From Out the Shadowed Night

By Paul Johns

Brian Martin committed an unspeakable crime and managed to escape responsibility for his act.  Now, sixteen years later, not only do the effects of his crime rise up out of the past, but something much more deadly begins to haunt him as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093009

Book preview

Prologue

January, 1965

Aside from the street lamps, the only light on the block came from DiNardo’s Funeral Home across the street from where Brian Martin stood in the ferocious January cold, studying the scene. The whipping wind brought tears to his eyes. People in twos and threes drifted into the funeral home, making it seem as if a lone person were incapable of entering without companionship or support. The last thing in the world Brian wanted to do was cross the street, enter the building, and look upon the body of Alison Lane. Yet, it was the only reason he’d left his warm apartment to venture out on a night as frigid and howling as this one.

Montgomery Junior High, where he taught, stood a block away, but he hadn’t been there for the past three days. Not after what he’d been through on Saturday. He’d been nauseous all week and unable to sleep more than two or three hours a night. Tomorrow, Thursday, he would force himself to return to work.

Alison’s viewing ended at eight o’clock. He’d never be missed if he turned tail and decided to go back to his apartment. He held his watch up to the light. If he didn’t cross the street now and do what he came here to do, time would run out. He fought off the urge to flee and waited until a crowd of new arrivals greeted one another outside the entrance of the funeral parlor. He walked across the street and entered the building when they did. From the entry hall he stared across the room at the crowd of people clustered near the coffin, where a tearful older woman held court—certainly Alison’s mother. The smell of the flowers brought sweat to his palms. He’d been to only three funerals in his twenty-four years. Yet, from the first one, the sickening sweet fragrance of the floral arrays shocked... even frightened him. The smell of death.

One large room opened off the entry hall, and the casket sat against the far wall. He approached it, his view blocked by mourners. He took his place in line, and suddenly the crowd separated, and there lay Alison, savagely pale amidst the reeking flowers. Brian felt his knees melt away. He looked for something to grasp for support. People returning from the casket jostled him, and he stumbled the remaining distance. Fortunately, a kneeler ran the length of the casket, and Brian sank down, feigning prayer, cognizant of nothing in the room but the pale, beautiful fifteen-year-old girl before him and the overwhelming aroma of the flowers.

Alison, he whispered but caught himself. He felt the kneeler vibrate as a portly woman knelt beside him. Brian’s heart pounded. He could not turn his face away from the beautiful young girl. More of those damned flowers were clasped in her hands. Her long brown hair lay neatly against the pink satin pillow. They’d dressed her in gentle yellow. Brian studied her face. Perfect. As she had been. A voice, angry and repentant, screamed in his head. Get up, Alison! Brian’s breath came in short bursts. Get up! I’m sorry. Don’t be so still. The kneeler trembled again as an older man replaced the portly woman, and Brian realized he’d been kneeling too long. He rose. He’d seen enough. He’d seen what his selfishness and stupidity had caused.

Excuse me. The tearful woman Brian had seen on first entering touched his arm.

Fear shot through Brian. She knew! She would accuse him! Alison must have mentioned something. What would he do? He had no explanation to give her. Everyone would know. You must be one of Alison’s teachers, she said.

Brian couldn’t answer. What would Helen think of him? He hadn’t really killed her. No one could say he had. If only he could get away before his woman accused him, here, before Alison’s still body.

Am I mistaken? the woman asked.

No. I taught English to...to your daughter.

Ay, yes. English. You’re Mr. Martin, then?

Brian nodded, his face blank, expectant.

Alison enjoyed your class very much. She spoke highly of you.

Brian didn’t respond but waited in anguish for the mountain to fall on him.

Well, I simply wanted to thank you for coming tonight and thank you for everything you did for Alison.

Brian’s eyes widened. The woman’s voice was unendurable.

I enjoyed having her in class, he muttered and walked to the door. Brian gasped when he felt the blessedly cold wind outside the funeral home whip across his face. He paced briskly back to his spot in the dark across the street, tears of fear and regret rising in his eyes. He did what he’d come to do. To see what he’d caused. He’d made the visit. But that damned woman. He’d acted like a guilty man in front of her. Thank God she didn’t know. No one could know. Ever.

He glanced at his watch. He wanted to talk to Helen. He’d invite her to dinner at Scotty’s tomorrow night. Getting work and Helen back into his life meant a return to normal. He had to forget Alison Lane; put her out of his mind. Tonight would be the night he told Helen he loved her and wanted to be with her forever. He’d banish the horrible images and memories of Alison, and a new life would dawn.

