Write = Get Reviews Forum A Darkness from the Light: a s..

A Darkness from the Light I was cold. The freezing spring rain seeped through my thin clothes and all the way to my bones.  And I was alone, a word that I was all too familiar with, especially now amongst the dark, light sucking horde of trees. The woods looked more ominous illuminated under the light of the moon that now seemed otherworldly. Yes, the moon knew the dark secrets of the woods, just as I now knew; it shed its light upon the twisted trees as an unspoken warning, just as a lighthouse illuminates the dangers drifting upon the dark waters of a foggy night. Warnings should be heeded. Months ago my step father told me not to talk back to him. I was never good with cautions- I opened my mouth and verbalized the smartest remark I could think of. What this earned me was a quick trip to a seat on the floor and a bruised cheek. I must have inherited my disobedience from my parents, who were warned by my dying grandfather not to move into his old home after his death; he spoke of dark shadows roaming the surrounding wood at nights, spoke of cursed spirits being released by the lunar light. He whispered hoarsely to them with his last breath: “burn the cursed shack.” His warning gave me chills, while they gave my parents amusement. “Superstitious old coot,” my father muttered to my mother after we had left the room of my freshly dead grandpa. “And you wondered why I was so eager to leave that house and never see him again. I’m telling you, my mother dying young was a blessing in disguise; if she had to see him the way he is…was, she would have been miserable.” My mother glanced over at him with uncertainty. “Are you sure you want to move into his old, creepy place?” He smirked. “His superstition didn’t rub off on you, did it? Anyways, I hate the apartment. And those phantom plagued woods used to be my retreat away from…him. And I think Jude will enjoy it.” He glanced back at me. “You like camping, don’t you sport?” I looked at his back. “I don’t know, we never camped before.” We never did anything together. In fact, I barely spoke to him in all of my twelve years. He was always working, whether at home or at the office, and on the rare occasions that he wasn’t, he was either angry at my mom or at me. And I never knew what I did wrong. Was it my silence? The problem was, I didn’t know what to say to him, I didn’t even know where to begin. He was a stranger. Anyone would think that by the way he called me sport- that awkward word that boyfriends call a girlfriend’s kid when they’re trying to be friendly. It comes off as very unfriendly. A week after grandpa’s funeral, we were settled in the house. When we first arrived it looked exactly like what it was: foreboding. Peeling gray paint, large, dirty windows, a collapsing porch. The inside wasn’t any more inviting- it would have been more fitting for a crypt, with an inch of dust shrouding every surface, the black corners that the dim lights couldn’t reach, the heavy drapes drawn tight to keep out even a speck of sun. And even if the curtains weren’t closed, the light situation would not improve, for even the sun refused to shed its light upon the place, as if it knew that casting rays of gold upon the gloom would do it no good. Over the first few weeks the house got better. I don’t mean that I got used to it, I mean that it transformed from a house for animals to a house for human, thanks my dad’s handyman skills that I hadn’t known he possessed. And over that period of time, when the hammer was pounding as my father fixed and the stereo was blasting Dino as my mother cleaned, I explored. And on day thirteen I found something in the basement. It had taken me a while to build up the nerve creep down the creaky stairs into what looked like a black, endless void. On the day that I finally dared to venture into that dark, dank pit, I was more aware than I had ever been. I was aware of the cold, mold reeked air rushing up to brush my face as I opened the door, I was aware of every groan as I descended the old staircase, and as I reached the bottom and stared back at the blackness, I was aware of a fear prickling at the base of my neck and running up and down my spine. I wasn’t afraid of my inability to see, the fear wasn’t some child’s weakness; no, it was an instinctual fear, the kind that got your blood and adrenaline pumping. I was frozen as I felt something within the darkness set its gaze upon me. I felt another draft rush towards me, one far more fowl, like death. Just as I made a quick move towards the staircase, the basement became alight. “I found the lights, sport,” my dad called from above me. My heart was pounding, just as the hammer had been a minute ago; my breaths were as shaky as my legs.  But relief flooded me and quickly put my body and mind at ease. The evil presence had been my imagination, I was sure of it. Still, my grandfather’s last words reverberated in my mind. Burn the cursed shack.  Why would he say that? I asked myself. Before I could think of an answer, my eyes caught sight of the only object in the basement: a bookshelf. My legs still hadn’t recovered, so I moved across the dirt floor slowly.  The shelf held only four ancient looking books, all without titles. Not wanting to spend another second in the basement, I hurriedly grabbed the books and made my way to the staircase as quickly as I could. That night, as rain and wind beat against my bedroom windows, I sat at my drawing desk and examined the books under the dim lamplight. The first book I opened was a collection of Edgar Allen Poe poems. I hurriedly set it aside, as I disliked the deceased author’s depressing style.  