The Night Market

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By Jon Adcock

 

         Kent sat on the back patio, watching as the sun descended, slowly melting into a puddle of crimson and gold as it touched the horizon. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the sound of running water. The last of the mourners had left an hour ago, and since then, Katie had been doing her best to clean up. Kent had tried to help, but she had shooed him away.

         “All finished, Kent. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Katie asked from the patio doorway, and Kent turned to look at her. His sister-in-law was of medium height, heavy-breasted, and wide-hipped, with long blonde hair she usually wore in a ponytail.

         “I’m good. Thanks for all your help today.”

         “You don’t have to thank me, Kent,” Katie said quietly. ‘Look, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. You sure you don’t want me to stay in the guest room tonight?”

         “No, I’m good, Katie.”

          “If you need anything or just want someone to talk to, promise you’ll call me.”

          “I promise.”

          Katie held his gaze, painfully aware of the unspoken words that could never be expressed. Not wanting to leave just yet, she asked, “Are you still planning to go to the cabin tomorrow?”

        “Yeah, I’ll be back sometime next week. Everything here reminds me of Jess. I just need to get away for a few days.”

        “Remember, call me if you need anything.” Katie hugged him goodbye. A hug that she probably held for a beat or two too long.

***

         The cabin originally belonged to Kent's parents, and it was located in the mountains near a small lake. Autumn had finally made a belated appearance, bringing with it cooler weather that left the lakeshore and the nearby cabins mostly deserted.

         It was close to midnight, and Kent couldn’t sleep. He stepped out onto the deck with a blanket and a bottle of bourbon to watch for shooting stars and to grieve. After settling into one of the deck chairs, he tipped the bottle back and took a long drink. The whiskey warmed him as he struggled once again to come to terms with the fact that Jess was gone. Since the night the police had knocked on his door to inform him of her death, he felt as if he had been sleepwalking. He spotted a shooting star and quickly made his wish.

         After a while, Kent realized he could faintly hear something. As he strained to listen, the soft, eerie, syncopated sound of music slowly grew louder, seeming to come from the lakeshore. Kent stood at the deck railing, trying to see through the torn curtain of trees. The night was cool, and above, a sliver of moon hung from the sky like an ornament. He finally followed the path that led down to the lake.

           Kent stopped in stunned disbelief as he reached the edge of the tree line. Tents and booths lined the shore, and dozens of people walked among them. Old-fashioned torches were placed throughout the area, casting everything into sharp relief. None of this had been here when he strolled along the lake earlier in the evening. His amazement quickly turned to fear as he realized that many of the figures didn’t look entirely human.

           As he turned to flee into the woods, Kent caught the gaze of the creature at the nearest booth. It waved him forward, and despite his fear and wish to run, Kent found himself taking one hesitant step after another toward it. The creature appeared mostly human, but there was a wolfish, almost feral quality to its features. As Kent got closer, the creature began to shimmer and change until Kent found himself facing a grandfatherly-looking man.

         “Ya wear your grief like a flag, boyo, for all the world to see.” The man said. Kent felt a scrabbling in his mind as if someone with grubby fingers was rifling through his memories. “Ah, dead wife. Freshly dead, too, so it’s doable enough. Question is, what’s it worth to ya, lad?”

           “What’s what worth to me?” Kent heard himself ask.

           “Bringin’ the wife back, of course. Feck, you’re a dense one.”

           “That’s impossible.”

           “This here’s the Night Market. Most things are possible if you’re willin’ to pay the price. So, what’s it worth to ya? Six months? A year? Five years?”

           “Years?”

           “Was ya dropped on your head as an infant? Yeah, years. It’s how ya pay. Listen, I’m in a good mood, so here’s the deal: just give me two years, and ya can have the wife back. Those last few years are shite anyway. End up savin’ ya from droolin’ while ya sit in your own piss in some rest home.” He held out a bulb-like plant. “Deal?”

          “How’s it work?” Kent took the bulb. It felt warm and fleshy.

           “Easy peasy. Plant it somewhere dark with somethin’ that belonged to the wife. The dark is important, that and the blood. Twelve drops of your blood when ya plant it. No need to water. So, what’s it gonna be?”

           Kent turned the bulb over and over in his hands and, after a moment, quietly said, “Yes.”

           The man took out a small vial. As he uncorked it, pain made Kent double over and expel a small wisp of glowing vapor. The vapor flowed into the vial, and the man sealed it back up. “Done. Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he said, and watched as Kent stumbled back into the woods. Once Kent was out of sight, the man’s smile faded, and something more mischievously malevolent took its place. He shook his head and muttered, “What feckin’ eejits these mortals be.”

