Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection by Anthony Barnhart Page A

creak underfoot. He reaches the top landing. All is dark. It frightens him. He can feel his heart playing metal music in his chest, beating hard against his ribs. Adrenaline courses through his system. He hears movement. A scuffling. Slurping. “Ben?” His voice catches in his throat, comes out as a meager whisper, barely audible over his hammering heart. The door to Ben’s bedroom is closed. The man places his hand on the cold bronze doorknob and turns. The locking mechanism creaks, and the door groans as it opens. He stares into the blackness, steps into the room. The sounds are very close, on the opposite side of the King-sized bed. He stands beside one of the windows with the shades drawn.
    “Ben?” Now his voice works.
    The sounds stop.
    Images come into focus.

    “Oh my God…”
    Ben’s beady red eyes stare at him from the other side of the bed. The dog lies on the covers, abdomen ripped open, blood crawling over the sides. In one of Ben’s hands is the dog’s intestines. The other is raised to his mouth as he feasts on the liver. Blood trails down his chin. The man says, almost without emotion, “That’s fucked up.”
    Ben shrieks, leaping to his feet, tossing the liver and intestines to the side. The man grabs the shades and yanks. The bar holding the shades at the top of the window snaps. They fall to the ground, sunlight coursing through the room. Ben shrieks in pain, raising a hand to his face. The man holds the gun out, shaking wildly, pointed right at him. “Ben… Ben…
    What the fuck, Man? What the fuck ?”
    Ben throws himself over the bed, reaching out for the man.
    The gun sings. The bullet slams into the wall. Fragments of drywall fly. Ben isn’t fazed. He trips over the dog’s carcass and rolls off the bed, onto the floor. The man turns to run and slams into the wall. Blinding pain races up his nose. He turns just as Ben is upon him. He swings the gun up and fires. The bullet arcs through Ben’s neck, a spray of blood hitting the man in the face. Ben tumbles to the ground, grasping at his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. The man turns.
    And runs.

    He staggers into the street, the cold rain igniting his senses. He falls to the ground, mud soaking through the pants on his knees. He drops the gun into the earth and lets out a choking sob. He falls onto his side and rolls onto his back, staring up at the gray sky. Rain falls into his mouth as he gasps for air among the horrendous tears. He dry heaves and twists onto his side, vomiting. His stomach empties itself, then he rolls onto his back and lies in the rain. The gunshot continues to echo in his ears.

    III

    He throws the gun onto the floor in his own house.
    Blood covers his hands.
    Anthony Barnhart
    Dwellers of the Night
    53

    Ben’s blood .
    He rushes up the steps, knowing only one thing: the blood must come off. An old line from an ancient Shakespeare text rushes through his mind: “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. He throws open the door to the bedroom.
    He stops in his tracks. “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

    It wasn’t a dream.

    Kira’s body lies entangled in the bed-sheets, bloodied and mangled. Her blue LA FEMME gown is stained with dirt and blood, riddled with multiple stab wounds. The kitchen knife lies on the wrangled, bloodied bed-sheets. He stands in the doorway, staring at her. Her head is twisted to the side, drools of blood hanging from her lips. Those lifeless eyes stare at him, mocking him. He can almost see the lips moving: “Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.”
    He falls beside the bed. “Oh my God… Oh my God…”
    He takes her hand in his. Cold. Stiff.
    “What have I done?” he moans. “What have I done?”
    He kisses her cryptic hand. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”

    What kind of monster have I become?
    He hopes and prays he is