The Dark Corner

Officer Sharon Eastman sat in her police vehicle, facing out into traffic. The morning was dull grey, as was her mood. 

This morning she thought her day would just be routine traffic stops and truck load weighing, but the call she had just received deferred all of that. 

She removed her Hi-Viz jacket, placed it on the passenger seat and pulled out into traffic.  

Driving north towards town she only passed a few other vehicles coming the other way, the low sun reflecting off their windscreens. Her dispatch radio chattered away with talk about the “rural disturbance” at the address they were going to. There was brief chatter about detectives being brought in, which really put an edge on Eastman’s mood. 

She turned right and headed along Tea Creek road, the asphalt turned into gravel and she adjusted her speed to suit. She had driven this road a lot in her time but this time everything around her seemed run down. Dilapidated roofing panels hung from framing, fence lines twisted and came to abrupt ends. A series of water tanks sat upended in a field and looked as if torn apart by a wild storm. She had heard the conversations of local farmers, their complaints about the economy; the government not helping them etc but this area looked like a storm had freshly danced through it. She rounded a corner which was closed in by oaks on either side and a small green coloured house sat shattered, its inner workings tumbled out and strewn across the grass like animal innards. 

What the fuck has happened here? she thought to herself, as the radio chattered to life with a crackle,  

“Any units close to the active point?” the voice said. 

Eastman reached for her radio, 

‘I’m about two kilometres away, over.’ 

“Be advised. Assailant is quite possibly armed and dangerous. Over.” 

A lump rolled in Eastman’s throat.  

‘I don’t see any other units, should I approach the site?’ Eastman’s voice was cold and stark. 

“Approach, but approach with caution. Additional units are travelling currently,” said the radio voice. 

Behind her, thick gravel dust rolled up, coating the air. She looked at her nav system. This was the address. 

A long driveway ran up between the trees, each side of the drive was swamped by thick hedging, blocking out all light. She parked and went to the boot of her car. Opening it she checked the Bushmaster rifle and ammunition were in place. She removed her tactical vest from its storage place and dropped it over her head and tightened the straps. She also tightened her hair, pulling the bun tight to the back of her head. 

She looked up the hill, following the rough line of sight of the driveway but all that was visible of the house was a chimney, which showed signs of destruction like everything else she had seen on this lonely road. 

A lone magpie sat atop a power pole; it eyed her suspiciously before making its voice heard and disappearing into the trees that seemed to surround and encompass the house. 

Eastman’s eyes were still drawn to the timber pole and the bizarre markings which lined it all the way up its length. Deep rivets in the wood, like animalistic scratchings or when a puppy chewed the furniture – but much bigger than any dog Eastman had encountered. 

She went back to the radio, leaning in through the drivers window. 

‘Eastman here, how far away are additional units?’ 

She felt the presence of someone watching her. Turning she saw now that three magpies sat in atop the pole, all with their gaze fixed on her. 

The radio cracked briefly, cutting in and out. Then the voice broke through, 

“Additional units approx ten minutes away,” it barked. 

Above, behind the tree line a loud crash rang out, sending the magpies scattering and Eastman’s pulse racing. She spun, radio still in hand to look towards the house. Her eyes fixed on the tree line and a brief glimpse of the chimney through the trees. 

“Eastman, do you copy?”  

Eastman snapped the radio to her mouth at the same time a loud animalistic moan erupted from the house, like the braying of a horse, long and almost sad. 

‘Permission to approach armed?’ asked Eastman, her pulse ratcheting. 

“Permission granted,” came the response – definitively. 

‘Copy that.’  

Eastman put the radio back in its cradle and moved to the rear of the car, her sight constantly going back to where the noise came from.  

Another long sluggish moan rang out, this one clearly human. She reached for her rifle and loaded it, ears attuned.  

She walked low, rifle pointed directly ahead, her arms taut like wire. She approached the dark driveway, another low mumble and groan oozed forth. 

She stepped onto the driveway and that was when the stench hit her nostrils. Earthy and foetid. The stink of rotted mud filled her senses. She held back the bile and pushed forward. Adrenaline surged through her veins. 

She watched her blind spots, left and right, up and down as the house, or what was left began to take form in front of her. 

No sign of life was visible as this was not a home. The small cottage was dilapidated beyond repair. The doors shattered along with the windows. Paint peels in mouldy sections on the outside walls and what looked like the remnants of a porch hung limply, gutters spewing brackish water. The surrounding grounds were littered with scraps of wood and metal, thrown everywhere as if at the hands of a hurricane. 

Finger held over trigger, Eastman edged forward, her rifle trained towards any sudden movement. 

The front door, or what remained of it, hung open. Inside, light from what was probably exposed ceiling filled a small hallway, the floor littered with the same detritus as everywhere else. 

‘Hello, this is the police!’ she called out, her voice authoritative and stern. 

‘If you’re in there, I am armed and you need to come out with your hands up!’ she continued as she felt pears of sweat run down her neck. 

She swung left and saw the magpies, watching with interest. 

A low shuffling noise emanated from the front hall. Eastman swung towards the sound, her sight trained on a small willowy figure that appeared at end of the hall. 

A low moan came forth, sad and forlorn. 

Her eye focused. She saw what stood at the end of the hall, dirt-encrusted and emaciated; an old man naked except for a tattered rag tied around his exceedingly thin waist which hung under sprinted ribs. 

‘Sir, my name is Officer Sharon Eastman and I need you to put your hands where I can see them.’ 