PART ONE

October 1980

One

The set stood at match point against them. From the neighboring courts the staccato clunk of tennis balls meeting rackets surround Brian Martin as he crouched near the net, awaiting what he hoped would be an easy put-away volley that would bring him and his son Jeff back into the match. Jeff, fourteen years old, bounced the ball twice on the service line as he readied his serve. He tossed the ball high and swung. The ball cut sharply to the left and drew the receiver wide of the court. The receiver lunged for the ball and floated the return softly toward Brian. Brian took a step back to let the ball bounce before realizing the better shot would be to take it on the fly. The change of tactics cost him. By the time he moved forward, the ball had fallen too low, and he banged it into the net. Match over.

Jeff looked at his father and shrugged his shoulders. Too bad, he said when he joined his father at the net to congratulate the winning team.

I’m going over to Mom. Coming? Brian asked as they left the court.

Yeah, I’ll be there. I want to get something to drink first.

For a moment, Brian watched Jeff walk away. The roles of father and son had reversed. Jeff used to be the one to blow the easy shots when he got too excited at the end of a match. The two of them had practiced, though, and Jeff had become the steadier player. The thought pleased Brian as he walked over to rejoin his wife and their friend, Joe Neer, who sat at a round metal table for four under an umbrella. Brian took a seat.

Couldn’t make up your mind what to do with that last ball, could you? said Joe, a man in his mid-sixties. Shortly after Brian and Helen married, Joe had come to Montgomery Junior High to teach. Three years before, after eleven years there, he retired to San Francisco. He still had family in New York and visited once or twice a year, often making Brian and Helen’s Chinatown apartment his last stop before flying back west.

No, you could tell? I wanted to let it bounce and put it away, but the damn thing sailed deeper than I thought.

You have to react quickly when you’re at the net.

Brian always did have a problem making up his mind, didn’t you, darling? teased Helen.

Brian smiled.

Did he ever tell you about the night I proposed to him, Joe? He almost fainted. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t say yes. He couldn’t say no.

Joe laughed. So when did he finally say yes, this man of decision?

You wouldn’t believe it, said Helen. A phone call on a frigid night in January. God, it was cold that week. All of a sudden Brian wouldn’t stop pestering me to get married right away. He badgered and badgered until, finally, we got married in March. Soon we had Jeff, and on we rolled.

Streaks of tension passed through Brian. Nearly sixteen years and the same chill shot through him at the memory. He’d asked Helen to marry him the night of Alison’s funeral. He wanted to start over in a whole new world. Helen finally agreed, but no new world dawned. He could not simply shuffle Alison into a forgotten past. She clung to his heart like a barnacle on a rock. Impossibly, it seemed, she’d been Jeff’s age.

He simply saw the light cast by a good woman, Joe said.

Exactly, Brian answered, putting his hand atop Helen’s. Simple as that.

Helen removed her hand from Brian’s and gestured. Jeff’s calling you, honey. I think he’s got a match lined up already.

You want to play, Joe? Brian asked.

No, no. You go with the boy. I like watching you two work together, but win this time.

Brian left.

So how’s Brian doing?

You heard. He won’t try to get out of the classroom. He likes the kids and says he’d rather come home with a free mind at three o’clock and have his time to himself. He and Jeff spend a good bit of time together.

They have a nice relationship, don’t they? I can tell.

The best.

This is quite a tennis club. I saw the pool when we came in. You must spend a lot of time here.

We do, even though it’s not all that handy. Brian and Jeff are here most every weekend practicing tennis or swimming. It’s our one grand luxury.

You’re lucky your building has a parking garage.

Amen. I’d never schlepp out to the edge of Queens on the subway.

Joe pointed behind Helen. The boys are coming back already.

What happened? Helen asked as Jeff and Brian pulled up chairs.

Dad hit his sizzling serve, and the old guy almost broke his leg trying to get out of the way. Must’ve pulled a muscle, I guess. We won through default. See the guy limping over there? He’s the one.

Had enough for today, honey? asked Helen.

I suppose, Jeff answered.

Hey, Jeff, said Brian with mock confidentiality. There’s Mary Ann over there. She might be looking for a partner.

Mary Ann? Joe said. Who might Mary Ann be?

Helen gave Brian a tired look then answered. Mary Ann keeps asking Jeff to play with her, but he keeps putting her off.

Jeff fidgeted in his seat.

She’s looking over here, said Brian, waving to the young girl. Go rally with her. See if she’s any good.

Jeff shook his head and turned a slight pink.

Jeff! called a boy behind them. Jeff, come on. I need a partner.

I’m going with Lenny. All right? Jeff asked, looking at his father.

Sure. Whatever you want. Jeff grabbed his racket and ran off.

Still shy with the girls, Brian explained.

There’s no hurry, Joe counseled. He’s a good looking boy. His time’ll come.

