anticipated. He was decidedly underwhelmed.

The
world was much the same, yet different at the same time. The air had
a distinct dry, coppery taste and everything seemed dull and washed
out. He had made himself vanish inside his apartment and he guessed
that he had arrived in the other world in the exact same place,
although the apartment in this world (or dimension if that was indeed
what it was) didn’t exist. Instead he arrived on a barren
plateau, which dropped away to a thin, dirty looking river through
what would have been the main road leading to the centre of town. The
breeze ruffled his hair as he stood in a new world, which so far as
he could tell was empty. He walked aimlessly, but never straying too
far away from his starting point. It was twilight and as he looked to
the skies he saw constellations that were unknown to him, and
marvelled as the moon drifted into view from behind the cloud cover.
Unlike the regular moon of the other earth, this one sported two
small moons of its own. He saw no plant life, and no sign of anything
living. As the hour approached and full darkness came with it, he
heard the sound. It was a horrific high pitched noise like
fingernails scraping down a chalkboard, or an errant knife scratching
against a plate. Unease prickled within him and he glanced over the
broken and craggy horizon towards the direction the sound was coming
from—and he saw them. Winged things silhouetted against the
moon, moving towards him with the undulating motion of snakes. Those
sounds again, enough to raise gooseflesh on his arms and sweat to run
down his forehead. They were coming towards him, as if they could
sense him, or
smell
him. His hour was up, and he waited with clenched fists as his
fingers began to tingle and his stomach vaulted. The atmosphere grew
bright and he closed his eyes, and then he was back, back in the
world he knew. The sound of the winged things stayed with him for
many days, and he knew he could never again send anything to that
place. Not with those things, even if it meant he would never have
his revenge, nor his time in the spotlight. But time makes things
seem less dangerous, and as days gave way to weeks, he had gone from
not ever doing it again, to performing the feat only on an inanimate
objects during daylight hours. He suspected that the winged things
were nocturnal. Besides, he reasoned to himself, he would only need
to do it once in order to get his well deserved recognition. He was
set, and after shaving and cutting his hair, he called his manager to
make the arrangements. He had something spectacular planned.

VI

When the press release was issued stating that he was
going to make a section of the Great Wall of China disappear, the
world went crazy. The red tape had been difficult to wade through,
but with the help of a hot shot lawyer named Fife and a thoroughly
unpleasant broker who managed to swing the insurance called Robinson,
contracts were signed and authority given by Horoshimo Mashima, who
was the senior president of the Chinese Heritage Management Bureau.
Internet forums buzzed with speculation, and Rick was thrust from
obscurity back into the limelight, suddenly in high demand for TV
interviews and radio appearances. Slowly he released more details.
After the section of wall had been vanished, a number of volunteers
chosen at random would be able to walk from one side to the other
through the space the section once occupied. During the entire media
circus Andy Levine’s representatives had remained silent, apart
from releasing a short statement saying that they would be watching
with great interest to see what his respected rival was able to
accomplish. It was standard public relations stuff of course, and
Rick would have bet his life that they were privately furious. The
day rolled near and the excitement built.

The section of the wall selected was a fifty-foot length
in the northern Juyongguan region, and with assistance from the
Chinese government, it had been cut off by makeshift barriers behind
which a huge crowd had gathered. Down at the base of the wall, a
temporary scaffold floor had been put in place on both sides of the
structure. It was here that people would have the opportunity to
cross through the empty space once the wall had been vanished.
Although they weren’t needed for any reason other than to add
to the drama, giant red curtains had been set up and draped over the
selected section of wall, covering it completely. Finally after
months of preparation everything was ready.

Though nobody knew it at the time, the last day on earth
had arrived.

Back
in the present from his vantage point high above the city, Rick
glanced at the Dictaphone which seemed to glare back at him, the red
recording
light casting its accusing eye towards him. He looked to the window,
and shivered as he realised how late it had become. The last sliver
of light was falling below the horizon, and the room was now cast
into deep, angular shadows.

