Chapter 1- Dark Rain

Dante ran through the house, his chest heaving from fear and exertion, silently praying he was in time. Behind him, his older brother Donya panted heavily, for the two had run at least three miles to reach their destination, the Morrison home.

“Mom!” he called. There was no answer.

“Why are we here? You still haven’t told me what she said on the phone,” His brother said between heavy breaths. He did not answer, for fear that if he spoke his mother’s words, they might come true.

Then the shrieking sound of glass shattering from upstairs nearly stopped his heart. He swallowed hard as his brother called out his mother’s name, running up the stairs.

“Oh, God!” a half sob, half cry escaped from his brother’s lips. Donya fell to his knees in the doorway of the bathroom, his entire body trembling visibly.

“Mom,” he whispered, staring at his mother’s body. She lay in a pool of blood on the floor, amidst shards of a mirror, blood pouring from her wrists.

“Donya, call 911!” Dante cried, pushing past Donya. He grabbed her wrists, pressing hard against the deadly gashes in hopes to stop the bleeding. Donya nodded, the horror releasing his heart for a moment. He fled the sight, running to his parent’s bedroom. Dante could hear him pick up the phone.

“This is Donya Morrison of 327 Hanover Lane. My mom is hurt bad. She’s unconscious, and her wrists are bleeding really heavily…”

“C’mon, Mom,” Dante whispered, returning to his own predicament. He could feel his mother’s heartbeat as he pressed his hands so hard against her wrists. It was growing fainter by the moment.

“You can’t go, Mom. You can’t die,” he whispered, tears falling down his face.

God, please don’t let her die, he prayed silently.

“Fool.”

Dante’s head snapped up. Who had said that?

“You were so weak. And now, you are gone.” Dante’s eyes widened. The voice was not Donya’s. It was low, almost feral, filled with malicious delight.

And then, he saw it. Across from his mother, in the bathtub, was a creature, the size of a cat. It was entirely black, its flesh shimmering under the bathroom lights. Dante’s breath ceased as his eyes widened in sheer horror. What was that thing?

It crawled out of the tub, settling next to his motionless mother’s head. He could see eyes unbelievably darker than the flesh that surrounded them.

“You are mine,” it whispered, and kissed his mother’s forehead. Dante felt the weak pulsing in his mother’s bleeding wrists fade. She was dead.

“No!” Dante screamed. The creature looked up at the boy, startled. He could see that its fangs were the color of blood. His mother’s blood…

“No!” He cried again, and grabbed a large shard of the mirror. The creature hissed in fear, but was unable to escape.

The point of the shard came down, piercing the creature’s body, sinking deep into it. The creature screamed as both black and crimson blood splattered on the bathroom floor. Dante released the shard, looking in horror at the bloody gash on his right hand. It ran from the top of his pointer finger’s knuckle all the way to the left side of his wrist.

“You will die, boy,” the creature hissed, wresting Dante’s attention from his profusely bleeding hand. Before his eyes, the dark thing disappeared, leaving Dante alone and bleeding.

“Dante!” Donya cried out. Dante turned to see his brother’s ashen face, full of fear.

“She’s gone, Donya,” he whispered, his voice trembling. He could hear sirens, growing louder by the moment. “She’s gone.”

Donya sank to floor silently. His eyes were dull, but bereft of tears. It was as if tears themselves could not express the swelling grief and pain inside his heart.

“Donya,” Dante whispered softly, his mind beginning to whirl. His entire hand was covered in blood, and a small crimson pool had collected next to his mother’s side. He blinked hard, but failed to chase away the tiny black dots in his vision that were rapidly growing larger.

“Dante!” Donya gasped, crawling through the shards of glass as he took Dante’s wounded hand. “What have you done?”

“It was touching her. It… it killed her… that thing is… I’m going to kill it…” Dante tried to grab another mirror shard with his good hand.

“No!” Donya cried, his voice cracking. Dante suddenly fell into his brother, waves of dizziness consuming him. He was floating, just above the floor, as the colors of the room slowly bled into black.

