Into the Darkness

by Michael Thomas Ford

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Lust, tenderness, devotion—and something a little darker too. All can be found in these two mesmerizing vampire novellas by Michael Thomas Ford, where those willing to pay the price can satisfy every hunger . . . STING Librarian Ben Hodge has abandoned New York for the sleepy Ozarks town of Downing, Arkansas. But it’s still not far enough to exorcize the pain of losing his lover. Among the handful of customers visiting the library is Titus Durham—a soft-spoken beekeeper who fascinates Ben. Yet there’s more to Titus, and to Downing, than Ben can guess—a sinister history that melds ancient Ozarks legends, timeless desire, and a thirst that will not be denied . . . CARNIVAL Joe Flanagan has always felt more at home tinkering with machines than being among people. As chief mechanic for a carnival, he hides something else that sets him apart—his desire for other men. But when the carnival teams up with a traveling show of human “curiosities,” Joe finds unlikely friendship in Derry Stroud, a handsome young man with his own secrets. Compelled to help him, Joe is ready to risk the wrath of the freak show’s sinister owner, Mr. Star, unaware of how much he stands to lose—or gain. Praise for the Novels of Michael Thomas Ford “Impactful . . . real . . . Ford’s beautiful story makes it all seem possible and believable . . . these are rich characters, heartfelt descriptions and real-life happenings that resonate.” — The Lambda Book Report on Full Circle “An insightful and entertaining read about what we seek, and what answers we find within and without.” — Booklist on Looking for It

Release date: May 28, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 191

Sample

“As you can see, our information systems fall somewhere between the Luddite and the Amish.”

Ben Hodge laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed since arriving in Downing the day before, or perhaps even since deciding to leave New York in February. Maybe, he thought, even since the night before Trey’s death.

“We’ve got a computer, and we’re linked to the big library in Cedar Creek, of course, but you probably won’t get many requests for inter-library loans. Mostly people come in for the new Stephen King and Jackie Collins titles.”

Martha Abraham spoke with the still, soft voice of a woman who had been a librarian for most of her 72 years. With quick, intelligent eyes peering out from behind thick bifocals and a body that appeared to be nothing more than twigs held together by sheer force of will, she reminded Ben of a hummingbird.

“And that’s about it,” Martha said as they returned to the front desk from their tour of the library. It hadn’t taken long. The Downing Public Library was comprised of just three rooms: the central stacks holding the collection of fiction and nonfiction, a smaller children’s room, and the librarian’s tiny office. The latter was tucked behind the library’s long wooden counter, under which the tools of the librarian’s trade—checkout slips, rubber stamps, pencils, reference materials, and assorted candies for the infrequent young patron—were housed.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Martha looked at Ben, her dark eyes fixed on his face.

Ben looked around the small library and nodded. “I’m sure,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

“Then here you go,” Martha said, taking a ring of three keys out of her dress pocket and handing them to Ben. “Big one’s for the front door, medium one’s for the office, and no one remembers what the small one is for but it’s always been on that ring and I’m not about to break that particular chain.”

Ben smiled as he closed his hand around the keys. Another Ozark superstition, he thought to himself.

“And now I am officially retired,” said Martha. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a garden waiting for me to attend to it. If you need me for anything, my number’s on your desk.”

With a simple wave of her hand, Martha left the library without another glance. When the door had shut behind her, Ben took another look around. He sighed. It was all his now. He held the keys up, watching them swing from his finger, the light from the library’s many windows glinting off the well-worn metal. What was it about keys that seemed so magical?

They open doors, he told himself. They open doors to new adventures. Unexpectedly, he saw an image of himself standing in front of a door, holding a similar set of keys. They were the keys to the apartment he and Trey had moved into a year after meeting at a book signing, both of them standing in the rain for an hour to get Drayton Leister’s signature on his new novel. A casual conversation had turned into coffee, which had turned into dinner, which had turned into a night of lovemaking, which had turned into three years together.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it. He’d left New York to escape those memories, to leave them behind in the congested streets that smelled more and more like death to him and the crowds of people that filled the city like shades, the life drained from them by the demands of living in such a place. It was a city that ate its residents, and he’d been lucky to escape.

He walked through the stacks, investigating the library’s holdings more carefully. The contents of a library’s shelves were in many ways a reflection of its patrons’ lives. A good librarian picked and chose based on what he or she knew of the people who walked through the doors. He’d done as much in his job as the director of one of the New York Public Library’s many smaller offspring. He was curious to see what Martha Abraham’s choices could tell him about his new home.

As Martha had promised, there were the usual suspects, including King, Collins, Grisham, Straub, and pretty much every novel ever selected by Oprah for her book club. But he also found some surprises: a complete collection, in hardcover, of every book ever written by Shirley Jackson; Angela Carter’s The Burning Boat; Tarcher Debitt’s wonderful first novel, Under the Rabbit Moon. These were unexpected discoveries, books he might expect to find in a library (such as his old place of employment) with resources to spend on titles considered less than necessary to a collection, not in a place like Downing.