           Kent walked back to his cabin in a daze. When he got there, he searched through his car and found one of Jess's barrettes in the center console. He then dug a shallow hole in the far corner of the tool shed and placed both the barrette and the bulb in it. Before filling in the hole, he used a knife from the kitchen to cut a small slit in his palm. He carefully raised his cupped hand over the bulb and counted out twelve drops of blood.

          Afterward, he settled back on the porch and finished the bottle of bourbon. The next morning, he woke up still on the porch, feeling cold and stiff, with a light dusting of frost on the blanket he was wrapped in. He also had a raging headache. Kent went into the cabin and sat for a while with his head in his hands. In the daylight, the events of the previous night felt unbelievable, and, when he finally went out to the shed, he was convinced it had all been a dream.

          The shed was located behind the cabin, shrouded in the shadows cast by several large pine trees.   When he opened the door, a strong, musky smell wafted out. In the far corner of the shed, there was now a large, pale plant with a foot-long, cocoon-like growth attached to it by thick tendrils. Kent knelt down and cautiously reached out with a finger to touch it. The cocoon was leathery, warm to the touch, and he could hear a faint, rhythmic sound coming from it. He carefully leaned over and pressed his ear against the cocoon. It sounded like a heartbeat.

***

          The shrill ring of the landline startled Kent awake. He had dozed off on the couch and fumbled for the receiver, knocking the phone off the end table. “Hello,” he managed to croak out once he retrieved the receiver.

          “Kent, it’s Katie. Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you.” She said in a breathless rush. “You don’t answer your cell, and I’ve stopped by your house several times. It’s been a month since the funeral, and I haven’t heard from you once.”

          “Katie? Oh, hi,” Kent said as he sat up and rubbed his free hand over his face. “Sorry, I should have called you. I’m doing good. I just decided to stay up here longer. How’d you get this number?”

         “I broke into your house,” she said sheepishly. “Well, I didn’t actually break anything. I found an unlocked window and crawled through. I knew the cabin’s number was on that phone list on your fridge. Forgive me?”

          “Always,” he said. He spoke with her for several more minutes to ease her worries before gently ending the conversation.

         He went out to the shed to check on the progress. The musky smell was nearly overpowering. The cocoon—or whatever it was—now disturbingly resembled a body bag. He knelt beside it and watched as it rippled with movement. Occasionally, whatever was inside would press against it, allowing him to see the outline of a limb or the features of a face. It was dark enough in the shed that he couldn’t fully tell if it was his wife’s face or not, but he thought so.

           A light rain began to fall, its drops pattering softly on the roof of the shed. Kent sat for a while longer before finally heading into the cabin to prepare dinner. As he ate, he wondered how to handle Jess’s return when it happened. Naturally, Katie would be the first person he would tell. Not only was she Jess’s sister, but she had also been one of his closest friends before the marriage. They had met when she lived on the same floor of his dorm. He would tell her first, and the two of them would figure out what to do next.

         He put on a DVD, a mediocre comedy that had inexplicably become popular when it was first released. As he watched it, the storm grew worse. The thunder sounded like coal tumbling down a chute, and the rain drummed a staccato rhythm on the roof. The lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely. Kent cursed softly and, after a few minutes of sitting in the dark, went to bed.

         Hours later, he woke up suddenly, sensing something was off. He sat up in bed, trying to figure out what had disturbed his sleep. The storm had lessened, and the rain was now just a soft whisper. He listened intently. Beneath the sound of the rain, he thought he heard the creaking of floorboards and the soft tread of footsteps. The bedroom door creaked open slowly.

         “Jess?” Kent asked with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

          “It’s me, love,” said the figure in the doorway.

***

          Katie drove along the dirt road that led to the cabin. The drive up the mountain had been beautiful. The storms that had rolled through one after another were now over, and the autumn sky was a pale blue with only traces of clouds floating in it like soap froth in a tub. The cabin was just ahead, framed by trees but still resting in a small pocket of sunshine.

          Katie parked beside Kent’s Range Rover and took a moment to collect her thoughts, feeling anxious that her visit would upset him. She understood that everyone grieves in their own way, but she hadn’t heard from him since that last phone conversation two weeks earlier. Each time she tried calling, the phone just rang without an answer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Finally, she got out of her car and walked to the door.

          She knocked loudly and waited. The cabin was quiet, almost too quiet, and despite the sunny day, all the curtains and blinds were drawn. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. There was a small gap where the curtains met at the side window, and she attempted to peek into the cabin through it. However, the interior was too dim for her to see anything clearly.

         She stood there, uncertain about what to do. Kent might just be napping or gone for a walk, but that feeling that something was wrong lingered. Finally, after muttering, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she spotted a fist-sized rock near the steps leading up to the deck. With determination, she smashed one of the glass panels in the door and reached in to unlock it.

          She stood just inside the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The cabin had a strange musky odor that she couldn’t identify. Katie pulled open the front curtains to let in some light, and that’s when she saw Kent. He was lying on the couch, looking thin and very pale.