“Mom,” he whispered. The last image he saw was his brother’s tormented face as well as the distant faces of paramedics.

“Shit, we got two SI’s,” one of them muttered as Dante fell into darkness.

Eight years later…

“Police say that they found the body of Raymond Leary, the serial killer/rapist who has terrorized Philadelphia for the past six months. He was found in a downtown alleyway, apparently murdered while on his knees. Police Chief Leonard Perez reports that he was stabbed in the back of the neck in such a manner that suggests a professional hit. Police are now investigating his death, but there are no leads. Nevertheless, the Mayor was happy to say that the teenage girls of Philadelphia can now sleep at peace.”

“Iris, turn the TV down!” Mrs. Sanders yelled from downstairs. “I can hear it loud and clear all the way down here!”

“Shit,” Iris muttered, putting down her pretty pink razor. She turned off the television, and then glanced at her legs. “What a bad shave job.”

“Sorry, Mom!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, putting on a pair of jean flairs. She winced as they slid up her newly shaved legs, hugging them tightly.

“Mom, did you hear? They found that bastard’s that’s been killing those girls. He’s dead.”

“Iris Amelia Sanders, watch your language!” Mrs. Sanders said. “Ever since you started dating that boy, your mouth has been so foul!”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Iris lied. “That’s not true. It happened before I met him. It happened in my first year at St. John’s when I was bunking with the schizophrenic girl. You know, Jessica?”

“Oh, that poor girl,” Mrs. Sanders said, her hazel eyes suddenly sorrowful. “I wish I could do something for her.”

“She’d tell you to f- well, you know,” Iris said, grinning at her near slip.

“I know, but still, she was suffering so much. I can’t imagine what it would like to hear imaginary voices all day.”

“Well, it’s not like she’s the only one in the world. Why don’t you feel bad for all of them?”

“My, my, you’re awfully insensitive today, Iris. Is everything okay?”

“I did a really bad shave job,” Iris admitted. “Now I have razor burn all over my thighs.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Your thighs won’t be visible at any point this night. And that’s an order,” Mrs. Sanders said firmly.

“Oh, Mom, don’t be such a party pooper,” Iris teased. Mrs. Sanders rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I know, I’m such a horrible mother. Now, go set the table. Your father will be home any minute.”

“I’m already home,” Mr. Sanders said from the hallway. “Dinner smells wonderful, Michelle.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Iris called out.

“Iris!” Mr. Sanders said, walking into the kitchen. Iris hugged him. “I didn’t know you were home. I thought you were going on a date tonight.”

“Well, tonight, I wanted him to come over tonight. Is that alright, Dad?”

“Of course, sweetie,” he replied, smiling. “Any special occasion?”

“Dad!” A female voice called. Mr. Sanders turned, ignoring Iris’ answer.

“Angel!” He cried as Rosemary Sanders came bounding into the kitchen. Though nineteen years old, she still acted like a little girl for her father. He hugged her, and kissed her on the cheek. Iris smiled as the two teased and joked with each other. Her younger sister had always had a closer relationship with her father than she had ever had.

“Well, dinner’s ready,” announced Mrs. Sanders.

“Where’s your boy?” Rose said, playfully nudging Iris with her elbow.

“He’s coming,” Iris said. “Donya is never late. I told him six o’clock, and he’ll be here.”

“It’s 5:59- oh! Just turned. He’s late. Now you’ll have to break up with him.”

That moment, the doorbell rang. Iris smirked at Rose, who grinned in return.

“I’ll get it, Mom,” Iris said.

“Try to get back in less than five minutes. The fettuccine alfredo tastes better hot,” Mrs. Sanders called back.

“Very funny,” Iris muttered, but soon, all irritation ceased as she could see his shape through the front door’s large window.

She fumbled with the doorknob’s lock for a moment, nervous. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then opened the door. She was silent for a few moments.

