Rules Of Darkness Read online

  Rules of Darkness

  by Tia Fanning

  Copyright © 2007, Tia Fanning

  Published October 2007 by Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  Edgewater, Florida

  All rights reserved

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  There are rules for people like me.

  That’s what my great-grandmother used to say. She’d say, “Katia, you are special, so it is most important you follow the rules. The rules will keep you safe.”

  Even before there were rules, there were signs.

  It started with my conception. I was a blessing wrought from a brutal crime forced upon my young mother as she walked home alone one eve. The man who planted his seed was touched in the mind as they used to say, and had escaped from the nearby asylum. He came upon my mother, did his deed and left, muttering that he could not kill the woman with the river of midnight hair.

  My great-grandma used to tell me that all I was, and all I would become, began then.

  That was the first sign.

  Then, on a cold night during the month of the Epiphany, my mother went into premature labor. Beneath a clear star-filled sky and a Lilith moon, she laid on a pile of blankets next to a fire, her body wracked in pain. The elders had gathered to see what kind of child she’d bring forth.

  The whole village knew of the circumstances that brought my mother to that point, and they knew she would not live to see the morning, for my great-grandmother, a powerful seer, had read it in the cards. Even in those so-called modern times, my people still followed the old ways. Not that it mattered, for our kind would’ve never considered stepping foot in any hospital.

  So as my mother gave me life, she lost hers, only living long enough to name me ‘Katia’.

  That was the second sign.

  My great-grandmother saw to my care and found another woman suckling to give me milk. She had done this before, as my mother’s mother had met the same fate. As my eyes turned from blue to blue hazel, she often said she knew then, if the other two signs had not been enough, that I was special.

  “Four colors. Your eyes hold all of nature. The green of the sacred tree, the gold of sand and stone, the blue of sky and water, but most importantly, you have the ring of shadow that binds them all. They will flock to you, thinking you are their way to heaven. If they live, lay your hands upon them and grant them peace. But never with the dead.”

  That was the third sign… and my first rule.

  I never knew who ‘they’ were until I was five. It was a beautiful autumn day and I wandered through the woods alone, enjoying the sunbeams dancing through the canopy of trees as I picked berries. A woman appeared then, naked and lost, not only in the forest, but also in the maze of voices that floated around in her head. I could hear them whispering.

  We made eye contact.

  She stumbled toward me, grabbing onto flimsy bushes that refused to hold her weight, until finally she collapsed at my feet. Rising to her knees, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close, holding me as one would their own child.

  At first, I stood dumbfounded, unable to speak. I wondered if she was a patient of the nearby hospital—the place where mean doctors locked people away in chains and opened their skulls with butcher knives.

  Then my great-grandma’s words came to me.

  They will flock to you, thinking you are their way to heaven. If they live, lay your hands upon them…

  I hugged her back. “Go in peace.”

  Sobbing, the woman withdrew. I watched her eyes as her mind collected the many people in her head and merged them into one being.

  She looked down at her bare body, then back at me. “Where am I?”

  I shrugged.

  “Little girl, may I borrow your cape?”

  I untied it from my shoulders and handed it to her.

  “Thank you, for everything,” she whispered and walked away.

  Great-grandma was upset when I came home without my cloak. When I explained what happened, she patted my head, telling me that it was time for me to learn all the rules.

  For many sheltered years, I heard them, memorized them, studied them and practiced them. Then one day, when I was sixteen, my great-grandmother died and I was alone in the world. That very night, under the cover of darkness, I fled my village forever, and even broke a rule while doing so.

  It was a full moon.

  I ran away from my life, away from all I’d ever known, away from my arranged betrothal. I ran from my destiny, for it was too much for me to bear.

  I ended up traveling the world, wanting nothing more than to be alone. I survived by taking odd jobs and living off the generosity of others until I saved up enough money to move on, or attracted enough ‘lost’ to make staying dangerous to the people around me.

  Finally, I settled down here in America and went to school. I became an artist and have done well for myself. Very well. I have no regrets except for the love I left behind.

  But no matter how far I ran from home, the rules of my life stayed close. Twelve rules, just like the twelve months in a year:

  Never walk the forest at night when the moon is full.

  Never look into a dark mirror.

  Never glance into a graveyard as you pass it.

  If you should see an unknown light reflect in the eyes of an animal, leave immediately.

  Should you hear three unseen knocks, leave immediately.

  Never pick up random objects that lay outside on the ground.

  Never keep any object if you don’t know its origin.

  Avoid objects and places that have a violent history or were created before time written.

  Never seek out the lost. Let them come to you.

  Never allow someone to tell you your future.

  Never tell anyone of your gifts.

  And most importantly—never touch the dead. Not in any form.