The second book was written in a foreign language; I recognized several of the words from a story I used to read when I was younger, a Cherokee tale. I set it atop the Poe book. The final two were Hemmingway stories. I put those in a separate stack, thinking that if the storm kept me awake I could crack open one of those to accomplish what my mom’s sleeping pills used to, back when I couldn’t sleep and snuck them from her medicine cabinet. Leaning back in my chair, I sighed deeply. There was nothing for me to do; before I had depended on the internet to keep me entertained. But now we lived in desolation, away from any sort of internet tower. I could always text, I said to myself, all the other kids are doing it. But that required two people, and I had no friends. No one wanted to be friends with a bookworm. Overcome by boredom, I grabbed the Cherokee book so that I could amuse myself by reading the funny words aloud. As I flipped it open and saw the change, I nearly dropped it. The letters were no longer foreign; they had changed into English. Every possible theory of how the conversion transpired ran through my mind- had I imagined that the words were Cherokee? Had they been English all along? Was my extroversion finally catching up with me? I didn’t have an answer to any of those questions; all I knew was that the book was now English. After another minute or two of trying to understand what had happened, the excitement ebbed and what was left was boredom. The cure was in my hand- a now perfectly readable book. Shooing away all my disturbing hypotheses, I pushed the book closer to my face and began reading. The first sentence already proved this selection to be leaps and bounds more promising than the other three books lying on my desk- my dangerous curiosity spiked as I read: Evil deeds merit an eternity of perdition. Some Cree never die. Some live on and on until their bones have disintegrated into dust and have leached into the earth. These restless spirits will live on to continue the same deeds that earned them their torturous eternity as shadow walkers- feeding on the innocent. These deities came to be years ago, when our winters brought nothing but death. Nothing would grow, the animals disappeared as if they could smell our desperation for their flesh, our threads were worn thin and no longer kept us warm; even the fire refused to burn bright and lessen some of our suffering. It was those who could not foresee springs arrival, that could not withstand the hunger gnawing at their bellies, that had slain their own people. These victims took the place of the hiding animals. My own ancestors were one of these killers, but they did not receive the punishment. No, it was those who killed the small, the innocent, who suffered eternal life between the two worlds. There are only a few of these dark spirits, and they remain only where they were buried, marked by wherever light will not reach. As lifetimes pass, the eternal spirits grow blacker and blacker as they lure the pure to their shadowy earths. It is the pure that feed them; yet it is the pure that can set them free, for only the victim can forgive the committer. A loud rapping at the door caused me to jump in my seat, which caused the book to slip from my hands and drop to the floor. My mother walked in before I had a chance to pick it up. She smiled at me with her meticulously painted lips as she slid a palm over her white-blonde, straightened hair. “Sweets, now you do realize that sitting by yourself in a dark room is the reason that you have no friends, don’t you?” I just glanced in her direction and then looked back down at the book. Her penny colored eyes followed my gaze and she hurried forward and snatched the book from the floor before I could. She was fast, a marathon runner, a star athlete in high school and some of college. Unfortunately, I ended her dream of making it to nationals, as she always reminds me. My dad’s time to shine was over before I was conceived. He was a football player in college; in his senior year he sustained an injury to his leg from an opposing team’s quarterback. He still walks with a limp. I figured one reason he could hate me was because once when I was nine, I asked him about his leg. I got my response… and something else. At-least now I knew what not to start our conversations with.  “What is this, anyways? Sweets, are you trying to read Latin?” “That’s not Latin…” I started, then realized from my mother’s words that the book was now no longer in English. I was shocked, almost enough to tune out mother’s haughty words. “Please, like you would know what Latin is or isn’t. I did go to college, you know.” I outstretched my hand in a gesture for her to give me back the book. She shook her head at me before thrusting it into my grasp and then placing her hands on her hips. “Look, I don’t think it’s healthy for a young boy to be so…introvert. Why don’t you come downstairs and chat with your father and I?” That was the last thing I wanted, to be in the company of my parents and the awkward silence that always accompanied our pointless ‘family’ gatherings. And now even more so I wanted to be alone; I felt as though I were on the brink of discovering something bizarre, unnatural- a dark secret that lay waiting for someone to uncover and expose. But as my mother copied my gesture- outstretching her hand towards me- I knew that I would have to come downstairs with her to our new living room. Slowly, I stood from my chair; reluctantly, I placed the mysterious book on my desk. My mother smiled at my obedience and swirled around to face the door then proceed to walk from my room. It wasn’t until I heard the pattering of her bare feet as