Whispers in the Dark

By Scott Cimarusti

A collection of supernatural-themed short fiction. "Handprints on the Mirror", "Midnight at the Crossroads", "Thirsty (or, The Longest Saturday)", "A Safe Port in a Storm", "The Custodian’s Last Dance", "Final Presentation", "A Glimmer in the Dark", "Moonlight on the Gallows", "An Unexpected Muse", "Last Stop on the Gold Line".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Cimarusti
• Release date: May 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458120335

Scott Cimarusti

Scott Cimarusti was born in 1970 and lived in the Chicago area until heading downstate to attend the University of Illinois. He now works at his alma mater and currently lives in Champaign. An avid reader of all genres--mainly horror, suspense, and sci-fi--Scott started writing short fiction as a hobby while in college. "The Last Archer of Laummoren" was his first novel. (http://lastarcher.com) Find Scott on the web at http://scott.cimarusti.com or on Facebook, Twitter (@scimarusti), and LinkedIn.

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WHISPERS in the DARK

by SCOTT CIMARUSTI

Whispers in the Dark

Scott Cimarusti

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011, 2016, 2018 Scott Cimarusti

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo Pale Autumn Boulevard, courtesy of Napalm filled Tires, available under a Creative Commons Attribution license via flickr.com. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkjason/3147541630/sizes/o/in/photostream/)

ISBN: 978-1-4581-2033-5

http://scott.cimarusti.com

Handprints on the Mirror

Midnight at the Crossroads

Thirsty (or, The Longest Saturday)

A Safe Port in a Storm

The Custodian’s Last Dance

Final Presentation

A Glimmer in the Dark

Moonlight on the Gallows

An Unexpected Muse

Last Stop on the Gold Line

Handprints on the Mirror

Whose handprints are these on the mirror?

Sarah Carlson rolled her eyes. What was it with him and that damn mirror?

Is anyone listening to me?

Sarah knew that if she didn’t immediately rush to witness this latest crisis of his and pretend to care about it as much as he did, he would continue to shout inquiries and accusations in frustrated disbelief through the house until she finally did.

With a sigh, she put down her book and followed his voice to the dining room where she found her husband of eighteen years standing in front of the antique full-length mirror that hung on the wall opposite their china cabinet. He whirled to face her, his eyes accusing. His arm shot out in the direction of the offensive handprints.

Have you seen this?

She shook her head slowly, trying her best to feign concern. No, I didn’t.

Are they yours?

Now she had to fight to stifle a giggle. He sounded like he was addressing a puppy that had piddled on the rug. I don’t think so, Jeffrey…If they are, I’m—

Well they’re certainly not mine. They MUST be yours—no one else is home; the girls are both at work. Do you realize that this is an antique—handed down from my mother’s mother?

Despite her attempt to control her tone, she could hear the condescension sneaking in her voice, her smile becoming more strained. I’ll go get the Windex and we’ll clean it right up.

Jeffrey’s eyes narrowed. That’s not the point. If you’re not going to respect—

Her patience now exhausted; her words darted out from gritted teeth. Look, Jeffrey, I don’t recall doing so, but if I accidentally left handprints on your precious antique mirror, I apologize. As I said, I’ll go get the Windex and in about twenty seconds it’ll be as good as new. OK?

Refusing to be placated, Jeffrey continued to stare at her incredulously for several seconds before marching past her into the kitchen. Never mind—I’LL do it.

Sarah threw up her hands and exited the room. Fine.

She strode back to her favorite chair by the window in the sitting room to resume her book. She didn’t know why she was so annoyed by his behavior; he had always been like this about that stupid mirror. His mother had died shortly after they were married, and since Jeffrey was her only child, the mirror had been passed down to him. At first, she had marveled at its magnificence. At about four feet wide and six feet tall, set in an ornate gilded frame, it was a beautiful addition to their modest home. But then when she saw how obsessed he was about keeping it spotless—dusting it twice a day, before and after work—she knew it was going to be more trouble than it was worth.

When the twins were born, keeping two small children’s curious hands away from it had been a Herculean task; arguments between her and Jeffrey breaking out almost daily because an exploring toddler tarnished his beloved mirror with a chubby handprint. Finally, she had given up and just kept the kids out of the dining room altogether. Now that the girls were teenagers, and had plenty to busy themselves with elsewhere, they weren’t home enough anymore to give the damn mirror even a second glance.

