# Darkness Awaits (Long)

1
Peter bent down and examined the frog. It was dead. It was lying among the pebbles at the edge of the stream, and her long paws were sadly waving in the muddy water.
"Well, who would think of hurting such a tiny thing?" he muttered. "Oh, poor froggie," the boy added, almost crying.
Peter had recently turned eighteen, but some of ten-year-olds had a reputation for being much more perceptive than he was. But even he understood that the frog had been strangled, cruelly and hideously. Trembling, Peter poked a finger at the tight shiny wire tied around the amphibian's neck. The cold frog flesh sent an unpleasant shiver from the fingertips to the wrist. And from there – even higher, almost to the elbow.
"Who would think of hurting this poor little animal?" Peter repeated, puzzled and deeply amazed.
He didn't want to linger any longer and look further at the sad little corpse. The darkness was hurriedly creeping up– and Peter was so afraid of the rapidly lengthening shadows and branches, black and thin, crossed over his head like the fingers of a skeleton. Unfortunately, the local woods did not differ in cordiality and hospitality, especially at dusk. It was always gloomy and scary here, there were always some voices, a great many of 'em. When Peter returned home, his mother was already setting the table for dinner, and his stepfather was sitting by the window with an expired newspaper on his lap and a pipe between rotten, crumbling teeth. Peter closed the door and timidly entered the room.
"Howdy there," his stepfather said indifferently. "Where have you been, lil' cowboy?"
"I was fishing in the river," Peter replied nervously. "I was hoping that the trout would take the bait and I could catch it. That's where I was, fishing. I haven't gone to any other place, honestly. Only by the river and I sat there all the time, not a step away. I thought I'd catch a trout."
His stepfather frowned. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man with dark eyes and a pair of perpetually displeased creases at the corners of his mouth.
"Hey, kid," he said, "didn't I tell ya not to go into the woods? Were you deaf?"
"But I didn't do anything wrong," Peter muttered. "I was just fishing on the river. I was hoping to catch a trout. I didn't go there for anything else."
"Yes, it's your "didn't go there" written all over your face! I don't wanna see you in the woods anymore. If I find out that you're hanging around there again, I'll give you such a beating, you'll remember it all your life."
"Hush, Henry, hush," Peter's mother muttered from the kitchen.
At dinner, Peter was silent and lamented. As soon as he finished the last bite, he apologized awkwardly and retired to his room. The kid was very scared. In his sensitive and uneducated brain, his stepfather's cruel humor had a certain connection with the sensations awakened in him by the forest and the quiet dark waters of the river, almost inky in those moments when the sun did not touch them. When Henry threatened to do a "beating", he wanted to run away from home. Not out of fear of physical pain. It was just that Peter was becoming more and more afraid of something hidden behind the cruel, wrinkled face of the old man.
"You can't behave like that with a boy," Peter's mother said meanwhile, picking up the plates from the table and piling them into the sink. "You're just scaring him. And he's a good one. He really doesn't do anything wrong."
"Is that so?" Henry said bitterly. "Then why doesn't he obey? Why does he go to the forest? Why hang around where these creatures are hiding and watching everything? Maybe he talked to them. Considering that he's your son, that's not out of the question. He's dumb as a cork, Mary, and you better keep an eye on him. You never know what comes into his head."
Peter's mother sighed.
"He just went there to have a little fun."
"Fun ya say? You know, Mary, I can deal with the creatures they've set against us, but the law won't let me knock a hair off your son's empty head. If they turn him against us, there's nothing I can do. He's your child, after all, not mine! If it happens like I said, we'll have to get out of here in a hurry. How d'ya like that dear?"
Peter's mother dabbed at her dry, cracked lips with the tip of her tongue.
"Have you done something cruel again, Henry?"
Peter's stepfather got up from the table and kicked a chair against the wall.
"You shouldn't care about that," he exclaimed. "I have to defend myself somehow, must I?" If the crops dry up, if the cows don't give milk I'll have to fight for the right to survive in this damn world!" He grunted, clearing his throat. "Those damn frogs are part of the problem, too. They also incited them against us. You're not going to argue with me now, at least about the fact that at night their serenades became naturally unbearable? And what's left for us is to lie in bed awake, listen. Well, I'm done with them. We won't hear them croak anymore tonight."
Mary turned pale. She put down the dishes and stood in front of her husband.
"The frogs were our friends," she whispered. "I believed you. I prayed that you wouldn't hurt them. You said you would– but I was hoping."
