When the Night Comes Out
by Bryan Alaspa
Genre: Horror, Short Stories
What happens when the night comes out? When the darkness comes in from the
sides and closes in all around, what lurks within?
BONUS: Foreword by Patrick C. Greene, author of Progeny and The Crimson Calling
An elevator in a high-rise building becomes a gateway for terror and madness
A German U-Boat during World War I becomes a haunted nightmare
A radio signal in the middle of the night reveals the horrors lurking
beneath a simple, small, peaceful town.
A little girl with a best friend you would NOT want to cross finds
herself in mortal danger.
And a couple moving into a new house discovers an old abandoned well that
may have no bottom, or it may just be a portal into Hell itself.
These are tales of unrelenting horror and terror from the mind of Bryan W.
Alaspa, author of RIG, Sapphire, Storyland, S.P.I.D.A.R. and other
tales of horror, terror and suspense. Five stories that will make you
wonder what lurks - when the night comes out.
...And then Silence
I tuned in to KMOX for a while. It was back to news stuff and I got updated on what the asshole in the White House was doing and the other assholes around the world, as I ate the sandwich,. Once it was done, I started tuning the knob. I wanted to find something else to listen to before I got grease from the chips all over my fingers and then all over the radio. The daytime guy was a real asswipe and he’d bitch about it. So, I cracked open the Coke and drank a huge gulp of the warm fizz and began to tune the knob.
There wasn’t a lot. I heard the other news station out of Chicago, The overnight guy on WGN was fun to listen to, but he was railing against The Dark Knight movie again and that kind of fuckery needs to be ignored, so I did. Spanish stations. Something which sounded like Polish or Russian. Religion. Some orchestral thing that was actually pretty gorgeous to listen to for a while, but I was hoping for something which wouldn’t put me to sleep. It would suck to be caught out here sound asleep at the fence, in the truck, with classical music blasting away and PBJ crumbs on my chest.
I had just about reached the far end, way over to the right, getting to about 1590 or 1600, then the static broke apart.
“We didn’t do anything to you!”
I froze. I sat up straight in my seat. It was a woman. However, the sound of terror and fear in her voice was palpable. She was terrified in a way I had never heard before on the radio. I had heard radio plays and stuff like that before, but this was not one of those. If she was acting, she was fucking brilliant.
My ears heard the sound, but it was so quick and there was so much static my fingers were still turning the knob. I was now listening to some English dude talking about shit in the UK.
“Fuck!” I said and began turning slowly back to the left.
Static. Static.
“...they were just children. What did you do to them? Why are you doing this?”
More static. There were other voices there. Deep. Buried in the background. I couldn’t make out a sound. Then there was just weeping and hysterical crying. It was the same woman, still terrified, pleading. More words from her, but I couldn’t make them out. I adjusted the knob, and suddenly there was the sound of a man reading the news and I turned back and the sound of the woman crying in fear came back.
I reached for my phone. I had to get this down. I had to prove this was happening. Was this a radio drama or something? Was it a pirate radio station? Christ, did they have snuff radio? I found the record app and hit the button and put it against the speaker.
“No, both of them were kids. What did you people do?”
More words in the background. Something which almost sounded like chanting. Then, deep in the background, as I leaned in with my ears right near the speakers in the dash, I heard something else. Something moving. A deep, guttural noise.
“Oh, God, please. What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do?”
More crying and weeping. More sounds of people in the background, saying things which did not sound human. There was the other noise again. Something alive there, growling perhaps? What was this? I felt chills running up and down my spine and fear was like a fist of ice in my gut.
“Go away! Let me go. Please…”
More static now and I reached out with trembling fingers and tried to just nudge the knob and tune it in better. Once again, I got the other news station from who knew where and then turned it back the other way. More of the weeping and crying. She was really crying now, as if something truly horrible was happening.
“We’ve never done anything to you people! Why are you doing this? Please…”
This time there was a loud noise I could not describe. I have heard bears growl and lions roar at the zoo and something in the sound reminded me of those sounds, Something animal. Primitive. Yet, at the same time, ancient. Then more voices. The sound of the woman saying things and crying, pleading for her life, but the words were gone. She was crying hard and it was difficult to understand her.
“We never did anything to you! We never hurt anybody! What are you going to do? No! No, please. No! We didn’t do anything…”
Then there was a scream, loud and clear, and it drove out of the speakers right into my ear. It was like a spike into my brain and I jerked my entire body backwards and hit my head against the back of the cab. I saw stars and let out a stream of curses. The scream was clear and went on and on for what seemed like forever.
...and then silence.
Just static.
“Jesus,” I said.
There was ice cold sweat on my hands and down my back and across my neck. I reached out to my forehead and wiped my fingers across my brow. I looked down at my phone, which was now on the passenger seat next to me, still recording. I hit the STOP button.
My hands were still shaking. I hit the button on the file we had saved.
“No, both of them were kids! What are you -?”
I stopped it.
Bryan W. Alaspa is a Chicago born and bred author of both fiction and
non-fiction works. He has been writing since he sat down at his
mother's electric typewriter back in the third grade and pounded out
his first three-page short story. He spent time studying journalism
and other forms of writing. He turned to writing as his full-time
career in 2006 when he began writing freelance, online and began
writing novels and books.
He is the author of over 30 books of
both fiction and non-fiction and numerous short stories and articles.
Mr. Alaspa writes true crime, history, horror,
thrillers, mysteries, detective stories and tales about the supernatural.
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