Dark Spiral

By Thomas Gage

On a sweltering, pitch-black night something unimaginable is waging war on a small Midwestern town. For Sheriff Dan Parker, the nightmare is only just beginning. Now not only must he battle against something that should not possibly exist but his own troubled past as well. When the truth is finally revealed, it is more terrifying than an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas A Gage
• Release date: Jun 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649907585

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a perfect night for killing. The air was thick, and the temperature was high. Even the moonless sky was intent on setting the mood. Not a sliver of light was able to pierce the oppressive darkness. The local wildlife could sense something as well. An unnatural feeling of dread had permeated the air, leaving them fearful and unwilling to move. It would have been hard to imagine a more fitting stage for murder, and the performance was about to begin.

The time was mid-August, and the weather was simply miserable. At 9:00 p.m. thermometers all over town were still registering temperatures in the nineties, and the humidity wasn’t making things any better. Not that it was uncommon for southern Wisconsin to have a warm summer—it just seemed that in recent years their severity had gotten progressively worse. Still, being familiar with the weather and being tolerant of it were two different things, and most people would do whatever was necessary to stay cool. For those fortunate enough to have air-conditioning, the solution was easy: stay inside and pray there wouldn’t be a power surge. For those not as fortunate—or who simply wanted to get out of the house—there was always a tavern, the movie theater, or a twenty-four hour shopping plaza of which there seemed to be an abundance in recent years.

Of course the tavern—of which there was also an abundance—was more often than not the clear favorite. Being that there were so many to choose from, the only real dilemma was how far a person was willing to travel.

The Little Pub (unoriginal but fitting) was the preferred choice for a handful of locals on the south side of town. A typical Midwestern bar—small and drab with the only real atmosphere being the patrons in attendance and the TV flickering in the corner. At the moment some mediocre sitcom was droning on and adding very little to the evening's mood.

Behind the counter stood Ernie Bartze, the bartender/proprietor of the Little Pub. At this particular moment he was staring off into space and trying not to think about the hours he had left to be there. When he’d purchased it some fifteen years ago, owning his own bar had seemed like the greatest thing in the world. Unfortunately, reality had set in shortly after. The amount of work, long hours, and headaches that went along with owning a business made Ernie rethink his position on more than one occasion. Yet after all these years—even while suffering through one failed marriage and nearly losing his pub due to bad bookkeeping—he had managed to stick with it. He had even managed to squeeze out a moderate but comfortable life for himself. Besides, at nearly sixty years old, he figured it was a little too late to start over now.

On the other side of the bar, seated at their favorite stools and in varying degrees of intoxication, were Ernie's four most loyal customers.

Bill Church was at the furthest end of the half-horseshoe bar. He was a quiet, middle-aged man with a little less hair than he’d had ten years ago and an ever-expanding belly that stubbornly refused to leave. Bill didn’t really mind though. He was satisfied with himself and the way his life had progressed. So on these occasions—which were becoming more frequent, he had to admit—he was perfectly content to sit here and sip a few drinks with his friendly neighborhood bartender.

A few stools to the right of Bill was Ruth Mercer. Ruth was in her early sixties, a widow, and a full-blown alcoholic. To put it bluntly, Ruth didn’t much give a damn about anything anymore. Her appearance and personal hygiene were very low on her priority list. Ever since her husband had passed away eight years ago, Ruth had pretty much given up. She had money to live on and enough left over to quench her thirst, and that, in her opinion, was all she really needed anymore.

Matt Krause, a more recent addition to the group but becoming quite a familiar face, was seated a couple of stools farther down from Ruth. For the last six months, Matt had been out of work. He had just turned thirty and until recently had been working at one of the better paying local factories. That was until they’d decided to close up shop and move to some goddamned third-world country. Matt figured they wouldn’t get half the quality, but at least they’d only have to pay slave-labor wages. Sons of bitches. He was bitter and he’d been bitter for some time now, but he wasn’t about to give up. He’d been hitting the street religiously every day and refused to stop until he’d found work. It was getting hard though. His unemployment benefits were drawing to an end, and good-paying jobs were just not that easy to come by. Desperation was setting in and he found himself spending more and more time at the local taverns. He tried to convince himself that things could only get better, which meant that he at least had a shred of optimism left. And so, with that cheerful thought, he took a long swallow from his third beer of the night.

Sitting on a worn out stool at the other end of the bar was Pete Taylor. He was seated a few feet from the restrooms and the old-fashioned jukebox that had been there ever since Ernie had bought the place. At the moment Pete was draining his fifth beer of the evening and was just about ready to order another.