she skipped down the stairs that I too made my way to the first floor. Right before I entered the room, I heard my father talking to my mother. His voice sounded outraged; it was times like these that I learned to stay away; far away. I almost left, thinking that they were about to recycle the same old argument; but the words that he spat out held my feet to the ground. “Can you believe him? I was ten years old and he called me “impure”! Right in his stupid, gay journal! I mean, who says that about a kid, about their own son? And who the hell writes in a journal? Only insane people!” “Sweetie, where did you get that?” “In his room…and that’s totally besides the point! Look at this nonsense. He wrote: ‘only a pure child can undo what has been done so many years ago by my ancestors; only a pure child can set them free and end their malice, for only the victim can forgive the committer. That is not my son, that is not my son. He has a heart like his mother- impatient, cruel, unjust.’ Who the hell says stuff like that?” I moved my foot and the floor creaked. My father immediately called my name. I cringed. My position had been compromised. I moved from behind the wall and into the living room. He looked as angry as he sounded, with his dark Cherokee brow furrowed and his ebony eyes shining with a fierce hate.  “Come here, Chevey.” My true name was Cheveyo; my father was uninterested in me since birth, so much so that he let his father pick my name. My mother was more into the whole Native American culture than my father was, so she was giddy about her son having such a name. I stepped forward about an inch before my father hurled a book at me; I had just enough time to catch it before it whacked me in the face. “You never knew your grandpa; now you can see what a genuinely loving man he was.” I looked at the leather bound book in my hands and knew immediately it was my grandfather’s journal. I glanced up to see my mother frowning disapprovingly at my father. “Match,” she started, using the nickname everyone called him instead of his full name Matchitehew . “Don’t let him read that…” Before she could say anymore, he stalked out of the room. Without glancing at me, she followed after him, no doubt to start another argument. I wasn’t shocked by what had transpired; if anything surprised me it was that the argument hadn’t escalated to involve more book throwing and glass smashing. As I glanced at the book again, I realized that the words my father repeated from the journal in my hands were exactly the same as those in the book on my desk. Excited, I bounded moved to the couch across the room and fell into it. I opened and began to read. “The woods are everything that they shouldn’t be: lifeless, no green, only black. No animals, no leaves on the naked, dead trees.  The first time I walked through the graveyard of trees, I could feel the coldness of the ground under my boots, as if I were walking barefooted on ice. Just yesterday I felt a presence, dark and evil, stalking me. I shuddered, thinking it was death, but turned around and saw nothing. But it was there, the same thing that froze the ground. Something terrible lies amongst the trees; something ancient and evil. I need to know what it is.” I flipped to the middle of the book, and began scanning until words caught my attention. “I moved to this land before I discovered it was the burial place of those ancestors who had died so long ago after their terrible sin. Matchitehew had gone into the wood many a time; the spirits would have devoured him the moment he entered into the woods, their burial place, if he were pure of heart. But he returned the first time, and many a time after. I should not have been surprised; I discovered years after his birth that the name I was guided to give him means evil heart. Not to mention he couldn’t read the book; only those who can end the spirits can read it. But perhaps it is a good thing that he does not possess the quality necessary to end the evil devourers; after all, the pure child destined to release the dark shadow looming over this land would have to bear a great sacrifice, one with such a magnitude that I cannot allow any child near this property, no matter how pure I think they are. Too great a sacrifice for so small and innocent a person.” There was rambling about the house becoming decrepit, about bad tasting food, about loneliness. And then I came across the most intriguing information yet. “I understand now; the spirits have full reign on a certain nights, which I am certain are the same nights that they killed their children. For as long as I’ve lived here I have sensed in this house, on the nights from January 10-12, that same presence that I have felt in the woods. It walks through the house, stalks me sometimes; but it can’t harm me. I pity them, sometimes; I think they sense this, for during those times they stay by my side.” I glanced from the book to look at my clock; the digital calendar on the face of my watch read January 10.Immediately I knew that the presence I had felt in basement was the same that my grandfather had written about. Excited, and frightened, I turned my attention back to the book. “It was during this time last year, on January the 11th, that I happened to glance outside my bedroom window. The Moon was out; it penetrated through the trees, illuminated the fog in a way that made it glow. If I hadn’t known the truth about this land I would have thought I imagined what flashed into my view. But alas, the moon only confirmed that which I was already certain of. There they were on the edge of the wood, no more than twenty feet away from me, the eternally damned spirits bathing in the moon beams as if the lunar light would burn away the sins of their past . What a horrid sight they were; only cursed beings could possess their appearances. Women couldn’t even be discerned from men; they were all just creatures, monsters, like something out of those horror movies that all of the kids are watching nowadays.  