  You might wonder why I’m giving you my life story, and my answer to you would be because it is necessary. It is the only way you can understand how I found myself where I am now… standing before my French doors, looking through the glass at a pale, dark-haired teen with empty black eyes and the gaping mouth of death.

  He wants me to let him in.

  Chapter Two

  Three weeks ago, I bought a house. It’s just a simple cabin-like structure situated off a lake in a remote forest area. I like it here. It’s a great place to think, to create art, and there are no people around. Hell, the nearest city is miles and miles away.

  However, being new to the area, I’m still ignorant of all the locations that would violate my life’s rules. Last Tuesday, as I returned from the grocery store in town, I’d glanced out my passenger window to something I thought was a park. I quickly discovered it was a graveyard.

  I’ve made similar mistakes in the past, but this time, the site contained a new person, one who had neither fo
und rest nor left the place that held his corpse. And it was too late for me to pretend I didn’t see him. He knew I did.

  My great-grandma used to say the spirits who couldn’t find peace in death usually strayed from their bodies, roaming the earth until they found closure. But if the timing was right, or wrong in my case, it was possible to find a spirit still in attendance near their body.

  Ghosts are not stupid. They know they’re dead. And they understand that the majority of the population will not be able to acknowledge them on a tangible level. But when they find someone who can see them, they attach themselves to that person, wanting that person to help them find rest.

  That’s what happened to me exactly one week ago.

  You see, ghosts move in a time that is different from ours. Depending on their power, which is fueled by their emotional state and other unknown rules that govern their existence, it’s possible for their time to speed ahead of ours, or slow up to what could equate to years in our reality.

  For this kid, it had taken him a week to move from the graveyard to my back deck.

  I wish it had been years.

  He is distraught, so his power is greater.

  When a person such as myself is haunted, we suffer the full effects of it. We see it, we feel it—our brains don’t rationalize it out as a natural, explainable occurrence. So, as my great-grandma used to say, life only gets worse when an unsettled spirit is in it.

  And for entities that have all eternity to figure out what kept them on this plane of existence, they’re remarkably impatient.

  They want to move on, and they want to do it now. And they want you to make it happen. Fail them in that, and see what they can do. You may not believe it, or may not want to believe it, but they can easily kill you.

  Charlie, my very large guard dog, lumbered to my side, his long claws clicking on the wood floor. With fur standing on end across his arched back, he bared his teeth and snarled at the specter on the other side of the paneled glass.

  Unfortunately, the dead kid is more powerful than both of us put together.

  I brushed my hand across my dog’s head. “Down boy,” I murmured.

  Charlie gave a deep bark, protesting my command.

  “I know. I see him too. You’re a good boy for trying to protect me.”

  Ghosts are around us all the time, day and night. On the street, on the subway, sometimes even living with us. The average person cannot see them, but almost every animal can.

  Humans in general live a life of ignorant bliss, fairly unaware of the dark things that go on around them—and there are many dark things in this world. I, on the other hand, have to live a life of avoidance. Anytime I see a spirit, I duck my head and pretend I don’t. This usually works for me. And as long as I avoid ancient sites, museums and other old buildings, I can lead a somewhat normal life.

  Which reminded me…

  Gathering as much courage as I could, and what I lacked, I substituted with false bravado, I took a step forward and looked into the kid’s ink-like eyes.

  “I can’t help you. I don’t have anything in the house you can use to communicate.”

  I wasn’t lying. There was nothing in my house for him to use. I won’t allow things into my haven that produce white noise or have a speaker. No TV, no radio, no phone. And God knows I’d never have the medium objects around such as tarot cards or an Ouija board. Never would I send an open invitation to the unsettled, or possibly even more dangerous, the fallen ones.

  The kid slowly moved his gaping mouth wider, but as I expected, no sound came out. He kept trying, showing me his thick black tongue. His expression reminded me of a fish taken out of water and set on the deck to die.

  Frustration fed him power. The hanging wind chimes pinged violently as the air picked up speed around the spirit. A patio chair blew over.

  I shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry. Please leave and find someone else to help you,” I whispered.

  The wind subsided some.

  For the first time, I really looked at the kid. He suddenly seemed like lost little boy with his shaggy hair and big sad eyes… well, a scary, freaky, dead little boy. But despite my overwhelming fear, I felt bad about the whole thing.

  I wondered how he died and why he didn’t move on.

  No, I shouldn’t wonder such things. I mustn’t get attached.

  The kid was dangerous to me. He could kill me. Worse, he might touch me, and I could lose my soul.

  Avoid him—ignore him, that’s what I needed to do. Maybe he’d just leave. However, the way my luck was going, he’d probably stay put and try to find a way into the house.

  I glanced at the door. Crap! Was the door even locked?

