The Pacts We Make For Love: A Dark Contemporary Fantasy Read online

  “Well I don’t. As you can plainly see. But I want to make it up to you. You’re a smart man. I want to fund your schooling.”

  “Since when?”

  Matt shrugged. “I want to make amends. I’ve done you wrong. Let me fix it.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “You’re in a bad state, man. Look at you.”

  “I’m clean.”

  “For what? The past eight hours, while you slept? In the woods from the looks of it. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  “Why?”

  “I woke up this morning, and in my heart of hearts, I knew that it was the right thing to do.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m glad you decided to make amends. I’ll happily take your money. Thanks.”

  “When will I see you again?” The desperation in Matt’s voice was revolting. He’d once thought Matt a worldly, sophisticated, genteel man. No more.

  “When you cut me that check. Goodbye.”

  James left and drove home. With each passing minute, dread mounted. Would his possessions be heaped in the front lawn? Or transmuted to ash? He wouldn’t put it past his father. He was the sort of man who’d call a toll line and hand over his credit card number to any huckster televangelist asking for “seed” money, in the hopes that God would make him rich. Burning the homosexual taint from the house would seem logical.

  Gravel crunched as he pulled into the driveway. To his relief, his belongings were not in a pile in the front lawn. He exited his car, walked to the front door, and breathed deep. His fists clenched. This was his home. Nothing to fear.

  He opened the door.

  His Mom ran up to him and swept him into a hug. Dark makeup smudged her face and her hair was in disarray. “My boy, my boy. Harold! Our boy is back!”

  “What’s wrong?” He’d expected a motherly excoriation of biblical proportions. Kindness and compassion were not two of his mother’s virtues. Her lack of makeup further disturbed him; she wouldn’t be caught dead without her face on, as she put it.

  His dad’s heavy footsteps shook the floorboards. Harold Brown was a large man in every way, James took after him. His dad nearly bulled them over as he wrapped his bear-like arms around both of them.

  “Dad, I can’t breathe. What’s gotten into you guys?”

  “We drove around all night looking for you,” said his dad, voice hoarse, like he’d been screaming all night. “We were afraid…afraid that you’d gone and...done something-” His dad’s voice hitched. He couldn’t eke out the words.

  “No, no,” James said, bewildered. “I just needed some time to myself. That’s all.”

  “We wanted to apologize,” his mom said. “We treated you horribly last night. Our hearts were full of sin. We’re so sorry.”

  “It’s-it’s ok.” Had doppelgängers replaced his parents? Was this the work of the haint? Had to be.

  “We love you, James. It’s no business of ours who you love. Love who you want. We just want you to be happy, ok?” His dad’s eyes shimmered.

  “Uh yeah, sure Dad. You’re not kicking me out?”

  “Of course not,” said his mom. “This is your home. Why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll fix you some breakfast?”

  “No, really, it’s fine. I already ate. I could use some sleep though.”

  “Sure thing. Sleep as long as you need.”

  They hugged him one more time, then left him to shower. Wow. His Mom was normally an early morning fascist. If you weren’t up when the rooster crows, you were a lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch just waiting on their next gub’mint check.

  Time passed and the haint remained true to their word. That wasn’t to say he never encountered hardship. His mother was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer, and later that same month, an annual physical revealed basal cell carcinoma on his father’s left trapezius. Those six months of chemo made his hair go white, but his parents miraculously recovered. James had nothing to confirm his suspicions, but he believed that this too, was the work of the haint.

  True to his word, Matt paid for James’ schooling. James started off at his local community college, then transferred to a four year university for his remaining years. He bounced between majors, ultimately graduating with an English degree and a wonderful boyfriend. Matt wasn’t pleased about that. His wife had left him, and the entirety of his savings went towards funding James education—his grades left no room for scholarships.

  Truth be told, it was almost as if their situations had reversed. Last time James saw Matt, track marks dotted the inside of his left arm—like all of James’ vices had been passed to him.

  Between graduation and his new boyfriend, James had little time to worry. Unable to find a job in the current economic climate, James went back to school for an engineering degree. It was a tough three years. It killed the remainder of Matt’s savings, and that wonderful boyfriend revealed himself as an abusive piece of shit. Nevertheless, he dragged himself through those dark times, and at the end, he was rewarded with a high-powered tech consulting job.

  There were times that he despised it, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he could’ve been a management consultant, charged with killing the livelihoods of thousands so that executives could make millions. Instead, he indirectly killed the livelihoods of thousands by automating their jobs away. Much more palatable; when was progress ever bloodless?

  Eventually, he did find a man he wanted to marry—a dashing Spaniard in the C-Suite of a rival tech consulting firm. A few sunset walks down Las Ramblas and a summer-long project in Mallorca ended with an early autumn wedding in Capri. He was making two million a year. He’d started his own company and by underpaying his associates, he was able to keep most of the money for himself (perks of being the boss), and if they wanted to make more, then they could take their skills elsewhere. He flew out his parents, aunts, and uncles. Franco’s family was not as accepting as only his sister attended, but he had ten dozen friends to balance the lack of family.

