Another Short Story

A long-fingered, gloved hand reached across the table and picked up the dark, wrapped-up parcel. The glove was black, black like the night outside, black like the room Mr. Evans was sitting in.

He was sitting at a little table, across from this black-gloved man.

"You said this is for a good cause, right?" Mr. Evans asked for the fifth time. The man said nothing. Mr. Evans could see nothing. Only that dark, black hand, hovering over the table with the parcel that he was so worried about. The parcel that contained something new, something highly dangerous. Something that could not, at all costs, fall into the wrong hands.

Slowly the hand withdrew, carrying the parcel, and Mr. Evans was alone. But he was not alone. Only seemingly so. Mr. Evans knew better; he could feel the presence of the unseen figure across the table from him. But suddenly, it was no longer there. The figure was moving.

"Hey," Mr. Evans said timidly. "You're forgetting the money you owe me." A pause. The figure had stopped. Somehow, even in this pitch black, Mr. Evans knew it was staring right at him, looking deep into his soul. And then, out of the darkness, it spoke.

"You're a fool, John Evans," the voice said. It was a hideous, rasping voice, the kind only heard by children, in their nightmares. "You've doomed the world to destruction, and all to satisfy your own greed. If you want the money," it continued, "then you'll get it. I'll kill you and drop it onto your cold, dead body. Then when they find you, they'll know who gave me this parcel. And your mouth will be forever sealed, sealed by the confines of Hell. Or you can walk away still living, and forget your money." The figure stayed there, frozen, waiting for Mr. Evans' response.

Mr. Evans looked into the blackness. Suddenly he was horribly afraid, afraid of this figure, afraid of the dark, afraid of his own ignorance. He wanted to keep this deadly invention away from this dark man, because he now knew the man would use it for evil. "P-Please, Sir," he said. "W-What are you g-going to d-do with the p-parcel?"

"Oh, you'll find out," the rasping voice said. "You'll all find out." And then it laughed, laughed the loudest, most disturbing laugh Mr. Evans had ever heard. The laugh permeated the room; it echoed in every corner, every nook and cranny. Its sound was like a dying animal, only worse. Like a dying animal from Hell.

And then the shadow was gone, gone from the room, gone from Mr. Evans' presence; gone in a flash. It was over, and Mr. Evans was left in the dark: literally and figuratively. He'd thrown away his most dangerous possession, and he had no idea where it was going.