999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [300]
He was only vaguely aware of the stage lights quickly fading to black, but in the last instant of illumination he saw that his father no longer stood before him. He now stared into the face of a stranger.
An actor.
The roaring sound had coalesced into something recognizable, and Dominic turned to look out into the brimming audience—a sea of people who were on their feet, clamoring, applauding wildly.
Then the curtain closed, sealing him off from them, from the torrent of appreciation.
He was only half aware of his two fellow actors—the ones who had portrayed his father and mother—as they moved to each side of him, joining their hands in his.
The lights came up as the curtain reopened. The audience renewed its furious applause, and suddenly he understood.
Feeling a flood of warmth and a special sense of gratitude, Dominic Kazan stepped forward to take his bow.
finale
Dennis L. McKiernan
DARKNESS
I knew Dennis McKiernan before he was a published writer. In fact, though it’s not polite to brag, I can claim that I discovered him, a fact of which I’m very proud.
What I can’t claim to have had any part in is his talent, which blossomed through the eighties and into the nineties, mostly in the fantasy field, where he has distinguished himself mightily. His heroic tales are in the tradition of J. R. R. Tolkien, but he has made the genre his own, with such books as Dragon Doom, The Iron Tower Trilogy (consisting oddly enough, of three volumes), and The Silver Call Duology (consisting of, you guessed it, two).
For this book he has produced a singular tale; of Tom Monteleone’s is a Twilight Zone piece then this is a Night Gallery one—a Serling-like tale with a dash of color, though it concerns the opposites of light and dark.
It makes a very nice “duology” with Monteleone’s story.
It is always Dark.
Light only hides the Darkness.
—DANIEL KIAN MC KIERNAN
The taxi pulled in through the open, wrought iron gates and up a long, sweeping driveway with weeping willows looming in the chill darkness to either side. In the backseat, Harlow leaned forward to get a better look.
Wow …!
The moonlight glanced across the snow and highlighted white-laden topiary here and there as well as glimmered on the ice of a landscaped pond. A gazebo sat on the shore of the lakelet, snow on its octagonal roof. Ahead sat the house, the manse: white and two stories and elegant.
Twenty, twenty-five rooms, at least. Perhaps one for each year of my age.
As the cab pulled into a circular turnaround and stopped, Harlow could see a man standing at the front door and shielding his eyes from the headlights, a glitter of keys in his gloved hand.
Harlow got out. “Mr. Maxon?”
Tall and silver-haired, the man moved forward on the broad single step before the door and removed a glove and extended his open hand, his smile revealing angular teeth, and he said, “Mr. Winton, I presume.” The two men shook hands, Maxon’s grip cold.
The taxi driver hefted a cheap suitcase out from the trunk and set it to the wide stoop. “That’ll be sixteen dollars.”
“Just charge it to my account, Roddy,” said Maxon.
The driver touched the bill of his cap and stepped back to his cab.
As the taxi pulled away, Maxon jingled the keys and softly said, “Well, let’s get to it,” and turned toward the door.
Picking up his imitation-leather luggage, Harlow followed, stepping through the doorway just as Maxon flipped a switch, and with a faint clicking throughout the house, light flooded the foyer and the rooms beyond, both upstairs and down. “Holy … !” Harlow set his suitcase down and squinted against the brightness and glanced at Maxon, the lawyer pale and pasty, almost cadaverous in this glare.
“Your great-uncle was a most peculiar man, Harlow, and you are the last in his line.”
“Yeah, but all this light. His electric bill must have been enormous.”
“He can