The hollow-eyed spectre stood still, arms behind its back, motionless as she put the figure directly in her crosshairs. She could aim for the stomach – incapacitate him, until backup arrived. 

Her thoughts were racing.  

His face was sunken and his mouth a hanging dark shape, like a wet paper bag filled with rotted teeth. With her focus she could see him breathing slowly and heavily. 

‘Sir – I need to see your hands…’ she called again. 

He lifted his head again, his yellow eyes flashed as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice a ruinous crackle. 

‘I’m… so… hungry…’ he moaned, as each world tumbled out of his broken mouth. His right hand moved from behind his back and Eastman’s finger glanced over the trigger. 

In his hand was a large sheet of glass, bits of wooden frame still attached to it. 

Her finger trembled in place, her pulse quickened. 

He lifted the glass to his face, opened his mouth and bit down on the glass. Cracks webbed out from where he bit into it.  

Her gorge rose in her throat as the only sound she could hear was the sound of him wetly chewing on broken glass. 

Blood streaked from his mouth, down his filthy chest and began to pool in his shrunken collarbones. 

‘Sir – drop the glass now!’ she shouted, finger hovered over trigger. 

‘I’m hungry!’ he said, mock pleadingly with a bloody smirk before he took another bite – this time including the rotted wooden frame. She saw the splintered wood as it pierced his cheeks. 

Suddenly her shoulder mounted radio squawked, 

“Backup onsite.”  

She didn’t want to move an inch to touch her radio, her weapon still trained on the man. 

Behind her she heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming up the driveway. 

‘Sir, there are others coming – if you don’t put your hands up, you’ll be dead very soon…’  

He eyed her coldly and dropped the glass, he also revealed his other hand, which was empty. 

Three armed officers appeared around Eastman, all weapons trained on the man in the hallway.  

He shuffled forward.  

Itchy trigger fingers moved again. 

Eastman spoke quietly to her fellow officers,  

‘Hold fire. Hold…’ 

He moved towards the broken door frame. As he walked his sunken belly seemed to expand and pulse, as if his dirty skin surrounded a balloon. 

‘What the fuck?’ uttered the bearded officer to Eastman’s left. 

‘Hold, I said,’ she responded. 

The man began to raise his hands pleadingly, again his stomach rippled as he crossed the threshold of the door, his head hung softly and the words again tumbled from his blood streaked mouth, 

‘Please… I’m just so hungry… I can’t stop.’  

The officers looked on, confused. 

‘You have to stop me… I can’t do it myself…’ he said, hands raised. 

His eyes rolled back into his head, his voice ululated, 

‘So… Hungry…’ 

Suddenly his stomach bulged and tore in two. Shards of wood, steel and glass exploded forth, flying towards the officers. 

Eastman spun away, her left arm shielded her face from the flying visceral debris. 

The officer to her left was not so quick; a beam of shattered wood pierced his throat, sending him tumbling backwards, blood spewing from his mouth. 

Gun fire erupted from Eastman’s right as she ducked to the ground, her weapon tumbling away. She felt a rush of air next to her, as if a presence shifted the very air around her. 

She wish she hadn’t looked. The man stood next to her, still barely alive. His stomach hung open like the flaps of a tent as he rushed towards the officer that fired upon him. Bullets ricocheted off the dirt-smeared old man as he scrambled toward the officer, who continued firing. The sound of the bullets hitting the old man was not the low punch sound they made when they hit flesh but the sound they made when they hit steel and concrete. 

Eastman scrambled to her feet, she watched in horror as bullets tore strips of flesh from the man’s body, sending shards of wood and scraps of metal flying. A rusty screw flew through the air and grazed the side of Eastman’s face as she ducked sideways quickly. She looked on as the man screamed again,  

‘So… hungry!!’ as he grabbed the officers arm and bit down on the still firing handgun, the gaping rotted mouth engulfed the gun and the hand holding it in one swift bite. The officer screamed as he fell, the stump spraying claret across the muddy ground. 

He turned on her and ran at her. She fell back as his shape tumbled over her, his arms shoving her down. 

In that moment as he hung open before her, she saw what drove him, what fuelled him. Metal, screws, nails, splinters of wood and rotted paper filled the cavern that his flesh barely held. His eyes were rampant as he emptied himself, his essence onto her. 

Behind them, as if in perfect sympathetic synchronicity, the last remains of the cottage fell in upon itself in a shower of tumbling shattered wood, dust and debris. 

She looked up as his yellowed eyes filled with blood, his fingers still scrambled for her throat. She had managed to get her knees up and they sunk into the wooden rot that was his skeleton. His eyes fearful as she scrambled her rifle up and under his chin. 

She looked at him one last time as the single bullet from her high powered rifle exited the back of his skull with a spray of the last remaining flesh of him. 

The man fell away from her with a thump and she looked up at the empty, grey sky. 

Above her the three magpies flew away into the day. 

Dan Eady is 45 years old and has been making up stories for nearly all of those 45 years. He loves writing genre fiction, particularly cosmic/psychological horror/sci fi and fantasy. Dan lives in a rural area of New Zealand and takes inspiration from the natural world around him, often using natural themes within his writing. Most recently his body horror story “Like, Share & Subgenerate” was published in the flash fiction anthology “Flash of the Dead; Requiem” by Wicked Shadow Press
Flash Of The Dead: Requiem by Ian Gielen | Goodreads He also had a short story published in a horror anthology called “Campfire Tales” from Beware The Moon publishing, these stories were also performed live as part of the annual Featherston Booktown Festival.