  The kid must have read my mind. Agonizingly slow, he lifted his stiff arm, his talon like fingers curling as he reached for the handle.

  Charlie barked and jumped forward.

  I too made a dash for the door.

  Out of the way, Charlie!

  Tripping over my dog’s large body, I fell on my hands and knees, hitting the hard wood floor with a thud.

  Shit!

  Charlie was attacking the door, jumping, growling, barking and hitting his paws against the glass. Scrambling forth, I flung my hand out to grab a hold of the dead bolt’s latch. Before I could get a solid grip, Charlie collided with my arm and my fingers fumbled, sliding off the small metal piece.

  “Move! Move!”

  With all my strength, I pushed the dog out of the way. I heard him yelp as I reached up and locked the door.

  Silence.

  Thank you, Lord.

  Sitting on the floor, I didn’t move. I didn’t dare breathe. Charlie was also frozen in place, but he continued to stare past me, his eyes reflecting a light unnatural. He whimpered.

  I followed Charlie’s gaze through the glass.

  Big mistake.

  The kid’s lips shriveled up. His face melted into a mask of horrific rage as hair flew back and razor sharp teeth spouted out, two inches long.

  The patio table catapulted off the deck, followed instantly by the chairs. The French doors rattled as three booming knocks echoed through the house. Several windowpanes shattered. Glass rained upon me.

  The kid had never moved. Wrath fueled his power and manifested his thoughts.

  Shit!

  Charlie barked furiously as I clambered back, sliding across the floor.

  The rule! Three unseen knocks! I had to get out of there.

  Three more knocks radiated, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. What little glass was left imploded, then exploded, and flew through the air. A gust of howling wind rushed in. The doors shook on their hinges.

  I got to my feet and ran for the living room, Charlie following at my heels.

  Three thundering knocks behind me.

  Three pounding knocks before me.

  Swinging the front door open, I collided into a rock hard wall of male. I stumbled back and fell on my ass. Charlie danced around me in excitement.

  I looked up.

  The sight that met my eyes almost made me lose the contents of my stomach. There stood the one man in the world who might actually be more dangerous to me than the damn kid on my back porch. Twelve years might have passed, but I knew him all the same. I could never forget him.

  “Stoyan.” I whispered.

  Stoyan silently stared at me with cold eyes.

  It couldn’t be.

  Despite the hurricane force winds, the glass, wood and other debris flying around my house, not to mention the ghost trying to break through my French doors to kill me, I could not find the strength to lift myself off the floor. And the more I looked at the jilted fiancé on my front step, the more I realized that it would be easier to die now than have to face my past.

  Hell, what did I have to live for anyway?

  Come on kid…

  Three exploding knocks. Chunks of wood fell, the clatter of it resounding in the wind. I knew the door would not sustain another hit. The ghost wo
uld soon be in the house.

  Tears brimmed behind my lashes and I looked down. If death was on its way to claim me as I hoped, wished, prayed, and greatly suspected from the sounds behind me, this moment was to be my last.

  And the last thing I’d see was Stoyan.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  My world instantly shattered into a million pieces. I never thought I’d see him again. For the sake of my sanity, my heart, and my very way of life, I never wanted to see him again.

  Black boots and the hem of his jeans came into view, stopping before me. I mumbled a prayer to the good Lord asking that the ghost not touch me when he killed me, and that my death be quick and painless. As I begged for entrance into Heaven, I also asked God to spare Stoyan. I wasn’t even ready to face my ex in paradise.

  “Siligul galak adda gidum, ebitum wasuzah,” Stoyan chanted. I lifted my head in time to see him raise his arm. “Ribarra!”

  A sudden burst of energy, then everything stilled and fell silent.

  Damn! Damn! Damn!

  He had banished the ghost.

  I couldn’t decipher Stoyan’s words, but their sound was familiar, as I had heard the ancient speech before as a child. But only Stoyan, and others with his gifts, knew their true meaning.

  He lowered his arm and turned his intense gaze on me.

  I read so much there. Pain, disappointment, anger, accusation. He thought I betrayed him. In a way, I guess I did. After all, when I left my village behind twelve years ago, I left the promise of our love behind too. But sometimes in life, we all have to make hard decisions and do what we think is best.

  Though it broke my heart to know that I’d never see him again, running away had been what was best for me. I had to save myself. And to save myself, I had to lose myself. And by losing myself, I found myself.

  I hoped he could understand that.

  My dog growled. Stoyan shifted his eyes to Charlie, who in turn, whimpered and proceeded out the front door.

  Damn traitor.

  My ex-betrothed seemed to get angrier as the silent seconds passed. If his expression showed anything, either he didn’t get the letter I left him when I ran away, or he didn’t except my reasons for leaving.