They are disgusting in every way; yet they are my people, and I feel the need to help them. It is too late for me to do anything; but today, Matchitehew brought me news of a baby to be born. Perhaps there is hope for salvation yet.” I paused in surprise by the mention of me, but only for a moment; I knew something important was written over the next pages. “I know now that he is the one, my grandson; I met him, I looked into his eyes, and I knew immediately what I was to name him: Cheveyo: spirit warrior. He is to be the savior of our damned ancestors; I can be at peace now, knowing that his destiny will be by guided by the Great Spirit in the heavens. Cheveyo will come to this place, in his youth and innocence, and he will lift the curse from our tormented people. I will give him the book handed down from my ancestors; I am the only remaining member of my family who can speak Cherokee, but I will not read the book to Cheveyo. No, if he is able to read it himself, then I will know for certain that he is the savior; for it is written that the savior will be capable of reading the book, whether he speaks the language or not.” I was stunned, utterly shocked. I found what I was looking for: an explanation for why I could read a book written in Cherokee. I also found something completely unexpected: my supposed destiny.  Not a second passed before I began flipping through the book again, hoping to find more written about my future. In the end I only found pages filled with nonsensical babblings; no more was spoken about me or the monsters that roamed the woods. I closed the book and my eyes. Never before had I thought about my purpose in life. My parents never discussed my future, never asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up; I have always felt like a pointless being just taking up space, using up precious oxygen. Yes, I was young; I had time to discover my vocation. But after coming to this place and reading my grandfather’s prophecy, something stirred from within me- something that I had never felt before. My life now had a purpose, a great one. If I didn’t seize the opportunity to save my ancestors I would regret it for the rest of my life. And so out I went into the wet, cold night, into the blackness of the forest where the creatures waited for a young soul like me to enter into their domain where they would devour him. I wasn’t certain what my task involved, how I would set the cursed people free. Was my desire all that it took? Did they simply need to look into my eyes and see that that was my intention? I realized there was the distinct possibility that I was walking to my doom and that I was going about the whole thing the wrong way. Supposedly I was a pure soul, the one meant to set them free, but how do those creatures know that? And even if they do, do they actually want to be set free? They could very easily have lost every part of them that was once human and now all that remains are animal instincts. But something kept pushing me forward, even though with twig that crunched under my boots I became frightfully aware of how deathly quiet the night was, how ominous the pale moon’s light seemed as it shone down on the barren trees.  It was the spirit in the heavens that kept me moving, that I was certain of. Too long had His people been without a savior; they had served their sentence, and now it was time for them to be released from their prison and their wretched bodies. I moved forward several feet. Then a loud swooshing noise sounded right near my ear as a gust of wind passed over me. I froze in fear. My heart was hammering so loudly that I couldn’t hear anything else. But I could feel it- I could sense something behind me. It was that same presence I had felt before, when I went into the basement. I couldn’t stand it, having that dark presence staring at my back, not knowing whether or not it was about to devour me; but I could not make myself turn around, no matter what comforting words I spoke to myself. Once again, I felt a little push inside me, convincing me that it would be alright. My limbs unfroze, even relaxed; slowly, I began to turn around.  All of the noises I had been creating- my heavy breaths, my pounding heart- stopped as I moved to face the spirit at my back. Even if I had known what the monster had looked like, I still wouldn’t have been able to prepare myself for standing in its presence, in all of its cursed abhorrence. I understood why my grandfather had not attempted to describe the being’s appearance; there are no words for the repugnant creature that stood before me. It looked like death, with its long, stretched limbs no thicker than sticks, skin the color of tar, milky, luminescent eyes sunken deep into its black skulls. Strands of greasy, black hair hung over the side of its head; its clothing looked as though it were made from the slime that coated the nearby swamp- strands of the matter hung from its limbs and dripped a dark residue. As soon I had taken in the entirety of the thing, my heart started beating again, more rapidly than it ever had. I wanted to step back, to turn on my heels and run away. I wanted to leave the forest, the house, the disgusting things, and never look back. But this time, the spirit that had helped my bones unfreeze took them back to that state again. There was no moving anywhere until I completed my task. And even if my feet weren’t nailed to the ground, the thing’s eyes would have done the job. Those white orbs stared into my eyes, pulled me into them like a black hole in space. One could have gotten lost in those orbs; they sucked you in. Suddenly I felt panic as I decided that it was trying to work its evil spell on me, the same spell that it has used on its child victims for centuries. But just before I began to lower my gaze, its eyes changed. They began to clear, and soon, under the thin film of white, an iris and a pupil became visible.  