Tales from the Darkside

By Robert John Schwarzmann

A collection of eight short dark fantasy stories, set in various locations around the world, on themes of revenge, fate, and greed. Justice is meted out, sometimes fairly and sometimes unfairly, sometimes by people and sometimes by nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Somewhat Grumpy Press Inc.
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738799862

Robert John Schwarzmann

Robert John Schwarzmann was born in Toronto, and worked as a reporter, translator, and ESL teacher. He lived and worked in Mexico, Korea, Thailand, Cambodia, Kuwait, the Emirates, Saudi Arabia, and Los Angeles, before moving to the North End of Dartmouth Nova Scotia, popularly known as the Dark Side. His short story The Poet was made into a feature film directed by Michael Rothecker. It was invited to the Montreal International Film Festival in 2007. He died in 2022.

Book preview

1

JOSEPH’S DREAM

He whose eye chances to look down into the yawning abyss becomes dizzy. Thus dread is the dizziness of freedom which occurs when freedom gazes down into its own possibility, grasping at finiteness to sustain itself. Soren Kierkegaard

Joseph Melkowicz lived next to the variety store, and had a mailbox with his name stencilled on it in blue tape in the building’s entrance.

A staircase led up to the rear, the noises of the street didn’t reach him there. Below was a bedraggled excuse of lawn bitten by jagged bits of glass and beyond that, an alley in which an old Chrysler gathered rust.

Within the thin walls of his room, painted a glossy tan that with the improvement of years could better be described as tobacco-stained, he lived out his bare existence. A lightbulb hung from the ceiling above a sofa that looked as though it had been brought in from the sidewalk, which in fact it had.

One night, Joseph sat on his chair with its ripped vinyl back and watched clouds regroup across the sky. The moon had been bold enough to dominate the void in which the stars, through the scattered light of the streetlamps, were not visible. He watched for a while, then lay on the cotton blanket of his bed and fell asleep.

This was the way it always began.

After a while he’d have his dream in which he went down the fire escape and into the alley, and ran. He sprinted down the concrete, then jumped and leapt at the sky, arms outstretched like a bird. And the air bore him, there was a hundred feet between him and the solid brick wall at the alley’s end; he circled and spiralled above.

This was the moment of his nightly route. Deftly he soared, nearly grazing the sheer face of the building opposite, and then emerging clear above the flat rooftops of the textile trade. From here it was only a matter of choice; directions beckoned everywhere.

Could be tonight he’d travel north, across the swirling expanse of river, past villages of pastel wood and upcountry, into the dark hills. Or south, east, west, traversing vacant lots, over boxes of warehouse and office blocks.

He decided to move upward, leaving horizontals behind. And up into the sky he rose, with a frisson of his muscles, as a fish shakes itself free through the water. So high that if he thought, his heart would stop. But here was movement only, no need to stress or think, and words from a grade-school poem appeared as though written in the air: It is a fabled city that I seek.

Then reaching the top of this curvature, he swooped down swallow-like, daring the buildings to catch him, and at the penultimate second planed out and reached upward, carrying his body with him. This time he decided to leave the locale and watched the blocks rush past—then, cityscapes and suburbs away, came upon spaces more adequate.

This was the creek. The man-made habitations had fallen away like a veil, leaving only forest and tall grasses. The air smelled cleaner here, of marsh and fern and verdant female sweat. And there by bluish moonlight she stood. The birdwoman, toucan beak, black eyes turning like pools of night and covered with red plumes and blue crested feathers. Softly she bowed in the high bulrushes, watching the slow waters.

And readying for flight. He swept down, fluttering to brake, and stood beside her. It was always so, the birdwoman didn’t appear to notice, but by her faintly darting head, her tufted glistening eyes, he knew she saw him. And did not cower away.

Then she stepped forward onto the creek’s edge and sprang. And here he was always beside her, guiding the way into welcoming space. They darted like those TV figure skaters or in ballet, him there only to hold, support. So in the dim bluish light they moved flying ahead, knowing the way.

What is your name, birdwoman? he asked her, but of course she could not answer and only soared further into the beckoning air.

