Darkness Descends Read online

  Darkness Descends

  The Twisted Climb Book 2

  by J.C. Kavanagh

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0298-9

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0299-6

  WEB 978-0-2286-0300-9

  BWL Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0301-6

  Amazon Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0302-3

  B&N Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0303-0

  Copyright 2018 by J.C. Kavanagh

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  To Ian – you continue to be my greatest supporter and for that, I am eternally grateful.

  Also, a special thanks to Laura-Lash Campbell, my monthly muse.

  Chapter 1

  Fog and Fire

  “No-o-o-o,” Richard screamed, shaking his uplifted hand in anger. He cringed as the girl in the neon pink pyjamas and her two friends deliberately skied over the mountain’s ledge, feet still strapped to wet snowboards. They were following the sign suggesting the Town of Sleepmore was below.

  “Fools!” he shouted. He tried everything he could to prevent them from leaving the Valley of Tired, but they ignored him and continued to climb. Now they were probably burning in the fires and billowing lava vents of the shield volcano straddling the mountainside below. Richard unstrapped his snowboard and stroked its wet underside. The board was great on snow but skied just as well on the wet grasses of the steep half-pipe surrounding him. He trudged to the lip of the cliff and peered cautiously below.

  “Whaaat?”

  The actual Town of Sleepmore stretched beneath him. Gone were the flames and molten lava of the smouldering volcano he always saw when he stood in this spot. Instead, there were dozens, no, hundreds of beds and pillows in multiple colours and patterns, all floating in the air while countless stuffed animals beckoned him with their plush, furry arms. Richard paused, hypnotized by the soothing sight.

  Are they calling my name?

  His head pulsed to the beat of his racing heart while the images wreaked havoc with his senses. He was certain the top of his skull was going to blow off like a malfunctioning firework. Richard closed his eyes and blocked the messages dispatched from his eyes to his brain. The mental block succeeded because within seconds, a strange, unfamiliar calmness crept over him. There was a magical quality surrounding the sensation and a serenity his mind couldn’t identify. Richard warily opened his eyes, finally recognizing the call. It was the lure of sleep emanating from the town below, its peaceful tendrils beckoning him with soft caresses, without twists or turns or climbing of any kind. It was a call to sleep Richard had been rejecting for a very long time.

  “But I hate more sleep,” he cried out.

  Richard fell to his knees, breaking the sleep-calling trance. The memory of the three escaping teens slammed back into his mind and rage returned like a thunderbolt. His shaved, scarred skull hurt so much that he wanted to scream. And so he did, channeling every fibre of his being into a horrifying howl of despair. The anguished cry echoed in waves around him. As the sound faded, so too did the anger. Spent, Richard dropped his misshapen head into his hands and slowly rocked from side to side. He looked below to the Town of Sleepmore and the images of the bed-filled town slowly faded into a mist. He blinked, not sure if the mist was real or a foggy mirage. The mist faded again but this time there were no beds or pillows or stuffed animals below him. Instead, they were replaced with the horribly familiar smell and sound of smoke and fire. Choking, Richard threw his hands into the air.

  “Help me,” he cried.

  Chapter 2

  Dead or Alive

  The darkness descended around her, its blackness sliding against her bare arms like the cold clammy fingers of a corpse. Georgia shivered with fear, her lips trembling.

  “CONNOR,” her mind screamed. “I NEED YOU!”

  But her big brother was not in this frightening, unfamiliar place. Six-year-old Georgia was alone in the darkness, surrounded by giant pine trees on one side and a grassy meadow on the other. A yellowish full moon shone brightly from the heavens, ghoulishly displaying its pock-marked face.

  Where am I?

  She crossed one arm over the other and gave herself a hug, crouching low to the grassy earth. She was not only missing her big brother, she was craving the solace that Foleydota, her stuffed-toy baby pangolin, brought her during the night. She whimpered as a sob built up in her throat, but she gulped it down. Panic filled her at the prospect of being alone in the dark.

  “I’m a b-b-big girl -n-now,” Georgia said with feigned confidence, pushing her tongue in the space where two baby teeth used to be. A moment later, the sound of an owl hooting in the distance made her screech in terror.

  “Please,” she whispered to the darkness, “Why am I here? I don’t want to be here… is this a dream?” Georgia turned her face to the glowing moon. A single, hot, salty tear trickled down her right cheek and she buried her face in her knees.

  “Wake up,” she told herself.

  A light wind rustled the trees and bushes. They rubbed and shifted together, creaking and moaning, first in soprano notes, then bass. The high-to-low-to-high notes continued, like a wind instrument tuning up and down the musical scale. It was an eerie, whistling sound and Georgia’s terror escalated with the amplified volume. Her breath came in short puffs. The intensity and number of high-low notes slowly changed – from a two-toned duet to a multi-instrument, full-blown orchestra. Every tree and every bush surrounding Georgia joined the thrashing, whistling, wailing band. The soprano pitch descended the scale just as the bass note ascended. Georgia covered her ears but it didn’t reduce the cacophony of notes as they raged in opposite directions. The sound was like dozens of cats simultaneously and ferociously brawling as they slid, claws out, down an old school blackboard. Suddenly, the high-low screeches met in the middle of the scale, howling and hissing with an urgency that made Georgia’s skin crawl. Then, in a thunderous clash, much like the slam of cymbals coming together, the notes spoke in unison, screeching a single-syllable command.