“Hey,” Iris said, a helpless, goofy grin on her face. She leaned against the doorway, as Donya Morrison smiled back.

“Hey,” he replied, and kissed her gently on the cheek. He stepped forward, slipping his arm around her waist. “How’s my girl?”

“Oh, she’s hanging right now,” Iris said, gazing at her closest friend. He was tall, with dark hair and amazingly warm blue eyes. His face was thin, but not dreadfully so, and his chin was hidden by a dark patch of what she called his scruffiness.

“Well, that’s good,” he murmured, leaning into her lightly. Her silly grin grew bigger as she kissed him on the cheek. She was surprised to find that she had to lean down to kiss him, but then realized he still stood outside.

“Dinner’s ready, you know,” she said, dodging a kiss. She loved to tease him; she loved to make him work for the kiss.

“It smells good,” he replied, and tried to kiss her again. She looked downward quickly, barely avoiding him.

“Fettuccine alfredo. Your favorite,” she giggled as Donya had begun to kiss her neck, his scraggly beard lightly tickling her.

“That’s not my favorite,” Donya said, faking indignity. Iris looked up.

“But you said-” Iris was silenced as Donya kissed her fully on the mouth. She let it last for a few moments before breaking off. She glared at him, pretending to be angry.

“Peaches are my favorite,” Donya said, grinning.

“More like prunes,” Iris retorted jokingly, and Donya laughed. “We’d better get inside. My mom said I had to be back in under five minutes this time.”

“Oh, so she’s giving us five minutes?” Donya responded, his hand resting on her outer left thigh.

“Uh, not really,” Iris said, her face flushing.

“You okay?” Donya asked. His hand dropped from her leg. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Why’d you ask?” Iris replied.

“Well-” Donya began.

“Oh, come on! I’m hungry,” Iris said, grabbing his hand. “Let’s eat!”

“Wait.” Donya stopped her. She turned and saw uncertainty in his eyes.

“Are you ready, Iris?” She blinked, knowing what he meant.

“You know I am.” Iris watched him smile in response. How she loved that shy smile. Though the two had been together for three years, she still felt that rush of excitement and joy when he smiled at her.

“Dinner was wonderful as usual, Mrs. S,” Donya said, leaning back. He glanced at Iris, who sat next to him. He could feel her foot playing with his pant leg.

“Why, thank you, Donya,” Mrs. Sanders replied, smiling knowingly. She knew the couple had been playing the game throughout dinner.

“So, Donya, you’re in your last year of college,” Mr. Sanders began, oblivious to what was occurring under the table. “What do you plan to do next?”

Iris grinned at her lover, squeezing his hand under the table. His eyes lit with excitement.

“Well, I plan to move into my grandmother’s house. I have enough money to fix it up now, and maintain it.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. Wait, I thought your grandmother’s house was down in lower New Jersey?”

“Pennsville, to be exact,” Donya acknowledged, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“But, what about Iris?” Rose asked, suddenly concerned. Donya smiled at her, as if to comfort her.

“Well, I’ll be going with him,” Iris said.

“Iris!” Her mother said, shocked and angry. “You will not! You know how we feel about-”

“Mom, Donya has asked me to marry him!” Iris yelled out before her mother could say anything more about her views on intimacy outside of marriage.

“What?” Mr. Sanders asked, caught off guard by the sudden explosion of emotion at his table.

“Donya asked me to marry him, and I said yes,” Iris said more calmly, her face beaming with happiness.

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Sanders said, getting up. Iris rose and hugged her mother. “That’s so wonderful!”

“So, you approve, Mom?” Iris said. Mrs. Sanders nodded, smiling and crying happily.

“Of course! Congratulations, honey!”

Donya rose, grinning. He embraced his future mother-in-law, and kissed her cheek.

“You better take care of her, boy,” Mrs. Sanders said, kissing him on the cheek as well. “She’s my baby.”

“I will,” Donya said, his arm reaching around Iris’ side.