When the morning light awoke him from the dream, reality was more than a step away, and he rubbed his eyes groggily, astonished at being back in his dismal room.

The landlady, Mrs. Samarkand, had elbows that waddled fat in crinkled layers. He knew that she would never fly. She asked him about the rent that morning: Oh Mr. Melkowicz, will you be back to pay for the week today?

Of course, he agreed, but knew that this wasn’t a suitable residence for a night-flyer.

That evening, Mr. Fennec, who was watching the game on Channel 4, glanced at his watch: it was 9:23 p.m. At the same instant he heard the roomer above run on the linoleum and springing, leave the floor. Mrs. Samarkand knocked several times, had a peek in. Everything was in order, except that the wood-framed window was open, the gauzy white curtains billowing in the night breeze.

But there was no Mr. Melkowicz, never would be again.

Leaving all behind, he’s gone to live beside his mate. Feasting like kingfishers, they stand amid the tall grass where the brook murmurs toward the sea and the stars rise like mirrors.

Seen from behind, their blue feathered wings at their sides, they look like birds. It’s only when they raise their heads from their feeding and the black eyes dart upon you intelligently below crested tufts, wet beaks glimmering, that you’d swear you stumbled on two lovers….

2

A HOME AWAY FROM HOME

He’d mounted the three flights of stairs of the ageing building with the equally decrepit landlady, they’d entered the sparsely furnished apartment, and there it was: the cat, waking gently from its curled slumber, stretching its claws, and opening its green eyes to look directly into his.

It was a young lean cat, orange and white, maybe just a few months old. And now it purred and closed its eyes again. Right away, he knew it was the one he wanted.

I’ll take it, he said.

A load off my hands, I can tell you, the landlady began, in her East European accent. Don’t want to call the SPCA, rather find her a good home with a gentleman such as yourself. Too many don’t care these days, they don’t care nothing about what’s goanna happen. Well, I find you a box and be back in a minute.

Oh, said Jim, thanks.

He’d noticed the window, blank except for some jagged edges of glass, through which blew rancid street smells. What, ah, happened there? he asked when she came back with the box. And then, seeing the way her eyes darted nervously, he added, If I may ask.

Oh, that, she said warily, turning to the door. Something must’ve broke the window. Don’t ask me, last fella what lived here, he was nuts. Crazy, know what I mean? Not a fit owner for such a pretty cat, I can tell you right now.

To hell to him! she added abruptly.

You mean he just left it here? Jim asked, but the woman, in her flowered bathrobe, had gone down the creaky hall. Well—left, abandoned, whatever, fact is you’re here, isn’t that so?

It yawned, purring, and stretched its legs.

He still had the page from the Classified Section in his hand, with the listing circled in red. So, you’re the ‘Loving cat needs good home,’ are you? Well, what’re we going to call you?

He crouched over to pet it. I got it, how about Aimee—loved one, Amy, how’s that? Eh, Amy? The cat opened its almond-shaped eyes, glanced at him lazily and closed them again as it curled into a comfortable ball.

Carrying the cardboard box with slits, he went down the front steps and waited for a cab. There weren’t many in this neighbourhood.

In front of the building, kids were shoving over garbage cans so the trash tumbled along the curb. Someone had chalked the outline of a man, as though run over, on the pavement in mawkish irony.

A little street urchin with a dirty face ran up and stood directly in front of him.

See, mister? the little boy said, as if eagerly sharing a secret.

He pointed down to the white chalked outline, then up to the third-floor window of the apartment Jim had just left.

See what happened, mister?

What?

See, mister, the guy fell through the window! Must’ve been drunk or something, huh?

Yeah, yeah, whatever, Jim muttered.

He didn’t have time for idle chatter. He was busily scouring the street for a taxi to take him and the cat home, he was waving his arm to flag one down.

See, mister? A big mess, too. They had to hose it down.

A taxi finally halted on the prone silhouette.

Jim pushed the unpleasant image from his mind, angry at being forced to imagine it.

Stupid kid! he said to the boy, who backed away in surprise, and he got into the taxi, carrying the cardboard box.

Got something in there? asked the driver gingerly as they pulled away.