"And what's the point of you waiting and praying when there's an enemy fighting against us that's purer than the devil himself?" When God created the devil, Mary, he did a damn good job, but these creatures... they're complete darkness from the very beginning. To me, they weren't even included in the plan of creation. The very fact of their presence is some kind of mistake."
"The frogs were our friends," Mary insisted desperately. "Yesterday, when I was walking in the forest, I was warned! One of the shadowhunters was sitting in a tree and watching me. If it weren't for the frogs, he would have jumped right on my back. I saw his cruel, furious eyes looking straight at me through the leaves; but the frogs began to croak loudly, they brought me out of my stupor so I turned around and ran away. They're getting more and more cocky, Henry. They know that Jim's father is not coming back, and they want to capture us. I guess I'll have to go to them whenever they want. And I'm going to have to take Jim's father's place. I'm not of their blood, but by marrying him, I've become part of the family, and I have a burden on me too."
"What about me, gal?" Henry snorted. "Do you think I haven't considered what would happen to me if we stopped fighting back?" When I took you as my wife, I understood that I would take on everything- both good and bad, and sorrow and joy. Well, we have a dark times right now, to be honest, but if you stand behind me like a wall, then I will respond in kind. Don't argue! When you told me about your late husband and the affairs of his family, who had unearthed something bad in the forest, I said I don't care, I see that you will be a good wife to me. But when I said that, I didn't know everything. I had no idea what it would be like for us. I didn't realize that they would turn all the forest animals against us, like a damn army."
"They didn't send frogs against us, Henry. Frogs love us. They are messengers."
"Well, is it even possible to believe in such nonsense? These croaking parasites are not on our side either. It was like that from the very beginning–I can't believe it's different now." Henry smiled sadly at that. "Yes, I have fulfilled my threat! I strangled them all to death. I cut a good mile of wire into knots for their filthy green necks. I've been working all day, and now, you see, the job is done: there's not a single one left in the woods."
Mary sank into a chair by the window and rested her flabby cheeks on her hands with a pained look.
"You did something bad and cruel," she muttered. "It won't end well. The frogs were our friends. The only ones. We don't have any others anymore."
"They set them on us, Mary! They depleted the harvest, prevented chickens from laying eggs, and cows from giving milk. I'm glad I got rid of them. Let 'em understand: someone, but I will not sit idly by!"
"You're going to regret this, Henry. The frogs were our friends. They tried to protect us, and you killed them. Do you think you can get away with this? Peter and I have been waiting for a long time. And they've been waiting for you. It won't take them long to show up and pick us all up. As long as we had frogs warning us, there was still hope, and now there is nothing to hope for. We don't even have friends in the woods anymore. Those things will get us, Henry, they'll take us under their stone circle, and there's nothing we can do. You should know how happy I was when I realized that the frogs were warning us! Yes, in terms of defending the house, of course, they are of no use and they are noisy, but they were for us, little green things! Now everyone knows that Jim's father will not return to his grave. They will no longer honor their agreement with him. But there was still some hope with the frogs. It was as if they prevented any arbitrariness of the shadow workers. I felt so good with them around."
Henry pursed his lips stubbornly and waved his hand at her tirade, which turned into a somnambulistic old woman's mumble.
2
Peter woke up after midnight. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around dazedly. Something was knocking on the window pane. Peter didn't want to get out of bed. The night was cold, and he felt warm and cozy under the thick blankets. But something outside persistently and monotonously tried to attract his attention by hammering on the glass: tap, tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Slowly and reluctantly, Peter pulled back the veil and jumped down to the floor.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he replied. "I'll open the window. I'll do whatever you want. Yes, I'll open it, I'll open it very soon."
He padded barefoot across the floor, trembling. His heart was pounding wildly, and a pall of belated fear clouded his eyes. However, when Peter went to the window, he realized that no one was looking at him from that side except for the bulging blind silver eye of the moon. Still not fully shaking off the remnants of sleep, the boy felt like a beetle crawling through slowly solidifying amber–slow, clumsy, too big for this viscous enveloping environment. His fingers reached for the latch on their own, the door creaked open. The wind blew over his frightened, thoughtless face, ruffling his unruly red hair. At any other time, Peter would have been afraid of the consequences of such a reckless act, but he was now under the influence, driven by the most sincere curiosity that he acted instinctively without thinking. Then, for a minute or two, he peered into the wavering darkness outside the window and sniffed the fumes coming from the ground. Then, shaking his head, Peter walked unsteadily back to the bed.
