Available Darkness Season 1

ignore. Though John thought he’d buried his curse, it was only dormant, waiting to turn its whisper into a wail. Only it hadn’t been dormant, had it? Not if he had anything to do with this missing woman. Between the blurry map of his dreams and the two officers standing on his front porch, the truth was bright as sunlight.
    He’d gone to the bar, spotted her, followed her as she walked home, and then pounced on her, predator on prey. He dragged her into a side street, then into the underbrush where he swallowed every drop of life inside her. In the dreams, he’d seen flashes of her memories as he fed. He thought he’d imagined it. Had hoped he’d imagined it. Suddenly, on the doorstep, in front of the questioning police, those memories started to spill into his waking life. No, no, stop. With them, the Darkness swelled as he struggled to keep his face a solid, emotionless mask while suppressing Rebecca’s memories and emotions coursing through him.
    Stop, stop, stay here, in the present, John. Focus.
    Avery said, “Well, if you remember anything or see her, give me a call, will ya?”
    Avery handed Hope his card.
    Hope reached out and took it. Her hand was shaking just slightly, John noticed, even through the chorus of Rebecca’s memories and thoughts flooding through his head. He hoped the shake was subtle enough that the cop hadn’t picked up on it.
    Apparently, he hadn’t, as he and his partner thanked them for their time, then turned around and left.
    “Good luck,” John managed to say as he quietly closed the door.
    The Darkness receded alongside the flood of the dead woman’s memories. He drew breath from the deep air of relief, then noticed that Hope was staring at him, her eyes wet.
    “She’s the girl,” Hope said.
    “What?” John asked.
    “In that … painting, with you. She was in the painting. You were floating over her. You had … killed her.”

    * * * *

CHAPTER 5 — Hope

    Hope trembled, unable to draw sense from her scrambled mess of scattered thoughts.
    John stood at the foot of the stairs, dumbstruck. “What are you talking about?”
    “In the painting, the woman in the picture, lying on the ground. She was dead!”
    “There isn’t a woman in the painting,” John said.
    “I painted over her! That’s why I was so upset last night! I painted you as a … killer.”
    John took a step forward, wrapped his fingers gently around her arm. Hope flinched. Only for a moment, but long enough for him to notice. He took a step back.
    “Wait a second; you don’t think I killed that woman, do you?”
    Hope shook her head, “No! But I painted her, John. I saw her. Now she’s missing. What does that mean? How could I have known that? I don’t even know her!”
    “Maybe it was someone else in the painting,” John reasoned.
    “She had the … same tattoo!” Hope choked in the middle of her sentence making same tattoo sound like a separate thought. Tears streamed down her face.
    She hated crying.
    John reached out again, arms open. This time, she collapsed into his embrace. While Hope didn’t really believe that John could be responsible for killing someone, some part of her, perhaps the same part that somehow foresaw the girl’s disappearance, was still wary of him for reasons she couldn’t understand. Yet, strangely, another part, the one being comforted in his strong embrace, didn’t care if he admitted to being a murderer. At that moment, in his arms, he could have confessed to anything and it wouldn’t have made a molecule of difference.
    “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for this,” John said, his breath warm on her head as he pulled her close. “Maybe you recognized her from the neighborhood, or at the bar? And the artist in you picked out on her and her tattoo, even if your conscious mind hadn’t. Stored it away and served it up while you were painting. We’ve talked about how stuff like that happens with artists, right?”
    “I don’t think that’s it,” Hope said. It felt like a good explanation, but didn’t feel right. There was something else at play, she felt.
    “It’s a coincidence,” John said. “She’s been missing for what? Two nights? She’s young. She’s probably out partying or something and forgot to check in with her roommate.”
    Hope pulled away, and looked up at John. “Do you think so?”
    “I don’t know what else to think,” John said. “That’s what makes the most sense.”
    They stood there for a while, at the