Still fuming, Sarah continued to stare at her book, her eyes roving over the same sentence several times, unable to comprehend its meaning. As if it had just dawned on her for the first time in almost twenty years, found herself furious at the fact that he had always placed that damn mirror over almost everything—and everyone else in his life. Sure it was a beloved heirloom from his mother—she knew that they had been close. But how could he let it get between him and the relationships with his living family members?

Then again, he was like that about most things; the family Christmas tree was a perfect example. It was yet another example of Jeffrey’s never ending pursuit of what he deemed to be perfection. The ornaments had to be arranged just so…there had to be just the right amount of lights. And while the tree always wound up looking nice, she couldn’t help but think that it would have looked so much better as a collaborative family effort, like it was intended to be—regardless of how many lights she strung on the tree, or whether the girls had clustered all the ornaments in the one spot where they could reach as wide-eyed five-year olds.

Suddenly too angry to see straight, let alone read, Sarah slammed her book down and marched out of the house into the September sunshine—slamming the door behind her for good measure. Maybe a walk around the block (or even the state) would cool her off.

In the kitchen, Jeffrey heard his wife storm out. Good riddance, he mumbled to the empty house. He reached under the sink and snatched the bottle of Windex before unspooling an excessive amount of paper towels from the roll above the sink—the good paper towels, not those cheap, budget brands that Sarah was always trying to buy in an attempt to save money.

Why the hell couldn’t she at least pretend to care about his mother’s mirror? It had been in the family for three generations now—it was a FAMILY HEIRLOOM, for Christ’s sake; something they could pass down to one of their daughters. Then Jeffrey’s lip curled at this thought. Not that either of the girls was deserving of such a priceless treasure; they both had inherited their mother’s lack of appreciation for such things.

He strode back into the dining room, Windex clasped in one fist and the wad of paper towels in the other; he looked like a gunslinger advancing down a dusty street, his eyes focused on his adversary—in this case, the brazen handprints.

Making sure he was a safe distance from the glass, as dictated by the label on the bottle, and using the handful of paper towels to help shield the rest of the mirror from the stream, he squeezed off two quick bursts of glass cleaner—one on each handprint. Then quickly setting the bottle down on the floor—before the Windex could drip any further down the mirror and smear the remaining flawlessly polished surface—he proceeded to gingerly wipe away the handprints in small, precise circles.

But when he pulled his hand away to behold the newly restored mirror, his eyes narrowed.

The handprints were still there.

He picked up the Windex again, this time spraying more liberal amounts of cleaner in a six-inch radius around the marred area, and following up with more vigorous wiping.

Still, the handprints remained.

Fuming, Jeffrey then proceeded to saturate the mirror with half the contents of the bottle, his teeth bared and his thoughts no longer concerned about the Windex dripping down the rest of mirror. If he wound up spending the rest of the afternoon polishing the whole thing, that was fine; as long as the accursed handprints would be gone.

His arm starting to ache from the furious and repeated wiping, he looked up and growled.

The handprints seemed to be mocking him now, appearing to be even more stark and visible against the smooth, almost liquid surface of the polished glass.

Jeffrey hurled the now almost empty bottle of Windex across the dining room, where it bounced off the china cabinet before tumbling to the floor. The notion that he might have cracked the glass on one of the cabinet’s doors was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

He inched closer to the mirror, his nose mere centimeters away. Each frantic breath fogged the same spot just as it cleared. He had to tilt his head slightly to get the right angle to study the stubborn handprints. And upon closer inspection, he realized they didn’t look like normal prints left from the thin coating of oil on a careless person’s skin. These looked more like…

No, that was impossible.

Jeffrey retreated back a step as his mind struggled to process what he thought he saw.

He could have sworn that the handprints looked like they were on the other side of the glass.

He shook his head in fierce negation, an irrational fear beginning to seep into his gut, despite his attempt to keep it at bay with rational logic.

The only thing on the opposite side of the mirror was the backing of its frame, and then the wall behind it.

But still….

A curious finger rising to his pursed lips, he began to contemplate the unthinkable.

In the seventeen years and eight months that Jeffrey had the mirror in his