Replaced in Darkness

“Do you really have to go?” Seth was used to his father rushing out at all hours, but the power still hadn’t come back on yet, so he’d truly be alone. There was no bright, flickering TV to hold back the hollow darkness, no canned laugh tracks to drown out the creaks and groans of the old house.

His father placed a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezed it before he stooped to pick up the worn leather bag by his feet. “Mrs. Hettle’s pneumonia is worse. I have to see to her.” As he smiled, his lips all but disappeared beneath the thick black handlebar moustache. “You’re ten, Seth, practically a man. You’ll be fine.”

“I guess,” Seth replied, looking down at his stocking feet. He felt a little guilty for complaining. Mrs. Hettle was a nice old lady; it was good that his father was going to take care of her. Sighing, he lifted his head and tried on a smile. “Tell her I hope she feels better.”

“I will, sport.” His father patted his shoulder again with his free hand. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

From the window, Seth watched his dad walk down the gravel drive, the bright-red Dodge Power Wagon barely visible in the darkness, and waited until the rear lights of the truck were gone before turning to the gloomy empty kitchen. There were three candles burning in the middle of the Formica table making shadows dance on the cupboards and ceiling. Seth grabbed the tall white candle in the little green cup, and set it on the windowsill, just like in the song “Long as I Can See the Light.” It wasn’t as if his dad would lose his way home . . . but it made him feel a little better anyway.

Seth stared through the doorway into the living room. There were no candles lit in there so it seemed a cavernous darkness beyond the dim golden light of the kitchen. Without anything to watch, there was no point in going into the living room anyway, he reasoned. But what was there to do? It was still too early for bed. Besides, the thought of going up those creaky stairs with nothing but a flashlight really didn’t appeal.

Since the candles weren’t bright enough to read by, he pulled a pack of cards out of the junk drawer and sat down at the kitchen table for some solitaire to pass the time.

It started like a tickle in the back of his mind, the kind you get when someone is staring at you without you knowing. He shrugged it off, glancing over at the yawning blackness of the living room, and shivered. Don’t be such a spaz. There was nothing out there but the big TV cabinet and the mustard-yellow leather couches and the shelf with all of Dad’s medical books. Nothing to be afraid of.

Just then, a crackling noise made his heart leap into his throat, his terror paralyzing him and stealing the air from his lungs, but it was just one of the candles dying in its puddle of wax. He chuckled nervously, his heart still hammering, and rose to fetch another to take its place.

That’s when he heard it.

Hand frozen above the drawer, Seth took in a few strained breaths, the urge to piss suddenly overwhelming. The seconds stretched into minutes as he stared into the living room, unable to move. It wasn’t a creak or a squeak or a crack or a groan, the farmhouse’s usual vocabulary. No . . . what he had heard sounded like a child crying.

Maybe it’s an animal outside. An owl. Sometimes owls sound like crying, don’t they? Seth’s shirt stuck to the sweat on his back even though it was chilly in the kitchen. Maybe I just imagined it. When the house decided to creak at that moment, straining against the strong wind that had taken down the powerlines that afternoon, Seth nearly jumped out of his skin. He glanced at the phone on the wall, its spiral cord kinked from too many trips around the kitchen, and thought about calling his dad at Mrs. Hettle’s. The number was right there on the pad on the counter.

And then what? he thought. Tell him you’re scared of the wind? He thought about what his father had said about being practically a man. He’ll think you’re being a baby.

Slowly, he sat back down at the table, the fresh candle forgotten, and peered suspiciously into the darkness past the doorway. I should take the flashlight and go look. Just to be certain. But his dad didn’t like him running down the batteries like that. Called it a waste. Candles were cheaper than batteries.

Seth drummed his fingers softly on the yellow tabletop, trying to convince himself that he was just being silly, when he heard it again.

“Daddy?”

Seth thought he was going to piss his pants. There was no mistaking it this time. This was no owl, no wind. And it was coming from inside the house.

“Daddy? Where are you?” It was followed by a laboured, wet, choking sound, then, “Daddy?”

Nearly gagging from fear, Seth felt his bladder give out. His mind reeled, frantically trying to come up with rational explanations for the voice in the dark. A neighbour’s child had gotten in. A friend was playing a prank. The battery-powered radio had been left on.

Seth gripped the sides of the table as the thing beyond let out a little sob. Then a rustle and again that reedy voice:

“Daddy?”

“Y-you’re in the wrong house,” Seth said, his voice rasping as his thundering heart and heaving lungs fought for space in his thin chest.

“Daddy?” It sounded hopeful this time. Then it let out a low giggle, and the floorboards creaked.

