Dastardly Bastard by Edward Lorn

was in his head. She’d made herself at home in his thoughts.
    “Where would you like to be?”
    “Home. In my bed. Asleep and dreaming this entire thing.” His recliner and fridge full of beer would beat a nightmare any day of the week. He wondered absently if his goldfish were still alive.
    “You are home.” Annabelle tilted her ghastly head. A pinkish liquid dribbled from the remains of her hollow eye socket down onto her left shoulder. “This place is now your home.”
    “I don’t know this place. I would know my home.”
    “I promise. It is.” She gestured to the pictures lining the walls around them. “This is you, Mr. Simmons. All of you. All that you ever were and will be. This is your home. Your past, present, and future life. Everything. Remember, Mark. Remember for me.”
    Mark stood in that hallway, lost in time, studying the photos with a reminiscent gaze. His life played out before him in stark relief. Every piece of who he was resided on those walls—forgotten times, tarnished memories, reoccurring atrocities, tides of war, the dead and dying.
    Are we nothing more than fleeting thoughts? Images captured on glossy paper? A product of our memories? Is that all we are?
    “These are your memories, Mark.” He noted that she had stopped calling him Mr. Simmons. “Your memories remain. Your memories sustain .”
     

21
     
     
    JALEEL WARNER SETTLED IN BEHIND Lyle so he could get a good look at the pictures on the boy’s cell phone. Id floated beside him, sparks popping off its misty form.
    “What am I looking at?” Lyle asked, sounding confused.
    “That’s you, little man,” Trevor said. “Heading for the cliff. You tried to off yourself.”
    Not exactly how Jaleel would have put it, but he supposed the guy was right.
    “They must be starting at the most recent pic,” Justine said.
    The still frame was of Lyle’s first step toward the chasm’s void. He’d pushed off the rock face, but his hands were still planted, palms against the stone. What bothered Jaleel was the entity above the boy’s head, a darkness thicker than any shadow he’d ever seen.
    “Go to the next.” Jaleel leaned in closer as the boy swiped his finger across the screen. Though the shot wasn’t much different—Lyle was maybe a few inches back, his rear end still pressed against the rock face—the shade behind the boy was deeper, more present. “These must be from Mark’s camera.”
    “How do you know?” Trevor asked.
    “Who else could have taken them? Plus, he’s the only one not in the picture.” Then to Lyle, he said, “Keep going.”
    The pictures slid by as Lyle worked his finger over the screen. Each shot was maybe two seconds apart, playing out like a flipbook cartoon.
    Finally, Jaleel put a hand on Lyle’s wrist, stopping him.
    “What the fuck is that?” Trevor asked, squinting as he bent to look at the phone.
    “That’s what I was looking for.” Jaleel sighed. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt it wasn’t right. Something about the image made his heart beat just a little fast in his chest. What he was seeing wasn’t possible, but there it was, hovering.
    In the picture, Lyle stood at the rock face, staring into his mother’s raging eyes, his own eyes wide and scared. Behind Marsha, a thick inkblot dripped what looked like tar onto her back. The obsidian ropes played over her arms, tethering her like a puppet. It loomed, smiling.
    Trevor exploded. “ That thing’s got a face? ”
    “It’s been there the whole time, from the first photo on, just not as solid. Keep going, Lyle,” Justine said. Jaleel met the woman’s eyes. Her stare told that she knew more than she was letting on.
    Lyle began scrolling again, the pictures fleeing in reverse time. Jaleel watched in stunned shock as the shadow toiled over his revolving form.
    You looked like an idiot , Id said.
    Shut it.
    Just saying. We have work to do. Are you about done?
    I’m ignoring you now.
    As you wish.
    The inkblot settled