Helen looked at her watch. It’s nearly two, and I’m starved. How about some lunch? But not too much, Joe. Brian and I have a nice restaurant picked out for tonight. Don’t want you flying back to San Fran tomorrow on an empty stomach.

Don’t tell me, said Joe. Chinese food, right?

Your favorite, as we recall, said Brian.

It is, and I’m salivating already.

Brian rose. We can get a salad or something light in the dining room. What time’s your plane tomorrow?

Noon.

Good. The road to Kennedy won’t be very crowded on a Sunday morning.

Helen stood and pushed her chair in. This way, Joe.

Two

Joe Neer spent the night in Jeff’s bedroom while Jeff took the sofa in the living room. Next morning Brian got the car from the building’s underground garage, and at nine-thirty left for JFK Airport. The ride took only forty minutes.

As they pulled onto the airport roads, Joe said, If you want, why don’t you drop me off and head right on back? I don’t want to gobble up your whole morning.

Don’t worry about it. We made it here in record time. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee or something.

Brian found a spot in the short term parking lot and helped Joe with his bags. Joe checked in, and the two men found a coffee shop.

Mind sitting at the counter? asked Brian, pointing ahead of them.

They seated themselves along a lunch counter which opened without a front wall onto the bustling walkway inside the terminal.

Brian had no more than sipped his coffee when he looked up in alarm.

Joe noticed. What? Something wrong?

Brian’s eyes scanned the nearby terminal shops. It’s the smell, he said softly.

"The flowers? It is strong. He pointed. There."

Directly across the terminal aisle from the coffee shop stood buckets of flowers. A bright sign blinked off and on, assuring that flowers could successfully be sent worldwide. The aroma of the flowers meant only one thing to Brian. A funeral parlor. Alison.

Oh, said Brian, reining himself in. I didn’t know where the smell came from. I wasn’t expecting it. Not much of a mystery, eh?

No mystery at all. If it bothers you, we can go.

Don’t be silly. So what’s on your agenda when you get back home?

They dropped the subject of the aroma, and the two friends chatted for half an hour. Finally, Joe insisted Brian not spend the rest of his morning babysitting him. The men bid each other farewell after Brian promised to take the family out to San Francisco soon.

Brian left the terminal building, detouring around the florist shop. He didn’t need any reminders of Alison. The shock of the flowers brought her back with unsettling force. She’d be haunting him more than usual, probably all day.

Later at home, Brian disappointed Jeff, turning down his request to go to the tennis club.

Helen spent the day visiting a girlfriend, so Brian sat quietly in front of the TV watching an NFL doubleheader. Jeff got a phone call and left the house around two. The Jets game lulled Brian into a doze. He found himself at the airport again amid the overpowering smell of flowers. He walked Joe to the door of his plane. As they said good-bye, a messenger approached them. The messenger confirmed Brian’s name and from behind his back, he pulled an enormous spray of flowers. He thrust them into Brian’s hand, spun on his heel, and departed. Joe congratulated him—Brian couldn’t understand why—and boarded the plane. Brian tossed the flowers away and ran toward the terminal, but the faster he ran, the more the terminal seemed to move away from him. A horrendous noise, like the roar of a dragon, came from behind him. He continued sprinting and glanced over his shoulder. The plane taxied toward him, picking up speed. The roar of the approaching plane deafened him. The smell of the jet engines burned his nostrils. The nose of the plane loomed over him. Brian sprawled out of its way, safe for the moment. With a sparkling explosion of glass, the plane crashed through the tall, glittering terminal window and buried itself inside the terminal building. Everything grew quiet. Brian saw the rear door of the plane open to full width. A slender, elongated black tentacle extended hesitantly from the plane as if testing the quality of the air. Two more black tentacles—no, Brian realized they were legs—followed the first, then the huge glistening black body of a spider glided with snake-like smoothness from the airplane onto the runway. It paused a moment, as if gathering itself, its legs undulating in a macabre, rhythmic dance. The spider faced Brian and advanced toward him.

Brian noticed the spider had six legs. Only six. A foolish question flashed through his mind. Could a six-legged spider run faster or slower than the eight-legged kind? It didn’t matter because his own legs refused to obey him. The spider approached with a slow inevitability. Brian pounded on his legs, trying to get some feeling into them. He wanted to run. He had to run. The spider drew near, its jaws working threateningly. Brian stood hopelessly frozen in place.

The spider advanced until it stood over Brian, its six legs encasing him like the bars of a jail. The mouth, glistening and dripping saliva, widened. Brian felt the spider’s breath and screamed. But the breath! Not the foulness Brian expected, but the reeking scent of those damned flowers settled over him. Alison’s flowers. Alison’s spider. The gaping blackness of the mouth moved closer, and the scent overwhelmed him. He heard a peal of laughter. A