“Congratulations, Iris,” Mr. Sanders said, hugging his eldest daughter. He shook Donya’s hand, nodding as he did so.

“Wow, Iris, that’s so awesome!” Rose said.

“I know!” Iris said, nearly squeaking with delight.

“So when will it be? Can I be the bridesmaid?”

“We were hoping in October. And of course, you can be the bridesmaid,” Iris answered.

“October, eh? That’s only six months,” Mr. Sanders said. “Are you sure?”

“I already have the dress. Well, if you will let me wear your dress, Mom.” Mrs. Sanders, nodded, too overwhelmed with happiness to speak.

“But what about invitations?” Rose asked.

“We only want a handful of people. You know, just close friends and relatives.”

“Do you have the church picked out?” Mrs. Sanders said, finally able to speak again. Donya’s smile disappeared.

“We’re not sure we want to get married in a church,” Donya said quietly.

“What? You mean my daughter might not get-” Mrs. Sanders began, but was silenced by a glare from Iris.

“We still have a lot of planning to do, but I think we can do it,” Iris said resolutely. She glanced up and smiled at Donya, who smiled back.

“Finally, things are coming together,” he murmured to her, and kissed her lightly.

He walked slowly, tenderly, with a slight limp. His dark trench coat rustled in the night wind, which was accompanied by a soft, sorrowful rain. It was past midnight, and the raging storm had finally died.

The apartment building was dark and cold, as it had always been. When he came home, no one greeted him. All feared him, for they all knew he was an emotionless man. He was cold and dark, like the rain endlessly striking the roof that night.

He opened the door to his apartment, revealing a dusty, nearly empty room. Other than a small television, the single piece of furniture was a broken down coach, which reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Newspapers littered the brown couch, most of which were torn or slightly burned.

“Get the hell out of here, Roscoe,” the limping man said, for he could see the outline of a man underneath the newspapers.

“Had a bad night, eh, Dante?” Roscoe said, pushing the papers off himself. He grabbed a bottle wrapped in brown paper, and stomped on the dying cigarette on the floor.

“Get out,” Dante warned, his voice neutral.

“Alright, alright,” Roscoe said. He knew Dante’s temper was barely retained, especially when he came home late. He passed Dante, giving the young man plenty of space.

Just as he was about to leave, Roscoe turned. He stared hard at Dante’s back.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Roscoe asked.

“Why do you drink yourself stupid every night?” Dante replied, his voice low but filled with venom.

“Because I have nothing to live for. What’s your excuse?” Roscoe retorted bitterly, and left Dante Morrison alone in the dark apartment.

“What indeed,” Dante said to himself as he closed the door and made his way to the couch. He gingerly removed his coat, and then settled on the foul smelling couch.

“Damn,” he murmured when he saw the bloodstain surrounding a tear in his black t-shirt. He tried to roll his left shoulder, the source of his blood and pain. It moved, sending angry, pulsing pain through his entire body. He touched it lightly, probing the wound. It was surprisingly shallow, and seemed to have stopped bleeding.

Dante shed his shirt, gritting his teeth as the fabric slid mercilessly across his wound. He then bent down, pulled up his pant leg to reveal a swollen left knee.

“Got the shit kicked out of you this time, Dante,” he said, flinching as he touched the swollen joint. “That dumpster really did a number to your knee.”

He grabbed the television’s remote from the floor, and turned it on as he carefully brought his legs up onto the couch. The news was on, for he could see the terribly familiar face of Raymond Leary. The picture faded, replaced by the scene of an alleyway in downtown Philadelphia, where a female reporter was speaking.

“Six months ago, a regime of terror began in Philadelphia when thirteen-year-old Gail Turner was found in her bedroom dead and naked, the first victim of thirty-three-year-old Raymond Leary. Police say that Leary would bind and gag his victims, rape them, and then stab them repeatedly with a hunting knife.”

“God damn it,” Dante said to the television angrily, ignoring the furious pain in his shoulder. “Do you sons of bitches think her parents want to hear this?”