  “Climb!”

  Georgia fainted.

  * * *

  “Mommy… Daddy… CONNOR!”

  Georgia sat up, clutching her stuffed baby pangolin while her body trembled in terror. She was moaning in a low, droning tone.

  “Open your eyes,” she told herself. She squeezed the baby pangolin stuffie and pressed her face against its body. It felt soothing and comfortable in her arms.

  Georgia opened her eyes. The familiar pink-and-white checkered quilt covered her bed while her grandmother’s old frilly white curtains framed the window. A bright, full moon shone through, casting shadows on the back of the rocking chair, making it appear to rock back and forth.

  “CONNOR!”

  Georgia heard her brother jump out of bed and run across the hall to her bedroom. He bolted through the door and stopped at her bedside.

  “Georgia,” Connor said softly. He crouched and reached out to stroke her cheek. Releasing Foleydota, Georgia hugged her brother’s arm.

  “I had a very very very bad dream,” she sobbed. “It was tho dark and tho light and tho noithy,” she lisped, unable to pronounce ‘s’ due to her missing bottom teeth.

  Connor patted her head. Dark and light? That’s weird. He mentally pushed away the contradicting dream description and picked up the baby pangolin stuffie.

  “Everything is okay now – you’
re home and in your nice bed with Foleydota.”

  “I don’t like that bad dream,” Georgia said, between sniffles. “I don’t like it and I don’t want it.”

  “Yeah, bad dreams suck,” Connor agreed. “So what you have to do now is this: you have to think of all the things you love the most and tie them all together in a happy-dream package. You hold on to your happy-dream package when you fall asleep. Just like you hold on to Foleydota.

  Do you think you could try that?” He adjusted the quilt around his sister.

  Georgia lay back, masses of black ringlets cascading on the pillow. She cradled Foleydota in her arms.

  “I could try.”

  The trembling stopped. Georgia scratched her nose using Foleydota’s long snout and looked inquisitively at her brother.

  “What colour are the ribbonth?”

  Connor hesitated. “Ribbons?”

  “The ribbonth on the happy-dream package,” Georgia replied.

  Connor looked down at her comfy quilt. “Oh, those are… pink and white.”

  “Oh, nithe. I love pink – ith my favourite colour.” Georgia curled up on her side and extended a tiny hand. “Will you thtay with me until I fall athleep?”

  Connor reached over to pull the tall rocking chair beside her bed and sat down.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  The moonlight danced across Georgia’s closed eyes, shadowing her curly black eyelashes. Connor looked toward the window; outside, pale fluffy clouds tried to smother the moon’s face. He frowned. The image was eerily familiar and called to mind his recent set of twisted dreams. He looked back at Georgia and thought about her nightmare’s description.

  Dark and light and noisy. Connor’s dream world adventure occurred only months ago, recent enough to make him shudder at the memory. Could it be? Could Georgia be dreaming about the Valley of Tired? He studied his sister’s face. Couldn’t be. The horror of his travels in the dream world would be unbearable for her.

  Connor rested his head against the back of the chair and his thoughts turned to the terrors he had experienced in his dream world – terrors where he had to ‘climb’ in order to ‘fall’ asleep – terrors that included teaming up with a brash girl named Jayden and an insecure boy named Max – terrors that included falling out of a zip line and using invisible electric shields as protection against wolves. But the biggest terror, and by far the single-worst character that was more frightening than any horror character from any movie he had ever seen, was Richard Hatemore. The image of Richard’s bald, scarred head displayed itself behind Connor’s closed eyes and he opened them immediately, gasping. But there was no apparition – no ghostly Richard in front of him. Richard was probably still creeping in the Valley of Tired – a dream world that should rightly be called a nightmare world. The place where sleep climbers converge.

  Connor shook his head. She can’t be having the same dream. If she was, she’d want to climb. She didn’t say anything about climbing.

  He closed his eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  * * *

  “Thomeone ith calling me,” Georgia said. She shook her head up and down, curls bouncing in agreement. Foleydota, her stuffed baby pangolin, jiggled in her lap as she slurped her breakfast cereal.

  Georgia’s mom reached over and pushed the bowl closer. She had the same black ringlet curls as Georgia and this morning, the long curls were loosely tied on one shoulder. Cocking her head to one side and cupping one ear, she played along with Georgia’s statement and pretended to listen. After a moment of quiet, her eyes widened and she raised her hand in surprise.

  “I think I hear them!”