Somehow the huge eyes became wider; the lips parted as if surprised. And then, it spoke. Its voice was deep, gravelly; it was like thunder, but more frightening. “Impossible,” It said, its tone flat. The eyes scanned my face slowly before returning to my eyes. “How can this be, after so many years?” Somehow, I found my voice. “I’ve come to free you. Your punishment is over and now you can be at peace.” It looked into my eyes and its copper irises began to glow with an emotion I couldn’t discern. “I never expected a child to know our story, let alone forgive us or be brave enough to break our curse.” The eyes looked off into the night sky as the ochre in them burned more fervently. “It’s been so long since I remember feeling anything but hunger and desire for…” “Children,” I finished, surprising myself by my boldness. But he just nodded, and so I continued, feeling the need to confirm what I assumed to be the truth. “You were like animals after you killed your children, weren’t you? You forgot everything.” He looked at me, and I saw a deep sadness. “They were starving; they were in pain. We do not regret ending their misery…only the deed we committed after. And as punishment, we did remember, long after we were supposed to die, long after we began changing into the monsters that we are now. It was only a hundred years ago that we began to forget everything. And then we began committing the sin over again.” I wasn’t frightened now that I knew that he recognized me as the one to save him; somehow, seeing the humanity return to his eyes and spread to his face was gratifying. But I felt a sudden urgency, no doubt spurred by the Great Spirit above that suggested that I needed to complete the cure. “Where are the others?” I asked, but knew that it didn’t matter. I suddenly knew what I had to do in order to release all of them, and it did not require them all to be present. The fear that I had felt earlier returned for the sacrifice I was about to carry out. The now grey face twisted in what I assumed was a smile. “We are forever indebted to you, young one,” it said, it’s voice now softer, with less rumbling. He reached out his hand to me, and I grasped it with my own shaky one. I looked up into the things eyes, now on the verge of panic. “Am I going to die?” “For a little while. Now be still.” I felt something sharp plunge into my hand, then travel into my wrist. The thing pulled away, and I gasped at the pain and what I saw: a gaping hole in my palm from which blood poured freely. I watched as the ground at my feet turned red, I watched until I saw black spots before my eyes. I felt my knees give out from under me, but something caught me. The beast whispered something to me, and with what little strength I had left I opened my eyes. I was on the ground, my head in the lap of a man, who a few seconds ago was the beast I had been speaking with.   “Look at the work of your pure blood,” he said, his voice now human. My eyes did not see any change at my surroundings at first, but after a second glance I saw that on the ground was something strange. There was my pool of blood on the ground, but from it spread countless thin veins that stretched father than I could see. “It has spread out to find and cure the rest of us.” I tilted my head so that I could look into his face; I wasn’t scared as I felt the life drain from me, not with a human near me, holding my hand. The man had a kind face. His copper skin matched his eyes, which were bright with an emotion that I now recognized as joy. “Do you understand what happens now?” “Yes,” I croaked, “I don’t know how, but I do.” He gripped my hand tighter, and I felt something flow back into my palm; the process was almost complete. “Close your eyes, spirit warrior.” I did as he told me. Everything went dark.                                                                         As soon as my eyes opened I knew that everything that had happened wasn’t a dream. The trees were in full bloom, the ground underneath me was no longer hard clay, but soft grass, the morning sun shone brightly, no longer afraid to waste its glory on the once gloomy landscape. The curse had been lifted from my people and from the land; and the cost was already evident to me. Yes, I could see the sun more clearly, I could hear all of the sounds of the surrounding nature, I could smell every fragrance in the air better than a dog could; I knew that once I stood up I would be able to feel the strength of my limbs that a human could only dream of possessing. Such things would be considered powers or gifts in stories. But the truth of it is that such animalistic qualities are accompanied by animalistic tendencies.  When my ancestors killed their children, they were punished. Nature transformed man into beast. Their punishment ended, but because there must always be a balance, there had to be a beast to take their place. I sacrificed my humanity, and now, as my ancestors were, I am a beast controlled by hunger. Now, when the full moon rises and casts its beams upon this forest, my domain, I am unleashed. And so it will be until my curse is lifted by another brave soul willing to take my place.