Katie ran to him in a panic and quickly checked for a pulse. She felt one. At first, she shook him gently, then with more force, calling his name repeatedly. A moan escaped him, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked around wildly.

          “Kent, it's me, Katie. What’s wrong with you?”

          “Katie?” Kent said, his eyes starting to focus on her. “Jess is here. She’s come back.”

          “Jess died, Kent.”

          “Miss me, sis?” A voice said.

          Katie spun around at the sound of the voice, letting out a gasp of horror before losing her balance and falling to the floor. Jess stood at the end of the hallway, looking very much alive. In a panic, Katie scrambled backward until her back pressed against the wall next to the fireplace. Jess appeared just as Katie remembered her: tall, thin, and beautiful. She was wearing one of Kent’s long-sleeve shirts and nothing else.

         “What are you?” Katie asked, voice trembling.

         “I brought her back,” Kent said weakly as he sat up on the couch. Jess moved closer to him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

         “What did you do, Kent?” Katie screamed. “She was a horrible narcissist who used everyone around her. That was her lover in the car with her on the night she died. I know you don’t want to face the truth, but she never loved you.”

          “Kent knows the truth. Here, baby, give Mama some sugar. She's feeling hungry.” Jess leaned in toward Kent, a rapacious glint in her eyes. As their lips met, Kent let out a moan of pain and weakly struggled against the arms that held him close. Jess tightened her grip on him as he tried to push her away.   There was nothing passionate about her embrace; it almost resembled a feeding.

         Katie grabbed the fireplace poker and quickly closed the distance between them. She swung the poker with all her strength across Jess's back, causing her sister to drop to her knees. Just as Katie raised the poker for another strike, Jess surged upward, seized the poker from Katie's grip, and backhanded her. Katie fell backward across the coffee table.

         “I know you thought I seduced Kent just for his money, but his inheritance was just a bonus,” Jess said, slowly walking toward Katie as she tried to crawl away. “I did it because I read your diary. All those pages proclaiming how much you loved him. How could I resist?”

         As Jess raised the poker, Kent lunged off the couch and grabbed her. His momentum drove them through the sliding glass door and out onto the deck, taking the curtains with them. Kent landed on his back with Jess on top of him. He wrapped his arms and legs around her, holding on tightly as she struggled to break free.

          Jess began to scream as her body blackened and withered in the sunlight. Crying uncontrollably, Kent closed his eyes and squeezed her tighter.

          Eventually, he became aware that someone was softly calling his name, and he opened his eyes. Katie was kneeling beside him, her face framed by the infinite sky. As a gentle breeze blew bits of ash off the deck, Kent reached up, lightly stroked her face, and pulled her down for a kiss.

***

          Brian followed the sound of music. In the field behind the Johnsons' abandoned house, there was a market set up with tents and booths. A grandfatherly-looking man beckoned him over to one of the booths.

“Ach, a youth this time, brimmin’ over with wants and desires,” he said with boisterous good humor. “So, if ya were to wish upon a star, lad, what would ya wish for?”

​

John's most recent publishing history:

 

“In the Shadow of the Lotus Tree” was published in Issue 313 of AntipodeanSF.

“A Distant Howling“ was published by Dark Harbor Magazine.

“A Scratching at the Door” was published by Suburban Witchcraft Magazine.

“Rustlings in the Dark” was published by Dark Horses Magazine.

“Tales for a Winter’s Night” was published by Suburban Witchcraft Magazine.

“Brittle as Autumn Leaves” was published in Issue 323 of AntipodeanSF.

“Ink” was published by Macabre Magazine.

“The Carousel” was published by Andromeda Literary Magazine.

“Siren’s Song” was published by Belladonna’s Garden Literary Magazine

“Burial Ground” was published by Flash Phantoms

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     Darren Blanch, Aussie creator of visions which tell you a tale long after first glimpses have teased your peepers. With early influence from America's Norman Rockwell to show life as life, Blanch has branched out mere art form to impact multi-dimensions of color and connotation. People as people, emotions speaking their greater glory. Visual illusions expanding the ways and means of any story.

      Digital arts mastery provides what Darren wishes a reader or viewer to take away in how their own minds are moved. His evocative stylistics are an ongoing process which sync intrinsically to the expression of the nearby written or implied word he has been called upon to render.

      View the vivid energy of IVSMA (Darren Blanch) works at: www.facebook.com/ivsma3Dart, YELLOW MAMA, Sympatico Studio - www.facebook.com/SympaticoStudio, DeviantArt - www.deviantart.com/ivsma and launching in 2019, as Art Director for suspense author / intrigue promoter Kate Pilarcik's line of books and publishing promotion - SeaHaven Intrigue Publishing-Promotion.