  Georgia’s response was instant. “No-o-o-o,” she wailed in horror and began to cry, her body shaking with deep, trembling sobs. A look of terror crossed her face while huge tears formed in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. “Oh Mommy, what did they thay?” she asked between gulping breaths.

  Georgia’s mom was astounded at her daughter’s reaction. She thought Georgia was playing a game, but the fear in her eyes said otherwise.

  “Oh sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  “I had a very bad dream,” Georgia whimpered. “The tweez and busheth were talking.”

  “Trees and bushes?” repeated her mom.

  “Yeth.”

  With one step, Georgia’s mom moved to her side, wrapping her arms tightly around her young daughter. “That is a very bad dream,” she agreed. “Is that why Connor slept in your rocking chair last night?” He had left an hour earlier, acknowledging his mother with a kiss on the cheek and a hurried explanation that he was running late for an early morning class.

  Georgia nodded.

  “Connor is the best big brother in the world, isn’t he?” her mom stated in a soft voice. “You know he will always protect you. And you know you can always wake me up, and daddy, right? Because we will always protect you too.”

  Georgia nodded again.

  “There now, let’s think of your favourite things: puppies, kittens, unicorns and pangolins. Okay? And while you’re thinking about them, let’s get ready for school.” Georgia’s mom gently kissed the top of her daughter’s head. Georgia shuffled out of the room, holding Foleydota by his long snout.

  * * *

  “The hills are alive, with the sound of music…” played the cell phone ringtone. The caller ID displayed the words, ‘Eglinton Hills Primary School.’

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, hello, is this Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Georgia’s mom?”

  “Yes, this is she. Is Georgia okay?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said the caller. “I’m Jason Yuri, Vice-principal at Eglinton Hills. I’m calling to let you know about an incident this afternoon, during outdoor recess.”

  “Is Georgia okay? What happened?”

  “I’ve been told Georgia was reluctant to go outside this morning and so she was allowed to stay indoors for the first recess.”

  “And…” prompted Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

  “And during lunch break, she refused to go beyond the playground area. In fact, when her friends tried to persuade her to sit on the bench under the oak trees, she became very upset. I’ve been informed by her teacher that this is not typical behaviour from your daughter. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Yuri. Last night, Georgia had a bad dream and it involved talking trees and bushes. That might account for her fear,” she explained. “My husband and I will have a chat with her later today.”

  “A dream, you say?” replied Mr. Yuri. “Young children often find it difficult differentiating dream from reality. I know,” he chuckled. “My four-year-old used to have nightmares about a little green fairy that supposedly lived in her fishbowl. Rather than foster her fear, I told her the green fairy was actually her friend, kind of like a guardian. She accepted that and now believes he’s still there, concealed in the tiny ceramic shoe where the fish hide.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not trying to minimize Georgia’s reaction to the talking trees and bushes. Just trying to give some guidance as to what worked for my daughter.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before ending the conversation. Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked at her watch: 2:10. Her shift in the neo-natal ward at the hospital was almost over. She had an idea and had to act quickly, before the school bus dropped off Georgia at home.

  * * *

  Richard raised his face toward the moon. There was a coldness to the bright orb, an unfeeling sense of nothingness that somehow made him feel alive. Am I alive? Richard bared his teeth, displaying their dull yellow enamel and forcing his sunken cheeks into shadow. His sickly-looking skin matched the yellow patina of his teeth. But by far the most appalling physical feature was Richard’s skull, displayed in all its horrific, hideous glory under the rays of the moon. Its bald, shiny veneer was accentuated by a thick red scar that carved its way from one ear all the way over the top of his head, to the other ear. Tufts of dark hair jutted out from behind the ears and continued around the
back of his neck. He felt neither pain nor comfort. Life was in the darkness, by the light of the moon. He questioned his existence in the place called the Valley of Tired; it was the place he identified as home. He was vaguely aware his first name was Richard, but no memory of his last name, so he made one up: Hatemore, short form for ‘hate-more-sleep.’ He was, however, aware of every contour in the land around him, having continuously patrolled the valley in his endless search for Crossovers. It was the Crossovers that gave him trouble. They never wanted to stay. They were afraid of the dark. They wanted to sleep and Richard despised sleep. He would chant his chant, calling to the Crossovers. Sooner or later, they always came.

  “I don’t like it.

  I don’t want it.

  I HATE it.”

  THUD THUD THUD

  The sound of the hammer, or cable cutters, or whatever piece of metal he had in his hands would strike a hard surface and resonate in angry thuds. It was his special call. The Crossover Call.

  “Crossovers... come.”

  Throwing his head back, Richard began to howl. Within moments, the mountain wolves howled back, their high-pitched wails echoing around the squat mountain. Richard stopped and stretched his arms toward the freakish, crater-filled moon. Its ghostly beams reminded him that night was for sleeping and sleeping was not for him.

  “I hate more sleep.”

  He couldn’t remember when he last slept. He was always awake.

  “Maybe I’m dead.”

  Chapter 3

  A Maximum Reality