Through the tears in his eyes, Seth thought he could make out the silhouette of something standing just outside the fluttering reach of the candlelight. The phone was only a few feet away, so close, but it meant he would have to look away from the thing in the living room. What if he looked away and it came through the doorway?

No. This is stupid. Ghosts don’t exist. Another hard gust of wind had the house moaning in protest; though that usually spooked him, this time it lent him a little courage with its familiarity.

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“Butch, I swear to god if that’s you playing games . . . it-it ain’t funny,” he said, his tone not half as confident as he wished it were. “I’ll tell Lindsey you’re s-sweet on her.”

The thing beyond let out another quiet laugh, and Seth swallowed. The flashlight was directly behind him on the kitchen counter. He could picture it in his mind, red and silver, heavy with the D batteries that powered it. Seth could reach behind him and grasp it without turning away from whoever—whatever—was there beyond the doorway. If it was Butch . . . Seth thought about his wet pants and clenched his teeth; he’d punch him right in the nose.

Slowly, he turned in his chair without moving his head and reached his arm out, patting the counter with his fingertips until he felt the cold metal of the flashlight. The thing in the dark made more rustling sounds, and the floorboards groaned in reply.

Hand around the flashlight, Seth stood, his knees like Jell-O.

“Daddy . . .” the thing hissed.

Seth thumbed the switch, and a cool beam flooded the living room, illuminating the creature at its centre. It looked like a pig. No . . . not a pig. Like a suggestion of a pig. The snout was there, as were the small eyes, flopped ears, four legs . . . but they were wrong, twisted, malformed. Its knees were bent the wrong way and the knobs of its spine pushed up through flesh as black and brittle and taut as the mummies’ in his father’s National Geographic magazines. What fur it had was like bone-coloured straw, and its mouth bled with teeth that jutted out like broken glass from its misshapen muzzle. The worst were its eyes . . . they were white and leaking a thick, milky fluid. Seth watched it drip onto the carpet. It smelled like death.

“Where is my daddy?” the thing moaned from stinking gullet; words that should have been rendered unintelligible from the wreckage of its mouth emerged as clear as a bell. The voice of a child . . . a familiar voice. With a shudder, Seth recognized the voice. It was his own. He felt like he was going to faint.

“Stay away,” he gasped. He was backed up against the cupboards, unable to move further, but he could step to the side. Three steps and he was at the back door, the door his father had left through only an hour before. If he ran as fast as he could, cutting through the cornfields, he could get to Mrs. Hettle’s in fifteen, twenty minutes top. He took a few shuddering breaths and slid to the right, his socks silent on the linoleum. The pig thing watched him, its maw agape, then it let out a squeal, convulsing as something within it cracked. It sounded like bones breaking. Seth was rooted in place, tears dripping from his chin as the beam danced over the creature’s form, his hand shaking so hard he feared he’d drop the flashlight.

With a cry, the thing reared up on its hind legs, shapes bulging beneath its desiccated flesh as it writhed.

Seth’s knees buckled, and he vomited on the checkered linoleum, his feet sliding in the warm mess as he stumbled to the door a second later, terrified that the creature was right on his heels. He ran as fast as he could through the misty darkness, the cold wind buffeting him as he stumbled over the coarse gravel. Then he saw the lights ahead and stopped. It was the familiar headlights of the Power Wagon. His father.

Seth collapsed onto his knees, panting and sobbing—thank you, God—but the truck didn’t stop . . . it passed right by, kicking up stinging stones in its wake. Seth let out a wail and rose, running back towards the house, back towards his father and the creature in the dark.

But something felt wrong. Seth fell onto his hands and knees over and over, thinking it was the fear sapping his strength, and had to resort to crawling the last few feet. His father had already gone into the house by the time he reached the kitchen door, so he cried out a warning.

“Dad! Wait! There’s a—” Seth stopped, his heart doing cartwheels in his chest. Instead of words, only a high-pitched squeal had emerged from his lips. Terrified, he touched his face and found that his hands were nothing more than twisted stumps. No. No no no.

The kitchen door swung open, and his father stepped out holding Grandpa’s old rifle.

“Dad, it’s me,” Seth tried, but nothing came out but guttural groans and rasping pig squeals.

“Poor little fella,” said his dad, leveling the rifle at him. “Someone should have put you out of your misery. It’s a wonder you made it this far.” His dad’s mouth disappeared beneath the black moustache as he shook his head. “You really gave Seth a fright.”

“No!” Seth shrieked. “No, it’s me. It’s me, Dad.” The rifle blast was loud, but not as loud as they made it seem in the movies, and the pain was sudden and shocking. As Seth collapsed on the gravel, he could see the window with the candle in the little green cup on its sill. And above the flickering flame, his own face. As the darkness crept into Seth, the creature smiled.