After inhaling the last drop from his glass, he thumped it down on the weathered bar and took a long, hard drag from the cigarette he was holding.

Ernie. Beer me, he bellowed through a cloud of exhaled smoke. There was only a slight slur evident in his raspy voice and a goofy, lopsided grin on his grizzled, unshaven face.

Ernie shot a half smile back at him and then proceeded to pour him another glass of his favorite brew. Ernie had to admit that he liked Pete, but there were definitely nights when the man had tried his patience. Pete was of the type A personality. Loud, crude, and obnoxious. He was either entertaining or repellent to other customers, depending on the mood and atmosphere of that particular night. For the most part though, Ernie got along with him fine and, seeing as Pete was in the place three or four times a week, that was probably a good thing. Ever since he’d retired five years ago, the Little Pub had become his second home.

Hey, Ernie, Matt suddenly piped up. Would you mind turning the channel? he said, pointing at the TV. This show is really getting on my nerves.

Well why don’t you go home and watch your own TV then, Ernie thought, but instead he said, No problem, as long as no one else minds.

Nobody else at the bar seemed particularly concerned about the TV at all.

Ernie grabbed the remote and flipped the channel to CNN.

Better? Ernie asked.

I guess so, Matt replied. Hey, can I get another one of these when you get a chance? He waved his half-empty glass in the air just in case Ernie had missed the obvious.

Sure, just a—

Ernie, c’mon. I’m gettin’ parched over here, Pete chimed in.

Ernie gave him a good-natured look of mock disgust.

I hardly think you’re gonna wither away yet, ya old fart, he said.

Pete slapped his hands on the bar as if he were about to get up and glared at Ernie with exaggerated outrage.

Who ya callin’ an old fart? Ya old fart, he said with cartoonish menace.

Both men glared at one another for a moment, appearing to size the other up. After a few more seconds, the absurdity of the situation got the best of them, and they both burst into wide, amused grins.

I knew you was yella, Pete said, doing a generic cowboy impression. He always made sure to get in the last jab.

Ernie smiled even wider and turned to get his two customers another round. As he poured he noticed that Matt, Bill, and even Ruth had found the goofy antics somewhat amusing. For a few minutes everyone in the room was in good spirits, and it made Ernie realize why he did this job in the first place.

At that moment the front door of the bar suddenly flew open and crashed against the wall. It made a loud wood-splintering crack as if the hinges were being torn right from the frame. Everyone at the bar flinched and turned, wide-eyed, to focus on the unexpected disturbance. What they saw sent a tremor of fear through each one of them. Though it was hard to pinpoint exactly why an overwhelming feeling of dread had enveloped the room and everyone in it.

Standing in the open doorway was nothing more than an ordinary man. In fact Ernie remembered seeing this guy in here on more than one occasion. So it wasn’t who they were staring at that was causing such an unsettling feeling. It was his bizarre, almost deranged behavior that was forcing their anxiety to rise. His eyes were huge, round, and darting madly back and forth. They seemed dangerously close to tearing free from their sockets. His labored breathing, though, was even more alarming. Gasping for air as if he’d just run a marathon, it appeared that at any moment he would hyperventilate and pass out right on the spot. The way he was perspiring only added to the surreal experience. Without a doubt the air outside was unbearably warm, but this man literally had sweat pouring from every inch of his body. His red jogging pants and white T-shirt were completely soaked with it, and the stench was almost overpowering. An acrid mix of physical strain and—fear? Ernie wasn’t sure, but that's what he felt. This man was terrified of something, and Ernie did not like the implications of that one bit.

The final troubling oddity was the man's shoeless, bare feet. It was obvious, too, that the absence of proper foot attire had taken its toll. Scrapes and cuts (some still bleeding) were clearly visible. He’d definitely given them quite a pounding.

Ernie and his four customers were so entranced by what they were looking at that they actually jumped a bit when the man's head suddenly swiveled toward them. There was a vacant, haunted look on his face as if he had just realized there were other people in the room. While they silently continued to stare, a bead of sweat rolled slowly down the bridge of the man's nose and dropped onto his top lip. His tongue flipped out lazily and licked it away then slid back into his mouth with a slithery, wet smack. The act itself wasn’t that unusual, but the mechanical, zombielike way he did it gave everyone at the bar a chill. For a moment nothing else happened, and then, as if an invisible switch had just been thrown, the man's eyes focused and the real world seemed to materialize before him.

