Read Online Darkborn by Matthew Costello - Free Book Online
Authors: Matthew Costello
Tags: Horror
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A man, dressed in a raincoat, holding an umbrella. He wore a hat pulled down low.
Will couldn’t be sure.
But . . .
The man came closer.
And then, shit, the man looked up a bit . . . nearing his house. His home, and —
Will knew it was Scott.
“It’s Scott!” he said, not whispering. Will let the bent blind slap shut. “Oh, shit,” he said.
But Kiff didn’t move.
“Almost done, Will. Hang on . . . almost —”
Will danced away from the window. Jeez, he thought he’d piss, he was so scared.
He imagined where Scott was. On the bottom steps, right now! Maybe digging out his keys, walking down to the basement door. Getting close to the door.
“C’mon, Kiff, get the fucking book back. Get it back!”
Closing the umbrella. Opening the door to his apartment.
Screw it, Will thought. He turned to run.
And then, suddenly, Kiff, all gangly arms and legs, was up, his face still deadly serious.
This is all real for him Will saw. This is a real fucking thing for him.
Will backed into the kitchen. Thinking: I can get away. But if he gets Kiff and Kiff talks and —
I should have heard the front door open by now, he thought.
Kiff shot up.
“Got it,” Kiff whispered, running into the bedroom to put the book back.
The front door should have opened, Will thought, reaching for the back door. Sure, because —
And then he knew that Scott wasn’t coming in through the front door.
No.
He was coming around the back.
And I nearly went out there. I nearly ran right into him. Kiff was out of the bedroom, running into the kitchen.
“No,” Will said, pulling Kiff away. “He’s coming this way.”
And now they both ran, as fast as they could, to the front door.
Kiff turned the handle. He yanked the door open. But a chain slapped it shut again.
Will reached up and undid the chain. And then it flew open.
He heard the back door open. He and Kiff slipped out the door.
Then — oh so gently — Kiff closed it behind them.
They stood there, listening a moment, as if to run outside would only get Scott’s attention.
But then Kiff went out the front door of the brownstone building. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat.
Will did the same thing.
They went out, and up the steps from the basement apartment, running as fast as they could.
And with each giant step Will felt as if he were getting younger, regressing back to ten, then nine, then eight years old, when he and his friends would ring people’s doorbells and then run away, laughing hysterically. As if that were the funniest thing in the world.
And this time, he did the same thing, laughing, and gasping for air, following Kiff, who was yelping, spinning around in the rain, screaming . . . now that they were a good block away.
“We did it, Will! We fucking did it!”
And Will laughed some more, feeling that yes, they certainly had done something . . .
* * *
7
By the time Will hit the subway, the IRT was filled with commuters, gray-faced, gray-suited men whose eyes darted left and right searching for a seat.
Will found a vacant strap in the cattle car and held on. His wet clothes dried tight to his skin.
But when he thought again of running from Scott’s apartment, and Kiff waving his precious piece of paper around as if it were a map to a gold mine, he had to smile again.
It had been crazy . . . fun.
The stations roared by until, when he saw the Church Avenue platform, the train emptied a bit and he got a seat. He thought of his homework. He had at least three hours ahead. Maybe more.
Finally the train reached the end of the line.
His stop.
Flatbush Avenue.
The doors whished open. The subway cars gave out a great pneumatic sigh of relief.
And Will got up to walk the ten blocks to his house.
He had to use his key to get in the front door.
Mom started to keep it locked. Someone was robbed, she said. Only a few blocks away. She never had a name for the victim. No
A man, dressed in a raincoat, holding an umbrella. He wore a hat pulled down low.
Will couldn’t be sure.
But . . .
The man came closer.
And then, shit, the man looked up a bit . . . nearing his house. His home, and —
Will knew it was Scott.
“It’s Scott!” he said, not whispering. Will let the bent blind slap shut. “Oh, shit,” he said.
But Kiff didn’t move.
“Almost done, Will. Hang on . . . almost —”
Will danced away from the window. Jeez, he thought he’d piss, he was so scared.
He imagined where Scott was. On the bottom steps, right now! Maybe digging out his keys, walking down to the basement door. Getting close to the door.
“C’mon, Kiff, get the fucking book back. Get it back!”
Closing the umbrella. Opening the door to his apartment.
Screw it, Will thought. He turned to run.
And then, suddenly, Kiff, all gangly arms and legs, was up, his face still deadly serious.
This is all real for him Will saw. This is a real fucking thing for him.
Will backed into the kitchen. Thinking: I can get away. But if he gets Kiff and Kiff talks and —
I should have heard the front door open by now, he thought.
Kiff shot up.
“Got it,” Kiff whispered, running into the bedroom to put the book back.
The front door should have opened, Will thought, reaching for the back door. Sure, because —
And then he knew that Scott wasn’t coming in through the front door.
No.
He was coming around the back.
And I nearly went out there. I nearly ran right into him. Kiff was out of the bedroom, running into the kitchen.
“No,” Will said, pulling Kiff away. “He’s coming this way.”
And now they both ran, as fast as they could, to the front door.
Kiff turned the handle. He yanked the door open. But a chain slapped it shut again.
Will reached up and undid the chain. And then it flew open.
He heard the back door open. He and Kiff slipped out the door.
Then — oh so gently — Kiff closed it behind them.
They stood there, listening a moment, as if to run outside would only get Scott’s attention.
But then Kiff went out the front door of the brownstone building. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat.
Will did the same thing.
They went out, and up the steps from the basement apartment, running as fast as they could.
And with each giant step Will felt as if he were getting younger, regressing back to ten, then nine, then eight years old, when he and his friends would ring people’s doorbells and then run away, laughing hysterically. As if that were the funniest thing in the world.
And this time, he did the same thing, laughing, and gasping for air, following Kiff, who was yelping, spinning around in the rain, screaming . . . now that they were a good block away.
“We did it, Will! We fucking did it!”
And Will laughed some more, feeling that yes, they certainly had done something . . .
* * *
7
By the time Will hit the subway, the IRT was filled with commuters, gray-faced, gray-suited men whose eyes darted left and right searching for a seat.
Will found a vacant strap in the cattle car and held on. His wet clothes dried tight to his skin.
But when he thought again of running from Scott’s apartment, and Kiff waving his precious piece of paper around as if it were a map to a gold mine, he had to smile again.
It had been crazy . . . fun.
The stations roared by until, when he saw the Church Avenue platform, the train emptied a bit and he got a seat. He thought of his homework. He had at least three hours ahead. Maybe more.
Finally the train reached the end of the line.
His stop.
Flatbush Avenue.
The doors whished open. The subway cars gave out a great pneumatic sigh of relief.
And Will got up to walk the ten blocks to his house.
He had to use his key to get in the front door.
Mom started to keep it locked. Someone was robbed, she said. Only a few blocks away. She never had a name for the victim. No
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