Read Online People of the Dark by T.M. Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T.M. Wright
Tags: Horror
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a weathered FOR SALE sign in it, several acres of vineyards to the north, a trailer that looked abandoned to the south. I stopped next to him and rolled the passenger window down. "Hi. You okay?"
His hair was dark, straight and nearly to his shoulders, his skin almost as dark, as if from a very good tan, and his body, in blue running shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt, was well-muscled and lean. He shook his head a little, though he didn't look up.
"You're not okay?" I thought he had misunderstood my question.
He whispered hoarsely, "I'll be okay. Thanks."
I didn't believe him. He sounded awful, as if on the verge of passing out. "Are you cold?" The temperature was hovering, I guessed, at around fifty.
He nodded, though he still didn't look up. "Yes. I am now. Not when I run. I'm not cold when I run."
I put the car's flashers on, and went to the jogger, got down on my haunches, held my hand out. "My name's Jack Harris."
He looked up briefly, glanced at my hand, looked down again. "Hi, Mr. Harris. Thanks, but I'll be okay." His face was spectacularly average. It could have jumped off a Popular Mechanics ad for power saws. The eyes were brown, like Erika's, but not so large and appealing; the nose was straight, the mouth full, the cheeks a little hollow. There were probably ten million faces like it; if you took the crowd of male faces at a football game or a boxing match or a topless bar and mixed them together and made one face out of them, you'd get this jogger's face.
I said, "Sure, you'll be okay? Maybe I can give you a lift somewhere."
He shook his head. A little chuckle came from him.
"Did I say something funny?" I asked.
He said, his voice a bit steadier now, "Did you ever have a dream that you were running . . ." He paused, cleared his throat, went on, "Where you were running from . . . something. Anything. It doesn't matter what. You were running. And after a while, after a short while, you realized that you weren't getting far?" Another pause; he looked quizzically up at me.
I said, "Sure. Everyone's had a dream like that."
He nodded, lowered his head again. "And the reason you weren't getting far, Mr. Harris, was that your feet were glued to the earth?"
I nodded. "Yes," I said, "but not since I was a kid." I realized that it sounded like a kind of value judgment, so I said again, "Everyone's had that kind of dream, I think, at one time or another."
"I have it all the time."
"Uh-huh," I said for lack of anything better to say. I get embarrassed, a little tongue-tied when strangers begin opening up their private lives to me. It happens a lot. It happened with Erika, in fact, when we first met. I added, "I'm sorry, it must be . . . difficult."
He nodded, his head still lowered. "It is. I even have it when I'm jogging. It was pretty bad just now. Christ, it really threw me for a loop."
"I'm sure it must have."
"It's as if the earth . . . it's as if the goddamned road is reaching up for me. Jesus, that sounds awfully strange, doesn't it, that sounds awfully, awfully cuckoo —"
"Not at all, not at all, Mister—uh . . ." I was coaxing him.
"I mean, it really drags me down, it really drags me down, Mr. Harris, you can't imagine—"
He went on talking, babbling, really, for a good five minutes. At one point he said, "It's probably like being sucked back into the womb, don't you think?"—and shivered visibly at the idea, as if he had a chill. I listened, nodded occasionally, said "Uh-huh" when I thought I should, and after a while he seemed to wind down. He took a deep breath, looked up, extended his hand, and smiled. "Thank you, thank you very much, Mr. Harris, you've been a great help." He stood and jogged off, south, past the trailer which I'd assumed was abandoned. As he passed it, a tall, stocky older woman dressed in a tattered blue and white dress, white socks, what looked like ankle-high sneakers, and a gray scarf thrown over her shoulders came out of the trailer and watched him. Even from a
His hair was dark, straight and nearly to his shoulders, his skin almost as dark, as if from a very good tan, and his body, in blue running shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt, was well-muscled and lean. He shook his head a little, though he didn't look up.
"You're not okay?" I thought he had misunderstood my question.
He whispered hoarsely, "I'll be okay. Thanks."
I didn't believe him. He sounded awful, as if on the verge of passing out. "Are you cold?" The temperature was hovering, I guessed, at around fifty.
He nodded, though he still didn't look up. "Yes. I am now. Not when I run. I'm not cold when I run."
I put the car's flashers on, and went to the jogger, got down on my haunches, held my hand out. "My name's Jack Harris."
He looked up briefly, glanced at my hand, looked down again. "Hi, Mr. Harris. Thanks, but I'll be okay." His face was spectacularly average. It could have jumped off a Popular Mechanics ad for power saws. The eyes were brown, like Erika's, but not so large and appealing; the nose was straight, the mouth full, the cheeks a little hollow. There were probably ten million faces like it; if you took the crowd of male faces at a football game or a boxing match or a topless bar and mixed them together and made one face out of them, you'd get this jogger's face.
I said, "Sure, you'll be okay? Maybe I can give you a lift somewhere."
He shook his head. A little chuckle came from him.
"Did I say something funny?" I asked.
He said, his voice a bit steadier now, "Did you ever have a dream that you were running . . ." He paused, cleared his throat, went on, "Where you were running from . . . something. Anything. It doesn't matter what. You were running. And after a while, after a short while, you realized that you weren't getting far?" Another pause; he looked quizzically up at me.
I said, "Sure. Everyone's had a dream like that."
He nodded, lowered his head again. "And the reason you weren't getting far, Mr. Harris, was that your feet were glued to the earth?"
I nodded. "Yes," I said, "but not since I was a kid." I realized that it sounded like a kind of value judgment, so I said again, "Everyone's had that kind of dream, I think, at one time or another."
"I have it all the time."
"Uh-huh," I said for lack of anything better to say. I get embarrassed, a little tongue-tied when strangers begin opening up their private lives to me. It happens a lot. It happened with Erika, in fact, when we first met. I added, "I'm sorry, it must be . . . difficult."
He nodded, his head still lowered. "It is. I even have it when I'm jogging. It was pretty bad just now. Christ, it really threw me for a loop."
"I'm sure it must have."
"It's as if the earth . . . it's as if the goddamned road is reaching up for me. Jesus, that sounds awfully strange, doesn't it, that sounds awfully, awfully cuckoo —"
"Not at all, not at all, Mister—uh . . ." I was coaxing him.
"I mean, it really drags me down, it really drags me down, Mr. Harris, you can't imagine—"
He went on talking, babbling, really, for a good five minutes. At one point he said, "It's probably like being sucked back into the womb, don't you think?"—and shivered visibly at the idea, as if he had a chill. I listened, nodded occasionally, said "Uh-huh" when I thought I should, and after a while he seemed to wind down. He took a deep breath, looked up, extended his hand, and smiled. "Thank you, thank you very much, Mr. Harris, you've been a great help." He stood and jogged off, south, past the trailer which I'd assumed was abandoned. As he passed it, a tall, stocky older woman dressed in a tattered blue and white dress, white socks, what looked like ankle-high sneakers, and a gray scarf thrown over her shoulders came out of the trailer and watched him. Even from a
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