"There's no one there," he muttered. "I thought that someone would be there, but I must have been mistaken." Making a vague gesture with his hand, the boy climbed into bed.
"I was afraid that someone from the forest might be there," he added, pulling the blanket up to his cheeks. "Someone alive, like, uhm, like those things I saw on my eighth birthday."
For a few moments he stared at the ceiling. His brain, undeveloped to the brim, firmly stuck in the swamp of childhood, was full of images, memories, vague impressions from a sad, cloudy past.
"It's inconvenient to ask where my grandfather lies," he said. "It's better not to ask where Grandpa went when it all started. I wasn't there, but I heard my mother say that it was terrible, and that grandfather, no matter what, was a very bad person, and she made a contract with him to shoo him back."
Once, many years ago, when Peter was eight years old, he saw his grandfather talking to someone very conventionally humanoid. It was dark in the room, and the boy could not see the mysterious guest well, he was standing in the corner, near the fireplace, and his grandfather was talking to that thing. The guest was not as tall as grandfather, and hunched over as if he had a heavy weight on his back. Peter couldn't really see his face, couldn't even guess where that face should be on his head, which resembled an obtuse triangle turned upside down. The guest smelled bad, but somehow in a special bad way, not like rotten meat or garbage, and Peter felt a little sick. He could have overcome the nausea, but the fear of the triangular head did not, which is why he hurried back to his room.
When he told his mother about what he saw, she almost fainted. She said:
"See, that's what I was afraid of. Your father talked to them too. Oh, why did I only marry him!"
She bent down and kissed the top of her son's head.
"My poor baby! If you see them too, they'll come to you someday!"
"Who was that, Mom?" little Peter asked. "Tell me, please."
"You'll understand when you get older, she replied vaguely. "In the meantime, you don't need to know that."
Peter hadn't seen anything like it for a long time, but before long his grandfather told him:
"They also want to live in peace. They arrived here a long time ago, from very distant lands. And all they need is for no one to touch them. But I shook them up. They have such knowledge as how to bury a person in the ground, but so that he does not die, but is transported to where they come from, or even further. To such fantastic places that it takes your breath away! But such a life always changes for the life of either one of the shadowmen or one of the normal people. Their Leader himself told me so. He said that if I helped them and got everyone away from the forest, he would take me where I needed to go, but only for a short time. But I'll outsmart him. I will stay there as long as I need to–and no less. And let them figure out how to arrange it themselves. Let them figure out for themselves at whose expense I will stay far away from this ol' world."
It seems that the big problem was that grandpa left one day and did not return. He never kept his promise to both sides. Yes, the strange creatures in the forest wanted to "live in peace", but now they could not and they had to patiently wait for grandpa's return. And he went somewhere far away as it seems, to those very "distant lands". He was wandering and it seemed that he was not going to return as long as he could. All this time, his shadowy companions guarded his burial on the hill–and waited. For a very long time, to such an extent that it slowly began to piss them off.
Peter remembered his mother saying that the shadowhunters would come to him someday. Very vaguely, he understood that sooner or later they would come for him. Maybe that's why his stepfather forbade him to go into the woods. Maybe that's why he sometimes felt unaccountably scared in the woods. Apparently, when someone entered into some kind of "agreement" with the shadowhunters and spat on the terms, they came and took someone from their relatives, when they got tired of waiting. At first, of course, they only hinted, somehow invading the way of things and making the land barren, cattle sluggish and infertile, forest animals aggressive. That was all Peter understood about them. He also understood that his mother knew that his grandpa would not return. And who would want to? If for the sake of those lands where he went, he was ready to lay down his life and lie down under a hill smelling of salt and rain, overgrown with green grass, under a stone circle, then something truly fascinating and valuable was waiting for him there. Something that, no matter how hard you try, you can't find here. And Peter didn't blame Grandpa at all for not rushing back. He understood that as soon as his grandfather returned, he would have to lie under the hill for real, in pitch darkness, decomposing and not wandering anywhere else.
"But if I had the opportunity to walk in interesting places for ages," the boy reasoned aloud, "somewhere where something is always happening and where someone will love me, I would, of course, yes, I would not be in a hurry, because walking on green grass is much more pleasant than lying under the green grass and feeling the earth clog up your nose."