Then again, he was still surprised that Downing itself existed. When he’d first discovered the ad for a librarian in the employment section at the back of Library Journal, he’d had to go to an atlas to find out exactly where Downing, Arkansas, was. Even then he’d had difficulty. Tucked into the mountains like a dollar bill hidden in the pocket of a winter coat, Downing was easily missed. He’d scanned three maps before locating it in the northwest corner of the state, a tiny dot surrounded by the Ozarks National Forest and a group of lakes.

Now, looking at the books whose spines stared out at him with long, thin faces, he still wasn’t quite convinced that Downing was real, or that he himself was actually there. But he was. His belongings, still in their cardboard boxes, were sitting in the little house he’d rented in town. His apartment on New York’s Upper West Side was probably already inhabited by new tenants. His job was, he knew, already filled. His former assistant, an ambitious Columbia graduate with big plans and family connections, had been only too happy to move into his office and begin putting her stamp on the library’s collection.

In short, there was nothing for him to go back to, even if he’d wanted to. He knew people thought he was mad. His friends had tried to talk him out of the move, as had his boss at the library. Even his dry cleaner, when told that Ben was relocating to Arkansas, had looked at him strangely and said, “Is that in America?”

It was that very aspect of the place—its ability to be overlooked by the rest of the world—that appealed to him. He could get lost there, become forgotten. Or at least forget, he thought. That would be enough.

He was interrupted in his browsing of the shelves by the sound of the front door opening. Thinking it was Martha returning to give him some piece of information she’d neglected to pass along, he waited for her to appear. Instead, he was surprised to see a man walk into the room. Tall, with a stocky build, he appeared to be in his mid-30s. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven. He wore faded khaki work pants and a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.

“Is Martha here?” he asked when he saw Ben.

The man’s voice was soft and pleasant, a rich tenor holding the faint traces of the accent that Ben had already come to recognize as being unique to the area. It was, he thought, much less harsh than the strangled New Jersey and New York speech that had filled his ears for so long.

“I’m afraid Martha has retired,” Ben said, walking forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Ben Hodge, the new librarian.”

The man looked at Ben’s outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure whether to believe him or not. Then he looked up at Ben and said, “Titus Durham.”

With no handshake apparently in the offing, Ben retracted his hand. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

Titus shook his head. Walking past Ben, he went directly to one of the shelves. After only a moment’s search, he removed one of the books and returned to the front desk, where Ben still stood. He handed the book he’d selected to Ben.

“Cottington’s Beekeeper’s Handbook,” Ben said, looking at the cover. He looked at Titus. “You raise bees?” he asked.

“Some,” Titus answered.

Ben waited for an elaboration. When none came, he took the book with him as he went behind the desk. Opening the back cover, he removed the checkout slip that was tucked into the pocket and looked at it. Nearly every line was filled, each one with Titus Durham’s name.

“Looks like this is one of your favorites,” Ben remarked as he stamped the new due date on the slip and on the pocket. Putting the slip into the file beneath the desk, he handed the book to Titus. “You’re my first customer,” he said cheerfully.

Titus answered him with a nod, then turned and walked out of the room. Ben watched him go, listening for the sound of the door closing.

“Welcome to Downing,” he said, sighing.

It was hot, too hot for sleeping. Ben kicked off the single sheet that covered his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d been tossing for hours, trying to get to sleep. The clock on his nightstand read 2:47.

He’d gone to bed wearing his boxers and a T-shirt. Now the T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor, tossed there shortly after midnight in an attempt to cool his flushed skin. It had done little good. A film of sweat covered him, matting the hair on his chest and making him feel even more uncomfortable, as if he’d gone to sleep fresh from a five-mile run without the benefit of showering.

He stood and walked to the window. The white curtains on either side of it hung limply, no breeze passing through the screen to move them. It was as if the world had died. Outside, the moon was a pale sliver in the sky, and even the stars seemed dimmed. The faint calls of nightbirds drifted through the night.

If he were still in New York, Ben thought, he would be surrounded by the sounds of taxis and snatches of conversations rising up from the street below his window. The city would be shrouded in the perpetual twilight that seemed to emanate from the very stones of its buildings, keeping it forever poised between night and day. And there would be the familiar rattling of the old air-conditioner in the bedroom, the one that always seemed on the brink of failure but which managed to exude enough of its chilly breath to ward off the worst of the summer heat.

The new house felt strange. He didn’t yet know the sounds of its sleep, and the paths to the bathroom and downstairs to the kitchen had yet to be burned into his subconscious so that he could traverse them while only half awake if he needed to pee or get a drink of water. Even the smells were different, the scent of his old apartment replaced by those of the mountains, of pine and dirt and water.

If he were still in New York, he thought too, he would return to bed and slip beneath the sheet again. Trey would turn in his sleep and slide a hand across his chest. Still sleepy, he might even continue south, his fingers following the trail of hair leading to Ben’s crotch, then wrapping around his cock. If he were still in New York. And if Trey were still alive.