  A few years later they adopted an orphaned baby girl. They named her Amelie; she was the pride and joy of their lives.

  Memories of his meeting with the haint were wispy cobwebs. Sometimes, in the odd hours of the night, flashes of that meeting ran through his mind. Had it ever actually happened? He’d read much of false memories, and a meeting with an eldritch being sitting at desk at the bottom of the marsh qualified.

  He’d built his business empire with his own hands, watered it with his own blood, fertilized it with his toil. Oh, he’d had help along the way. Matt’s money, for one. He admitted that, but he also knew he was the type of man who’d have found a way no matter what. Whatever had become of Matt? He’d moved out of Camberbury for a job across the country, and James hadn’t heard from him since.

  His life drifted along, and Amelie turned two. James struck a deal with a Fortune 100 company that would catapult him from generically wealthy, to the stratospheric heights of the obscenely, disgustingly rich. The type of rich that owned sports teams.

  As an energy company, their new partner was interested in newly discovered oil deposits near Camberbury. Extracting them would require fracking, and James’s company was contracted to provide essential analysis and technologies.

  That was when the dreams started. At first, they were formless nonsensical things, as most dreams are. He thought nothing of them. This was a stressful time in his life—he was working ninety hour weeks—it was only natural that his sleep would be fraught with tension. But the nightmares did not abate. Franco suggested that he take some time off. A reasonable suggestion. Franco’s suggestions were always reasonable. That was one of the reasons James married him.

  They took a trip to the Keys, leaving Amelie with his parents.

  After the umpteenth time waking up screaming and drenched in sweat, dark thoughts bubbled forth. Parts of his past that he’d locked away for years.

  “It’s the same dream every time?” Franco asked.

  “Every time. I burst into the boardroom and gun down every single one of those poor bastards. Even the blood spatters are the same.”

  “What happens if you try not to?”

  “Amelie contracts polio and you become a paraplegic.”

  “Christ,” Franco said. “That’s oddly specific. Do you think it’s a manifestation of our work stress?”

  “Sure, Freud.”

  “No need to be like that.”

  “Sorry. I’m not sleeping well.”

  “Maybe you should talk to someone. I know you had some tough times in your past, maybe it’d do you good to unburden yourself.”

  “I’ve tried that before. I’m not sure it did me any good.”

  “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try again.”

  “They’ll try to put me on some pills, and you know I can’t think when I’m on that shit.”

  “James, just because you go to a therapist doesn't mean you have to be medicated. You’ve heard of CBT, right? It helps.”

  “I know.”

  “My sister had her demons. They’re not gone, but they don’t control her now. You’ve never reckoned with your past.”

  “Franco, I barely remember my early years. There’s not much to talk about. I grew up in a backwards town, and through luck and a lot of hard work, I ended up where I am today.”

  Franco placed his hand on James’ shoulder. “Please. Just do it for our daughter. I’m worried. You’ve lost weight you didn’t have to lose. You don’t eat. You don’t go to the gym. Your performance at work has taken a hit.”

  James’ voice hardened. “I’ve given everything to our company.”

  “You have and you do. But what you give since these nightmare’s started is not your best, and we need your best.”

  Jam
es found a therapist, an affable man with a serious, scientific demeanor. For a while, it seemed like the sessions helped; the nightmares remained, but he mentally distanced himself. But they returned with a vengeance, more vivid and detailed than ever.

  Memories of the haint, long suppressed, wormed their way into the sunlight. Of a deal made and a favor owed. This wasn’t the first time he thought of that night, but there was an urgency to the memory that wasn’t present before. Every time the memory came back, he practiced his mindfulness and pushed it away. The doctor thought hit might be a manifestation of his past trauma.

  On a chilly autumn night, he took a jog in the private gardens surrounding their home. His path was well lit and well worn. Arches of blue and pink orchids guided his way. Spanish moss hung in great billowing sheets from towering weeping willows. So thick was the foliage that the air in his garden was noticeably cleaner than in the surrounding neighborhood—he refused to run anywhere else.

  This was his second lap. Sweat glistened on his forehead, but his breathing remained calm and steady. Thoughts of next week occupied his mind. The client would officially commence drilling operations in Camberbury. There were only a few things he needed.

  His thoughts came to a halt as one by one the lights along the path winked out. If they’d gone dark all at once he wouldn’t think much of it—power outages happened. But going dark one by one…that had a sinister theater.

  He kept jogging. He knew this path by memory. He didn’t need sight.

  The temperature dropped from sixty to twenty within three footsteps. The air acquired a gelid viscosity that clogged his lungs. Freezing mud sucked at his legs. Noxious marsh gases bubbled up. Out in the Great Dark, titanic shapes slithered around him, looping around themselves in great coils.

  Frost rimed his eyelashes. Fear scratched his heart with icy talons.

  “You owe me a favor,” said the haint from the darkness.

  “You’re real.”

  “Did you ever doubt?”

  “At times.”

  “You live in a modern day Versailles and you’re wealthier than almost any human alive. Few come from such humble beginnings to these lofty heights. You should be on your knees thanking me each and every day.”

  “I’ll start now.”

  “The time for worship has passed. You’ll return my favor.”