Drowsiness was taking hold of Peter. For a few moments, the boy still struggled with her, but gradually his thoughts stopped spinning around the shadows of the past. Closing his eyes, he broke into a peaceful smile. His mind, cleansed of all images, turned back into a blank sheet, unblemished and therefore self-sufficient. He slept peacefully, cut off from the world–completely unaware that he was no longer alone in the room.
3
The creature that appeared outside the window stood for a moment, balancing uncertainly on the steel bar of the windowsill. Dew and some other strange liquid were flowing down it. It looked for a short time, made a strange croaking sound and nimbly jumped to the ground.
Another similar figure appeared out of the darkness. After that one, more and more of them. They scurried noiselessly across the yard of the house, gathering on the porch, behind the barn, by the overturned garden wheelbarrow, and froze, as if they were waiting for someone else. And this 'someone' appeared. This new someone was much bigger than all the others–tangles of black hair or fur fell from his disproportionate triangular skull. He was older than all of them and more evil than all of them, darker and more ancient. After waiting for everyone else to pull closer, forming a circle, he tilted his head towards them. White teeth and two pairs of small eyes, like distant cold stars, flashed in the blackness. He hissed hollowly, a sound like a car tire had been punctured.
And then, with unexpected speed and agility, the shadowhunters rushed to the house, all at once.
The uncertain dawn glided like a wounded creature along the paths, scattering scarlet flashes over the tall trees and sending wavering shadows over the deep dark waters of the river. In Eton Pond, a lily leaf turned into a giant stained hand, and a spotted salamander rushed into the water, pushing air bubbles in all directions and leaving behind a whirlwind of wonderful radiance. The lily leaf's hand shot out over the water. It was reflected in the sharp, inquisitive eyes of its inhabitants, on wet noses, in the prints of small feet scurrying everywhere.
But it wasn't just the dawn that was scarlet.
The neighbors of the Ogelthorpe family gathered at a decent distance to watch the house burn. The flames crackled, rose, and cast wavering reflections on the Ogelthorpe stable with its gray walls, on the manure heaps between the stable and the sheaf machine, on the well and the moldy pump next to it, on buckets filled to the brim with browning autumn leaves. When firefighters arrived, the flames lit up the entire pastoral landscape. In general, it was immediately clear that there was not much to save, and, most likely, there were no people to rescue.
But at dawn, the neighbors, busily snooping among the ruins, made a very curious discovery. The bodies of Peter and Mary were nowhere to be found. Henry, the boy's stepfather, was there, among the burned wood and sooty bricks. His long legs lied in a puddle of muddy water left over from the firefighters' work. Someone bent down and touched, with fiercely trembling finger, the shiny wire encircling the neck of the dead man. The still warm dead flesh sent an unpleasant shiver from the fingertips to the wrist. And from there, even higher, almost all the way to the elbow.
"He was strangled!", one of the neighbors exclaimed. "Before the flames got to him, he was already dead! But where are Peter and Mary? Their bodies couldn't have burned up completely!"
"It's the strangest thing I can remember in these parts," Sheriff Simpson said, coming out of the tool shed.
"Did you find anything there?" Commissioner Wilson asked. He stood on the tall wet grass and looked thoughtfully to the west, past the black ruins of the ill-fated house.
"Frogs," the sheriff replied. "Two dozen of 'em. They are all strangled with copper wire. Just like Ogelthorpe was strangled. Only the wire around Ogelthorpe's neck was ten times stronger".
"What about those frogs?"
"They're all there in the barn. Dead, strangled. But the strangest thing is that they are lying next to a large ball of copper wire of the same type that Ogelthorpe was strangled with."
The commissioner shook his head.
"Did Mary kill him and go on the run, taking her son with her?"
"She has always been a humble soul. Such a person won't fight the power. And her son is generally a fool, harmless as a fly."
"Seems like we have a vague case here."
"One of the neighbors saw the house on fire. Said that even before the firefighters arrived, a whole horde poured out of the door. They were, as he said, "kind of like people, but not really," and they had two swaddled bags with them, one bigger, the other smaller. Well, the guy said it was dark, maybe he got confused about something. It seemed to him that those "shadow people" had some kind of strangely-shaped heads, and one was completely shaggy, overgrown, kind of beastly. Reminds me of old wives' tales, right?"
"Something like that." The commissioner nodded in displeasure.
"But come on," said that witness, that last one, the shaggy one, carried a torch– the one they burned down the house with!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1994, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 29 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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