He had placed an armchair next to the bedroom window. He’d brought very few things from the apartment, from their apartment, but the armchair had been one of the items he’d been unable to part with. It had been Trey’s favorite reading chair. A large, overstuffed chair covered in worn velvet the color of faded grass, it had seemed out of place in whatever room they’d placed it. But as soon as Ben had set it beside the window in his new home, intending to move it later when the boxes were unpacked, it had finally looked at peace with itself.

Now he sat in it. The velvet felt soft against his bare skin, and the smell of Trey surrounded him immediately, a combination of after-shave, paint, and turpentine that had always seemed to cling to him no matter how many showers he took. Closing his eyes, Ben breathed deeply. An image of Trey came to him immediately. He was seated in the chair, a book in his lap. His dark eyes looked up at Ben in surprise, his mouth opening in a smile as he saw that Ben was walking toward him nude.

Ben stopped in front of the chair, his cock level with Trey’s chin. Reaching out, he put his hand behind Trey’s head and pulled him forward. Trey obliged, his lips opening and surrounding the head of Ben’s dick, sucking gently. In moments Ben was hard and Trey’s mouth was sliding down the length of him, his nose pressing against Ben’s stomach.

Ben pumped his hips slowly, feeling the warmth of Trey’s mouth around him. Trey ran his tongue along the underside of Ben’s cock, teasing him. Ben responded by thrusting harder, deeper, until every inch of him was buried deep in Trey’s throat. He was going to come.

Then he heard the buzzing. At first he thought it was Trey humming. He felt tiny flickers of movement on his dick, which he took to be Trey’s tongue attempting to finish him off. But then the movements became sharper, more intense. The buzzing increased.

He looked down. Emerging from Trey’s mouth was the head of a bee, its antennae twitching curiously. Ben watched as it slipped from between Trey’s lips, the yellow-and-black-banded body contrasting with the whiteness of his skin. The bee’s feet pricked his skin as it walked, and he watched as its abdomen moved rhythmically up and down. There was, he knew, a stinger embedded in its end, and he prayed that it wouldn’t pierce his flesh.

The bee was followed by another, and then another. Ben watched, unable to move, as they emerged from between his lover’s lips. Even worse, he could feel them inside Trey’s mouth. His head was full of them. They were pushing against his teeth, covering his tongue. And for every one that found its way out, more were pushing up from his throat.

Ben pulled his dick out of Trey’s mouth, backing away. Trey fell back against the chair. Bees swarmed from his lips and nose, covering his face in a blanket of striped bodies and buzzing wings. Trey’s hands hung limply at his sides, his head lolled to one side. His cheeks pulsed as the bees moved behind them, his lips opening and closing in silent screams.

Ben looked down and saw that several bees still clung to his now-limp dick. His skin was still smeared with traces of Trey’s spit, and the bees were stuck in it. They were buzzing angrily as they fought against the sticky prison, and Ben knew that at any moment they would sting. He moved to brush them away, and as he did one of them plunged itself into him.

“No!” he screamed, as pain burst through his body.

He sat up, his heart racing and the image of Trey dissolving into the darkness. He was in his bedroom, alone. There were no bees. There was no Trey. He was seated in the chair by the window. He had fallen asleep.

He looked at the clock. 4:23. Well, he hadn’t fallen asleep for long. Just long enough for the nightmare to come. He rubbed his forehead, trying to banish the images from his mind. He knew that morning would push them back, but morning was still several hours away. For now they lingered, trying to lure him back into unconsciousness so that they could grow stronger.

He stood up quickly, before sleep could overcome him again, and made his way through the darkened hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen. There, he filled the tea kettle from the sink, lit the stove with one of the matches from the box he’d found in a drawer, and put the water on to boil. It seemed like an antiquated procedure, one long ago replaced with a few pushes of the buttons on a microwave, but going through the motions brought him some degree of comfort. It was what people did, he imagined, in times of trouble. They made coffee.

When the water was ready, he poured it into a cup and added some of the instant coffee he’d picked up at the small grocery in town. There had been nothing fresh-ground, and he hadn’t wanted to draw even more attention to himself by asking for the nearest Starbucks. Besides, he wasn’t all that fond of coffee anyway, not really. Coffee had been another of Trey’s things, like Cary Grant movies and sushi. Ben had grown accustomed to them over time, had even learned to enjoy them. But without Trey’s enthusiasm for them to feed his own, they had lost much of their appeal.

He stirred the coffee listlessly. The smell suddenly made his stomach knot up. Taking the cup to the sink, he poured the coffee down the drain, following it with a long blast of water. The rest of the jar he tossed into the trash. Opening the refrigerator, he removed a carton of orange juice and poured himself some of that instead. He took a large swallow, letting the acidic liquid coat his mouth and throat, washing away any stray traces of the coffee.

Putting the empty glass in the sink, he leaned against the counter and suddenly found himself crying. Why had he come here? Why had he ever thought that leaving New York would mean leaving behind the memories? All he’d done was carry them wi. . .