  “You’ve seen what I desire.”

  “You want me to murder a boardroom full of people?”

  “I want you to fulfill your end of our bargain.” She finally appeared from the shadows, her wizened head shrouded in a mane of white hair. She was short; she barely came up to his chest. She was the lure of an anglerfish. Just one small part of a vast, unfathomable whole.

  “What if I don’t?”

  The haint sighed, like an entire forest rustling its leaves. “James, have I not been very kind to you?”

  “No. What kind of creature comes to a man in his lowest Moment, grants him his wildest dreams, then asks him to commit murder in return? The devil. That’s who.”

  A small smile cracked her face. “I’m more guardian angel than devil. Would you give up everything I’ve given you? Would you be thrown back to that Moment? Become an addict bereft of friends, family, purpose, and prospects?”

  His silence was the only answer required.

  “Then do as I ask. Else I’ll claim my boon in other ways.”

  The darkness retreated like the ebbing tide, leaving him alone in his garden.

  Numb, he checked his phone. He sent out an email postponing tomorrow’s board meeting for another week. When he returned home, Amelie had a fever of one hundred and three. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead.

  “Daddy,” she said weakly. Coughs wracked her tiny body.

  “What happened?” he asked Franco. His husband paced a circle around the room.

  “We were dancing to a song when she said she felt bad, then collapsed to the ground. No warning. She stood, said a few words, then fell again. We need to call an ambulance.”

  “That’ll take too long,” James said. “I’ll drive her. You tend to her in the backseat.”

  James retrieved the car. Franco carried Amelia from the house and buckled her into her car seat.James drove fifty over the speed limit.

  “Amelia’s fever went up another degree,” Franco said, checking the thermometer. By the time they got to the hospital, her fever had broken, replaced by icy skin and blue lips.

  In the ER, the triage nurse asked if she’d gotten locked in an icebox. Ten minutes later her body temperature spiked to one hundred and six. Twenty minutes passed and it plummeted to eighty-nine. The doctors were aghast.

  “What the fuck is happening?” Franco said, in the hallway after the nurse returned with the latest report.

  “I- I don’t know, love,” James said.

  “My God, if our daughter dies, I’m going to kill each and every one of these doctors. Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

  “How about we step outside for a second? Let’s give the doctors some space, collect ourselves, then come back in.”

  They went outside to the smoking area. An elderly woman puffed away at a fat hand-rolled cigarette. She nodded grimly.

  “You want one?” Franco asked, holding out the pack.

  “No thanks-” Above them, steel screamed. James looked up as a piece of rebar fell onto Franco’s outstretched arm, shearing it clean off at the elbow.

  Franco stared at his bleeding stump, then at his severed arm. The old lady screamed first, her cigarette falling from her mouth. Franco’s olive skin blanched and he fainted. James caught him as he fell; he couldn’t think. A fireman quickly retrieved and carried his husband into the ER and roared for help, Franco’s blood soaking his jacket.

  A group of nurses rushed to grab Franco. They grabbed him, placed him on a stretcher, and wrapped his stump in a tourniquet.

  “Do you have his arm?” asked one of the nurses.

  “It’s outside. Should I fetch it?” James wanted to laugh from the absurdity of the exchange.

  “Take me to it.”

  The nurse retrieved Franco’s arm, cradling it like a baby.

  James spent the rest of the night in the hospital. By the next morning, both Amelie and Franco were in induced comas. Franco suffered a series of complications when the surgeons attempted to reattach his arm. Amelie continued to yo-yo between hypothermic and hyperthermic states.

  At seven AM, James retracted his most recent email, scheduling the board meeting for three PM. There were some grumbles, but all parties eventually agreed. That gave him a few hours to pick out a gun from his collection. He chose one of his AR-15 variants, along with a Smith and Wesson 460. Go big or go home.

  The receptionist in his office lobby eyed the AR-15 warily.

  “Don’t worry,” James said, giving his best reassuring smile. “I have an open carry permit. I’m just exercising my rights.”

  “Heh, yessir,” she said, laughing nervously.

  He took the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor. Fifty steps to the right, thirty to the left, eighteen to the right again.

  He made a stop in the bathroom. He couldn’t do this. Not even with Franco and Amelie in the hospital. Shady dealings and questionable ethics dotted his past, but there was no such thing as a successful business person without sin. And if there was, well...they’d made a deal with the Devil.

  As he splashed cold water on his face, the lights went out.

  Amelie’s tiny, cherubic face appeared in the mirror. Purple lips. Eyes as dead as chips of green glass. Silent and still as freshly fallen snow.

  Vacant eyes rolled towards him.

  “Why didn’t you save me?” her dead voice whispered in his ear.

  He screamed and pivoted. The lights snapped back on. The gun was cradled in his arms and the safety was switched to the off position.

  “Shoot them” was written in frost on the bathroom mirror. The words smeared as the ice melted.

  Supernatural messages rarely got more direct than that, he reckoned. A fatalistic resolve settled on him, deadening his morals. His path, if not his conscience, was clear. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, see Amelie and Franco die for a bargain he made all those years ago. The haint wasn’t wrong. She’d given him so much.