A cat. That okay?

Oh, sure. Love ‘em. We had a pretty one till it clawed up all the furniture. Missus didn’t want to declaw it, thought that was cruel, so we had to give it away. How old is it?

Not sure, just got it now. Not much more than a kitten, really.

Jim looked through the holes where the cat calmly sat.

Mind if I let it out of the box? I’m scared it’ll suffocate.

Be my guest. As long as it doesn’t get under my feet.

The cat stood on its hind legs and watched attentively through the window as the cityscape flowed past.

Is it male or female?

Female, they said. Not spayed yet either.

I like ‘em, said the driver, any animals. It’s like having another person around.

Yah, said Jim. He couldn’t think of anything more to say, and the conversation died.

He was remembering the time when, as a child, he’d been offered a dollar by a neighbour to throw a bagful of kittens in the river near their street. The unshaven man explained that nobody would want these mixed offspring his cat produced, so it was better to give them a quick death than to let them starve to death, because he couldn’t afford to keep them.

If not the drowning, the neighbour would put them out on the street, just as they were, eyes still closed and begging for their mother’s milk.

Anyway, as an eight-year-old, Jim had been a lot more interested in having that dollar in his pocket than in some dumb mewing kittens that were already in the cloth bag anyway, with the top end knotted up.

Although why the neighbour didn’t want to do it himself, he’d never figured about.

Jim had tossed the canvas bag with its five tiny prisoners and watched, fascinated, as the mass of tiny twisted clawing animals sank down into the black depths, slowly writhing like a ghost.

It was only later in life that the repressed memory of the event had suddenly emerged, and ever since then he’d been haunted by guilt. He wanted a cat as a pet, but felt after what he’d done, he didn’t deserve one.

When he walked through the city, he’d see alley cats watching him from their dark corners. That’s why he’d been so grateful for this animal’s immediate acceptance of him.

He rubbed its head and it purred, the eyes seeming to smile into his. A warm glow moved through him. He was proud of its near-symmetrical markings, its fur smooth and clean, not like a stray cat’s.

Like a storybook ending, having this cat around would finally cure him of that childhood nightmare. As if to reassure him, the cat began to lick his hand.

The taxi stopped at his brownstone townhouse down a quiet side street. Once inside, he led it to the kitchen. He poured out a saucer of milk which it drank thirstily, gazing up with satisfaction as it licked its chops.

He bent over to touch its head affectionately. You’re in good hands now, I’m not going to abandon you like that other guy, that’s for sure.

He smiled to himself. Being a freelance illustrator had its drawbacks, like being at the mercy of whoever was contracting for your work. But he liked the freedom of being able to set his own hours.

After years of struggle, he’d lucked into getting a contract to do drawings for a highly popular series of books for kids by a famous author. That meant he was able to buy this house the year before.

He enjoyed puttering around with it as a fixer-upper, making little repairs here and there. Feeling secure with lots of cash in the bank, he could afford to relax for a while.

The row of brown brick townhouses had originally been built a century ago. They still had coal cellars with low ceilings and coal chutes from the back alley that had been boarded up.

He’d been thinking of doing some renovation in that cellar down the stairs from the trap door in the kitchen floor but hadn’t figured out exactly what yet. He enjoyed the sense of a work in progress that the old house gave him.

Speaking of which… he said aloud, and walked over to the kitchen wall where a plywood board was loosely covering a hole in the wall.

The previous owner had made a hole to install a washing machine and dryer but had thought better of it and left it half-finished. Jim made a mental note to nail it firmly shut soon.

He’d been lonely recently, ever since his girlfriend, Jane, had been hired as a publicist for a book publisher. This meant they couldn’t see as much of each other as they used to, when she hadn’t had to work overtime or go out of town.

She still didn’t want to move in, saying it would destroy the relationship they’d carefully built up if they started getting to know each other’s idiosyncrasies. But I already know you, he’d told her, unconvincingly.

He’d expected a message from her on his answering machine, but there was only the artists’ agency telling him they’d received his submission to apply to do the illustrations for a new children’s book on cats.

At least now he wouldn’t be alone during the days. The cat sat looking up at him, and he