Now that he’d had time to think
it over he was sure he knew what had happened and what had gone
wrong. Everything had started according to plan. The crowds were
hushed, and the television cameras poised as he stood by the base of
the wall, eyes closed and arms extended out to the side. A dramatic,
orchestral score played as subtly hidden smoke machines covered the
stage and wall in artificial mist. He had the section of wall firmly
fixed in his mind and was waiting patiently for the words and symbols
to begin to dance their unique patterns in his mind’s eye.
Maybe it was the nerves or the excitement, he wasn’t sure. But
as the words increased in speed, he found his thoughts drifting, his
concentration breaking. He thought about the public, the worldwide
reaction to his incredible feat, he thought about how popular and
famous he would become. The section of wall in his mind began to warp
and shift, and then vanish altogether like a bad TV signal. Instead
he saw himself in the centre of the words in his head, receiving the
praise of the world, shaking hands with millions, more popular than
the Pope. If he had only been able to stop then, to take a moment to
compose himself and try again he might have been able to fix it, but
he knew the process didn’t work that way. He knew that once it
began he would simply be a passenger, dragged along to the
conclusion. He forced himself to concentrate on the wall and push
everything else out of his mind, but he couldn’t rid the
selfish images of his worldwide fame and the glory of his
vindication. He panicked, and instead of letting the words flow
naturally he tried to make them move, to manipulate them, to give him
time to get himself together. It was an intense struggle as he tried
to undo what was happening, the image in his mind shifted repeatedly
from the wall, to him, to the population of the world, each melting
and fading into each other. He shifted symbols, pulling them away
when they tried to interconnect, wiping away the brightly coloured
explosions. There was a high pitched whine, one that seemed to come
from deep within the centre of his head. It was almost unbearable,
and he was on the verge of screaming when his mind’s eye went
blank, and he knew that something had gone horribly wrong.

Silence.

His stomach flipped and he swallowed down an acid
tasting burp. He didn’t want to, he didn’t want to see
what had happened, but he forced himself to open his eyes. The first
thing he saw was the wall. It was mostly still in place apart from a
large diagonal section which was missing. The red curtains had been
sliced through and were hanging loose, fluttering in the gentle
breeze. He could see the cross section of the ornate stonework which
looked like it had been cut away with laser precision. It was then
that the noticed the silence. He looked around and screamed.

VII

Maybe
it was because he tried to mess with the symbols or change something
that had already been set in motion, but whatever it was, something
had gone horribly wrong. The two thousand people who had been on and
around the stage were gone. He waited an anxious hour for them to
reappear, and as each moment ticked agonisingly by, he was unable to
shut the image of those winged, flying things out of his mind. The
first hour came and went, and then another. It was only when dawn
broke the next day and he awoke cold and bleary eyed on the temporary
stage floor that he realised that they weren’t coming back. He
had broken the process and cast two thousand people into some bizarre
mirror earth with no way of bringing them back. But it wasn’t
just them. Almost a year had passed since that day and he hadn’t
encountered a single human being since. There was nothing left. No
bodies, no sign of anyone ever being there at all. It seemed that
people had been going about their daily lives one minute, and had
simply been…
erased
from existence the next. He had spent months knocking on doors,
criss-crossing the country and searching for some sign of life other
than his own, but eventually had to concede that it was pointless.

How
many people were in the world?
His mind wandered as he chewed on the number and tried to put it into
a perspective he could comprehend.

Seven billion.

Such an overwhelming number. He had tried to bring them
back of course, but he had only ever learned to send things. He had
no idea where to start when it came to bringing things back. He
couldn’t even refer to his research, as his books and other
notes were thousands of miles away on another continent... One thing
he knew for certain, however, was that whatever he had broken in the
symbols when he sent the seven billion inhabitants of the world to
that dry, washed out place, had left some kind of doorway open. Not
open to him—but to those flying, winged things. And although it
had taken them a while, they had finally found him.

He stood and picked up the Dictaphone, carrying it with
him outside to the balcony. The wind had picked up and he could hear
it even louder now, the horrific high pitched screeching. They were
close. He held the Dictaphone to his lips, somehow able to stop them
trembling.

“
And
so, that is the story of how the world came to an end. I make no
excuses, and no words can ever express my sorrow for what I have
done.”

He hooked his leg over the balcony, lowering himself
gently to the other side. Hanging on to the rail with one hand, he
clutched the Dictaphone to his face with the other as an immense
shadow passed screeching overhead.

“
My
name is Rick Michael Jones, and I am truly sorry. Please, forgive
me.”

He depressed the stop button, and tossed the Dictaphone
through the open balcony door. To the sound of beating leathery
wings, he took a deep breath and stepped out into oblivion.

He was snatched out of the air, having fallen only fifty
feet.

The last man is dead.

Michael Bray has been
writing horror fiction for over fifteen years. He is also a musician
and a father, and resides in his home city of Leeds, England with his
wife Vikki and daughter Abi.

Dark Hall
seeks to promote a diverse body of quality works, advancing the
tradition of Horror storytelling as well as providing exposure for
up-and-coming writers.

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