“The next victim was sixteen-year-old Allison Ferguson, who was killed two months after Gail Turner. Fifteen-year-old Megan Cross was found dead last month, and thirteen-year-old Paula Shields was murdered three days ago.”

“Four days ago, you stupid bitch.” Dante angrily reached under the couch to retrieve a bottle with a Jack Daniels label. He took a sip, and swallowed hard.

“Paula Shields was the last victim of Leary, however. Last night, in this alleyway, Leary himself was murdered. In what appears to be a ferocious fight, Leary was overpowered, forced to his knees, and stabbed at the base of his neck. Police currently have no leads. Police Chief Perez states that this was an act of a lone desperado, even though the execution style of Leary’s murder suggests a professional hit. Leary had no connections to any criminal organization, and it has been determined that he was mentally unstable.”

“Well, thank you for stating the obvious,” Dante remarked, taking a long drink. He shuddered as the liquid burned down his throat. He wanted to be drunk; he wanted to not feel anything anymore.

“I don’t deserve it,” he whispered, suddenly letting go of the bottle. It fell to the floor, the whiskey spilling out.

“Police Chief sends his deepest sentiments to the parents of the victims. Our thoughts shall be with them.”

“They need your prayers more than your thoughts,” Dante spat out, and turned the television off in disgust. He laid his head back, closing his eyes. Would sleep come? He did not know. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to sleep, because he knew what nightmares awaited him.

But his body needed rest, more so than his soul. He tried to imagine a good time in his life, for he knew if his last thought was a happy one, he would not have nightmares.

Unfortunately, his last thought that night was of Raymond Leary’s cold body on the ground, with his knife protruding from the murderer’s neck.

The shard of reflection pierces the skin, and blood runs forth. A sharp intake of breath as pain blossoms. The sounds of a cry in the distance, followed by a chilling laugh echoes through his. He sees her cold body, dead and damned.

The room shimmers, fades, and reappears. The mirror is gone, and the blood evaporates.

“Shh, little girl. Everything’s alright.” Eyes white with fear, skin cold with sweat. She whimpers quietly, as dark hands stroke her bare skin softly, almost lovingly.

“That’s right. Ray’s here to take care of you now.” The hand traces her youthful skin, stained with fear. He shudders, ready to break her body and her pride.

Cold steel slides into her as her muffled screams go unnoticed. He whispers his mother name as he stabs her again, and again.

The screams die as the dark alleyway rushes into view. Anger clashes with fear as he is thrown against the dumpster, his own steel piercing his skin. Pain cries out as he falls to the cold ground.

“You want to play, little boy?” It whispers to him, taunting. “You want to kill him?”

“Where is he?” He cries between huffs, staring into the black eyes that fear him. He rises, and slides the knife from its bleeding sheath of flesh.

“Tell me!” Lust falls to its knees as anger strikes with all its might. Silence settles over the battlefield as the victor approaches its prey.

Rage pierces skin again, killing the lust within. A shell falls to the ground, growing colder.

Shadows rise from the corpse, hissing with agony. Black blood mixes with crimson as dark eyes dim with pain.

“He’s waiting for you. He will rip you apart, human,” it shrieks, higher than a whistle. It collapses, dying.

“I will… see you… in… in my Master’s kingdom…”

Rage dies as regret and pain sink in. He closes his eyes as his prey fades away.

“Not before I kill him, you won’t.”

Rain comes, washing away the blood, the bodies, the alleyway, and the horrible memories. He looks up into the dark sky above. There is nothing there, not even a vestige of hope.

He wants to remember a day of light, a day without pain. He wants to remember a face filled with goodness and joy, a face he has not seen in three years.

The distant memory is just out of sight, but he can hear it. A boy is laughing, full of innocence. He wishes to find the boy, to find his innocence, to find his hope.

But he cannot.

Instead, the dark rain washes over him, erasing his memories. He is left alone, cold, and in pain.