He actually appeared to realize that there were five sets of eyes trained on him. His face slowly transformed and for a few seconds took on a hint of normalcy. He licked his lips, blinked his eyes—apparently trying to clear his head—and then turned around to slam the front door shut.

The door itself protested loudly but tried to stay latched just the same.

The man then did an about-face back toward the bar and stared straight at Ernie.

Do you have a gun? he asked in a jittery, high-pitched voice.

Wha… Ernie stammered, looking as dumbfounded as he felt.

Do you have a fucking gun? the man shouted as spittle flew from his lips.

Ernie recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Fear and confusion washed over him, making him feel helpless and unprepared. He looked at his four customers for help, not quite sure how to respond. When he realized no help was being offered, a more useful emotion bubbled to the surface. One he was sure he could use to his advantage.

Anger.

Who in the hell did this freak think he was? Coming in here barking orders. Scaring his good customers. Breaking his door, for Christ's sake. Ernie wasn’t going to stand for it. Usually he was a tolerant man, but this had pushed him to his limit. He could still feel the fear, but for the time being he was able to set it aside.

Listen, buddy, he said as he puffed out his chest and tried to get his voice under control. I don’t know what your problem is, but in about two seconds I’m gonna call the cops and let them—

The man frantically waved his hands in the air and effectively cut Ernie off.

Be quiet, he said in a desperate, pleading voice. I’m not fucking around here, all right. This is serious.

Ernie didn’t know what to say for the moment, and the other four at the bar were silent as well.

Getting no reply the man pushed on.

OK, he said, toning his voice down a notch. By the way you’re all staring. I can tell you think I’m nuts, right?

No one felt any need to argue with him.

Well I promise you I’m not crazy and I’m not here to hurt anyone, he went on. Hell, I’ve been in here before, and I’ve never caused any trouble. The man was speaking at a machine-gun fire pace, but what he said had released at least a small amount of tension from the room. Ernie already knew he’d seen this guy in here before, and the others seemed to recognize him too. For a second the situation had taken a turn for the better.

A second after that it started to escalate once again.

Something's after me, the man said bluntly, his voice quavering and hollow. "I don’t know how to make it any clearer than that. This…thing smashed into my apartment, and I swear to God it was trying to kill me." His voice had risen again, and his breathing was rapid and harsh.

"What do you mean when you say ‘thing‘?" Matt Krause asked the question that everyone else had on the tips of their tongues.

Yeah, Pete added. Do you mean like an animal?

No, goddamn it, the man barked, sounding exasperated as well as terrified. "It wasn’t any animal, all right. It was a man. Well…I mean it looked sort of like a man, but I’m tellin’ you this thing isn’t human. At least not like any human I’ve ever seen."

Bill Church had apparently worked up some courage while listening to the exchange and decided to ask a question of his own. He really didn’t seem convinced that this guy was playing with all his marbles, and he definitely didn’t seem convinced that he was being chased by some half-human monster.

"Did this man or thing that broke into your apartment have a weapon? A gun or a knife maybe? Did you see anything like that?" Bill was trying to sound concerned, but his skepticism was obvious to everyone in the room.

No, the man said coldly as he locked eyes with Bill. The truth is I didn’t see that much after it broke in. It scared the shit out of me, ya know? He croaked out an awkward little laugh, swallowed hard, and went on. I was sitting at my computer when it crashed through the window, and I started screaming and fell over in my chair. I mean, I actually fell backward and hit the goddamn floor. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.

If he was really trying to prove his sanity to the other people in the room, he was doing a terrible job of building their confidence.

How did you manage to get out of there? Matt asked. He, too, seemed skeptical, but he was obviously fascinated at the same time.

I…I don’t really know. I think I just got lucky, the man said as he stared down at the floor. He seemed to be contemplating his good fortune. Either that or he was desperately trying to keep what little control he had left. In any event he decided to continue on. I think it lost sight of me for a second when I fell on the floor. I managed to get a glimpse of it while I was down there, and it really creeped me out. He stopped for a moment then and tried to gather his thoughts. His face shifted and contorted as he tried to put into words what he’d seen. It was…shadowy like a ghost, but then it was solid again. It looked like it was swimming in and out of focus. I…I’m not sure exactly. I know that sounds crazy, but that's what I saw, he said, sounding deflated and weary and terrified at the same time. "Anyway, I only got a look at it for a few seconds and then I got my ass up and ran into the bathroom. I slammed the door shut, and I could hear that thing right behind me. I knew my only chance was to get outside, so I opened the