The Dark Issue 86: The Dark, #86

By Ai Jiang, Seán Padraic Birnie, James Bennett and Gillian Daniels

Each month The Dark brings you the best in dark fantasy and horror! Selected by award-winning editors Clara Madrigano and Sean Wallace and published by Prime Books, this issue includes four all-new stories:

 

"Fisheyes" by Ai Jiang
"Nothing is Wasted" by Seán Padraic Birnie
"Idolo" by James Bennett
"A Game at Clearwater Lake" by Gillian Daniels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Wallace
• Release date: Jun 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201975524

Book preview

THE DARK

Issue 86 • July 2022

Fisheyes by Ai Jiang

Nothing is Wasted by Seán Padraic Birnie

Idolo by James Bennett

A Game at Clearwater Lake by Gillian Daniels

Cover Art: Within a Forest Dark by Francesco Crisci

ISSN 2332-4392.

Edited by Clara Madrigano and Sean Wallace.

Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

Copyright © 2022 by Prime Books.

www.thedarkmagazine.com

Fisheyes

by Ai Jiang

I am not a horrible person, I murmur to myself in the basement at night when my family is at home—half my family. Voices of actors and actresses from a Cantonese drama drift down the stairs, mingling with the words in my head, the ones leaving my lips, as I sit with my legs folded against my chest in darkness. The chair I sit in sways, though I remain still. The only light comes from the computer screen in front of me, flickering as the storm outside batters the electricity lines barely tethered to the streetlights. Tap taptap tap. The wires smack against the branches of nearby trees in desperate need of trimming, but no one does it, and no one files a complaint for someone to come fix it before it becomes an issue either.

I am not a horrible person. My whispers are a little louder this time when Mother’s sick laughter bounces down the steps, disappearing right before it reaches me. Thankfully, my brother’s not home tonight—he always has his computer volume too high, the sound of violent video games penetrating the wall that separates our rooms.

I am not—

Darling, Mother’s boyfriend drawls.

The chill of the basement burns my lungs, but my frozen feet begin to thaw, my earlobes warm, blood rushes down my arms and into the tips of my fingers. There is nothing wrong with the man’s voice, or the words that leave his lips, or the way he looks at my mother with love—sometimes hunger. But he is not Dad. He is not a terrible person. Right. Right? But—

Elaine. Mother’s voice snaps me from my frenzy of thoughts and calms me for a moment.

Yes, mother?

I wait.

Silence stretches, compresses, pops.

Yes—

Could you head out and grab takeout from that restaurant in the plaza across the street?

It’s a miracle she never remembers the name. The place is the only one she ever orders from. The others are too expensive, she’d say.

Yes. Mother.

The laugher from the living room follows me to the front door. I watch Mother’s and her boyfriend’s shadows—only the top halves; the bottoms obscured by the couch—shuffle against the wall, lit by the TV. I want to laugh with them, too.

Just as I opened the door, the sound of the TV turning off causes me to turn. The filter from the fish tank sputter to a stop, its vibrant white light flickering to darkness. The only light remaining is the yellow glow from the streetlight in front of our house, a slim beam slipping in through the door. A groan from both adults. Creaking follows the cracking of joints and necks, along with the crinkling of once still clothing. Mother must be wearing her only dressy shirt, the mauve one. The boyfriend always wears his white work shirt—I’m convinced he only has the one. There’s a strange sour smell coming from it each time I walk past him.

Could you also grab some candles?

Yes. Mother.

There are no issues with the electricity at the superstore in the plaza, but the surrounding restaurants and smaller shops sat like dark arms on both sides of the large illuminated building. It’s too bright. I raise a hand, shielding my eyes as I amble towards the restaurant connected to the superstore. Takeout boxes sit in a plastic bag outside. The owners had given up and headed home early for the day, it seems. I want to lie and say the food isn’t there, to leave the takeout, to go home empty-handed.

I linger by the front door, swinging the takeout like a pendulum. It bangs against my leg. One of the boxes inside pops open, smearing sauce on the plastic. The pungent smell of fish oil wafts across my nose for only a moment before the wind whisks it away. I don’t head back until the food cools. Condensation collects