Dark Memories

 

 

This is a short story I wrote in the late 1960s or early 1970s, fairly typical of the kind of nonsense Christian Doherty, Alan Saly, Tom Sinclair, and I would write for the self-published magazines we had (this would have been written for Mystery Magazine or Tales of Mystery). It was not based on anything personal – except my personal experience of noir thrillers that I enjoyed at the time. Although it's mostly rubbish, there are a few nice moments, I think.

 

The man fumbled with the lock. He wondered how long it would be until he would be able to raise enough money to get the damn thing fixed. Finally, after several futile attempts, he managaed to push the door ajar. In front of him was pure, solid blackness. The man strained his eyes to make out any object to be sure this was reality. After all, the man had been known to daydream a lot. 

 

Yes, the dark. Has really anyone been known not to be completely afraid of the dark. The dark… The hidden secrets it holds. Who knows what it contains? Perhaps a murderer, lurking in the inky blackness and at any moment ready to snuff out your precious life altogether. Yes, the dark. The supernatural or Death itself could be anywhere in that infinite loss of light. The dark. Yes, he had done it in the dark... 

 

He was kept after school by his teacher who thought nothing of how a person feels. How did she know the secrets that ran and ran in his head, trying to find someplace to stop. It didn't make a hell of difference to her.

 

He remembered how he had always hated her. From the very day he had walked in that madroom of children laughing and yelling. But, he was different. Yes, because of being different from any other child, he was immediately typed as a "weird boy."Now she had finally done it. All the years of hate for him and all the years of wanting to pin something on him. She had trained him to be different. She had been different herself. Yes, it was all her fault. And now she bad finally succeeded in keeping him after class. He had rushed from his seat when the school bell had rung. It was a petty excuse, she knew it.

 

She told him to sit in a chair.

 

"Richard, my dear boy," she said without any feeling, "I have asked you to come to my room for a very special reason. You, dear man, probably know the reason why, speak up boy." 

 

But "the boy" had kept quiet. Yes, while she urged him to talk, the other refused. Hours and hours passed and she screamed at him to talk. And those hours and hours of talking made the tension rise. She probably, at one time in that moment begged him to talk.

 

And then the boy laughed. All the years of her hating him. And now she begged him to talk. He laughed and then grew humiliated. She was the Supreme. She was the teacher and he was the student. She looked at herself and she saw that she had been kneeling. The anger and hatred of all those long years rushed out of her and she lunged at the pupil like a tigress. He had to defend himself. He just couldn't let her claw him to death. He had rushed toward the light switch and then flicked them off.

 

The at the doorstep, he then tried to recollect what he did, and then it 

came back to him as clear as day. 

 

The pupil knew what to do. He knew where the letter-opener was located and without any hesitation, snatched it from the desk. 

 

"Rich," she called out in a sweet voice, "Dear Rich, be careful now, You wouldn't want to get killed would you, in the dark."

 

She lunged toward him but he was quicker. Jabbing it in and out. In and out. Ie had stabbed and killed her. A relief passed over him. Call it murder if you will, call it murder... 

 

But the man at the doorstep did not move to walk into that dark house. His thoughts had passed on to the next incident. A passer-by saw the man, sitting alone on his doorstep, thinking, thinking…

 

Richard looked at his girl named lrene Ware. What a beauty. What a woman he would take to be his wife. He looked her over and smiled. She sailed back at him. He motioned her to sit down.

 

"Can I get you a drink" grinned Richard. 

 

"No Rich, it's all right. I don't drink." 

 

Richard thought, this girl was the one for him. Sweet reserved and good looking. 

 

She spoke up again, "Rich, you know, well, you know. Rich, that money you lent me to go to Hollywood last week. You know, my spending mone, well, I need some more." 

 

Richard looked at her. She had finally said it. The truth had come out. He was suspicious now. Was she using him? Was she all for his money. He looked at her. Women, be thought.

 

And then tension and anger, the same with the teacher. He looked at her, looked at her as a cat eyes a mouse. He looked at her, resentment leaking out. She might have sensed something, or maybe not. But she used him too. Suspiciously, for that matter. 

 

"Dear," he said, "I left the letter-opener in the kitchen and I just received some very important mail. Do you think... " 

 

"Sure, dear," she said interrupting his sentence. 

 

She walked into the kitchen. While doing this, Richard immediately jumped up and tore open her purse. He rumaged around in it and then found something, something that made his heart skip a beat. A letter. a letter of love, to another man. The letter said that after Irene had taken Richard for all he had, she and the other man would go. Irene came back. The two of them would go to hell, he thought. He then remembered that he had stumbled. Stumbled against her and the knife dropped on the floor... 

 

He remembered just before her killed her, be had turned off the lights…

 

The man on the doorstep remembered that moment. When be had hated Irene Ware. Hated her with all his heart. He looked at the door ajar, but still, he chose to stay and ponder over memories. Unhappy ones at that.

 

He bad gotten entangled with a smuggling ring in his later fears. It was mostly drugs that were harmful so that the smuggling made him, being far from innocent. The boss, who called himself Brother Joseph, was to split the money with three, the three in the gang, when he had fulfil1ed his mission. But, after the job had been finished. The man, Brother Joseph and his partner, left Rich behind to take the rap. Oh, how the hatred leaked out that day when be was freed from prison. It was not hard tracing the boss and his friend. Just took common Sense. He was planning to  seek his revenge and get it over with that night. Brother Joseph lived a in a shabby old house on a. street that was poorly lit. It would be easy. He paused to listen just outside the house. No one home.

 

He opened the front door and on soft toes ran up to the room where Brother Joseph was staying. He burst into the room to find hundreds of toys staring at him. Rich had known the old man had liked toys but this was crazy. He looked at then and smiled. Murder was lurking behind him, urging him to go on. Rich's eyes scanned the desk and there it was. A letter opener all nice and new. Glittering under the pale light. He looked at it and smiled again. He then looked at the toy that somewhat resembled a catapult. Quickly, he attached the letter-opener to the string and then rigged it so when Brother Joesph opened the door, death would be immediate. 

 

The man on the step laughed a little when he thought how Joesph looked when a letter-opener from a toy catapult flew through him. He got up, and went through the door. Still, not one light was on. He fumbled with the switch but still, not a familar click. But, after a few tries, the lights did go on. 

 

Richard then looked aropund him. Guns in every direction were pointed towards him. He saw the glitter of badges and the barrels. The sergeant snapped handcuffs on Rich and informed him of his rights. They had proven him guilty. Before leaving, the policeman made sure to turn off the lights. Maybe, though, this was the wrong thing to do. After all, it had all begun in the dark. 

 

Date unknown. Probably written in the late 1960s, early 1970s