Dark Screams: Volume Two by Robert R. McCammon, Graham Masterton, Richard Christian Matheson
Ads: Link
pointed high above her to the right, and spoke in a birdwatcher’s whisper. “The security camera.”
Enough, Michelle decided. She wouldn’t even look.
“There. In the corner.”
And she
would
look—to humor him, and also to end it. She turned to where he pointed: the security camera, high-mounted over the baggage conveyors, its red indicator light steady over a wide-angle lens.
Nothing there. Since she’d already turned, she decided to keep going. Walk away.
“No,” he said, insistent. “You have to look
here.
” The guy was right next to her, one hand on her shoulder and the other blocking her way with the raised camera, practically pressing the LED view screen into her face.
Michelle shrugged her shoulder free, raised a hand, ready to slap the camera out of the way. She caught a glimpse of the view screen, its backlit image barely larger than a postage stamp. He held it steady, keeping the mounted security camera neatly centered, a silver-and-black rectangle appearing as tiny as a kernel of rice on the screen.
For the first time this stressful evening, Michelle laughed. This crazy guy was so desperate to show her his camera—and all the while his dumb, fat finger was over the lens. His fingertip was flat and out of focus on the top third of the screen. And what was so funny was that
he
was looking, too: He stood right next to her, saw the same spoiled image, and still acted like he’d proven his point.
Out of focus, and yet pressed so close she could make out the tiny dark whorls of his fingerprint. So ridiculous the way it sat…it sat…
The way it sat right on top of the security camera. The blurred, lined smudge of flesh on the screen. It
perched.
She realized now that he held the camera as before: from the side, with fingers along the top, thumb on the bottom.
Even in that tiny image, she noticed shapes in the lines she previously interpreted as a fingerprint, the whorls twisting on an upraised lump to approximate a face. Shadows creased beneath wrinkles and folds, with dark blue veins scored over random, taut muscles.
“Right next to the wall, where it could be close to everyone’s suffering.” The Reporter, the hunter, the vagrant—whatever he was—spoke with a detached excitement, happy to have solved his puzzle. “It hid above the security camera, so it wouldn’t show up on the monitors. It can fool us, but not a camera.”
Michelle had laughed at him seconds earlier. Now she felt her mouth tense into a grimace, the muscles in her neck stretching toward a scream.
Another scream came first, and another, a chorus of wailings from the other side of the wall.
Oh God,
she thought,
Wade told them. He finally told them about the plane crash.
And from the intensity of the reaction, he must have told them everyone on board had died.
In response, something happened to the shape on the view screen. A pulse of red light and an awful flexing.
Michelle’s hand, still poised to knock the digital camera away, twitched forward in a spasm. The camera fell from the man’s loose grip, and as it spun away she thought she saw movement in the image. The man’s camera dropped to the ground, and the
thing
dropped, too.
“It’s gotten too powerful,” he said in a panic. He dove after the camera. On all fours, he scooped it from the ground and turned the shattered view screen toward empty air. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and he held the broken device in front of him like a talisman. “Where is it?” he said. “Where is it
now
?”
Frustrated, he threw the useless camera against the wall. What kind of hunter didn’t bring a weapon? Perhaps the human forms of the demon—an elderly janitor; a tall, frail gay man—seemed weak enough that he believed he could overpower them with his bare hands.
He waved his arms in front, scratching at the air the way someone falling down a cliffside would grasp for handholds.
Michelle backed away. The wails of agony from the next room were thick, as
Enough, Michelle decided. She wouldn’t even look.
“There. In the corner.”
And she
would
look—to humor him, and also to end it. She turned to where he pointed: the security camera, high-mounted over the baggage conveyors, its red indicator light steady over a wide-angle lens.
Nothing there. Since she’d already turned, she decided to keep going. Walk away.
“No,” he said, insistent. “You have to look
here.
” The guy was right next to her, one hand on her shoulder and the other blocking her way with the raised camera, practically pressing the LED view screen into her face.
Michelle shrugged her shoulder free, raised a hand, ready to slap the camera out of the way. She caught a glimpse of the view screen, its backlit image barely larger than a postage stamp. He held it steady, keeping the mounted security camera neatly centered, a silver-and-black rectangle appearing as tiny as a kernel of rice on the screen.
For the first time this stressful evening, Michelle laughed. This crazy guy was so desperate to show her his camera—and all the while his dumb, fat finger was over the lens. His fingertip was flat and out of focus on the top third of the screen. And what was so funny was that
he
was looking, too: He stood right next to her, saw the same spoiled image, and still acted like he’d proven his point.
Out of focus, and yet pressed so close she could make out the tiny dark whorls of his fingerprint. So ridiculous the way it sat…it sat…
The way it sat right on top of the security camera. The blurred, lined smudge of flesh on the screen. It
perched.
She realized now that he held the camera as before: from the side, with fingers along the top, thumb on the bottom.
Even in that tiny image, she noticed shapes in the lines she previously interpreted as a fingerprint, the whorls twisting on an upraised lump to approximate a face. Shadows creased beneath wrinkles and folds, with dark blue veins scored over random, taut muscles.
“Right next to the wall, where it could be close to everyone’s suffering.” The Reporter, the hunter, the vagrant—whatever he was—spoke with a detached excitement, happy to have solved his puzzle. “It hid above the security camera, so it wouldn’t show up on the monitors. It can fool us, but not a camera.”
Michelle had laughed at him seconds earlier. Now she felt her mouth tense into a grimace, the muscles in her neck stretching toward a scream.
Another scream came first, and another, a chorus of wailings from the other side of the wall.
Oh God,
she thought,
Wade told them. He finally told them about the plane crash.
And from the intensity of the reaction, he must have told them everyone on board had died.
In response, something happened to the shape on the view screen. A pulse of red light and an awful flexing.
Michelle’s hand, still poised to knock the digital camera away, twitched forward in a spasm. The camera fell from the man’s loose grip, and as it spun away she thought she saw movement in the image. The man’s camera dropped to the ground, and the
thing
dropped, too.
“It’s gotten too powerful,” he said in a panic. He dove after the camera. On all fours, he scooped it from the ground and turned the shattered view screen toward empty air. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and he held the broken device in front of him like a talisman. “Where is it?” he said. “Where is it
now
?”
Frustrated, he threw the useless camera against the wall. What kind of hunter didn’t bring a weapon? Perhaps the human forms of the demon—an elderly janitor; a tall, frail gay man—seemed weak enough that he believed he could overpower them with his bare hands.
He waved his arms in front, scratching at the air the way someone falling down a cliffside would grasp for handholds.
Michelle backed away. The wails of agony from the next room were thick, as
Similar Books
