James Rozoff's Blog, page 31

Unnatural

I like to think I was wise by the age of five. Perhaps not, but I had already perceived something about the world that even today helps form my personal philosophy of life. I was born in 1966, so by the time I was five the United States was near the peak of its interest in the ecology movement. There was a sense that the way we were living was taking us in a dangerous direction and that we’d better do something about it if we didn’t want to be living in a world transformed by industrial waste. There was a sense, unlike in the 50’s, that technology was not an unqualified good, that science could just as well lead us to our doom as it could to our salvation. And somehow, even at that young age, I could detect the difference between natural and unnatural, and it felt to me the difference between God’s will and sacrilege. It was not an ideology but a feeling, as though the difference between what was healthy and what was not was obvious. What I could not understand was why the world was so willing to embrace that which was so wrong.
I remember seeing an advertisement on the back of a magazine that scared me even though I didn’t know what it meant. It was a picture of a man hooked up to a variety of machines. I asked my older brother what it was, and he told me it was about euthanasia. He said the person was being kept alive by all the machines attached to him and that some people thought that people like that should be allowed to die. I remember my brother asking if it were my dad if I would want him to be kept alive in that way. It was a horrible thought, my dad being in such a state. It was more horrible still, imagining that it was my decision to keep him alive or allow him to die. But I remembered I came to the decision quickly: if my dad were ever in such a position, I would allow him to die naturally than force him to live a mockery of an existence. Many years later, my dad approached me about his living will and asked me if I felt comfortable signing the form. After many years with that image in my mind, I knew that I could do what would be asked of me. I loved my father, but not to the degree of keeping him alive at any cost. To allow him to die was the right thing to do, I believe that now as I did at the age of five, when I was really too young to be contemplating the idea at all.
Perhaps the idea was already in my head because I watched more than my share of horror movies. Horror movies were always good at pointing out the dangers of going contrary to the laws of nature and God. My favorite was Frankenstein, and I knew that there were boundaries not meant to be crossed. Men attempting to create life, to play God, inevitably ended up creating monsters. While I sympathized with the monster, even the creator, I knew there was an inherent wrongness in such attempts. I loved the idea of scientific progress and dreamed of being an astronaut and exploring other worlds, but you just weren’t supposed to go tampering with human beings.
The idea of tampering with man’s nature has been the subject of many a Kinks song, and the first one that came to my awareness was Apeman. Admittedly, I was only four when my brother came home with the 45, so the reason I liked it was that it mentioned both Tarzan and King Kong. But at some level I connected with it. Somehow I knew we were children of nature and that it was not a good idea to start thinking otherwise. I’ve seen so many people adapt to whatever environment they were in, so willing to abandon the essential truth of what they are. Many years later I heard another Kinks song, Artificial Man, and it really brought home to me ideas that had been implanted in my head so many years ago by Ape Man as well as other influences:
Tell the world we finally did it.
Modified the population,
Put your senses and your mind
Under constant observation
Even when you're dreaming.
Replaced your nose, heart and lungs,
So shake me with your artificial hand.
We went and built a master race
To live within our artificial world.
 
But as bad as it was to modify humans, somehow it seemed the greater sacrilege to change nature itself. If man wished to alter himself—even if it was wrong—he was the victim of his own actions. But it seemed to me then as it does today that mankind is always trying to create some cheap copy of the real thing in order to sell it to the masses. We pollute lakes by building massive parking lots for water parks. I was still young, no more than eight or nine, when I had a dream I was at my favorite beach, a gorgeous stretch of lakeshore along Lake Huron, in the town of my mother’s birth. We were beginning to wade out into the deeper waters, the waves gradually getting us used to the cold water to come. When suddenly it occurred to me as I looked out towards where the great lake reached the sky along the horizon that they had done something to this spot that was so sacred a place to me. The water stretched out beyond me for perhaps another 40 feet, but at the end of it was merely a scene painted on a brick wall to simulate the sky and water that should have been there. They had converted this place of natural beauty into an indoor water park so that they would not have to take care of the lake that was beyond it. They had turned it into something fake and unnatural because that is what theytend to do. They could charge people for access while at the same time hide from the public the damage that they were doing to the larger world. I’m sure I could find song lyrics from the era to describe how that dream made me feel, also. Something like: “tear down paradise, put up a parking lot”.
I grew up in a time where it seemed the problems that mankind was causing through technology were beginning to be addressed. It seemed that people were beginning to look beyond the small worlds they lived in and see the repercussions to the larger environment that their actions caused. Man had lost his connection to nature, and the results could be catastrophic.
But unfortunately, it seemed that not much followed upon the initial awakening that occurred in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Some laws were passed, and some things changed, but then society seemed to turn its attention to other interests. People’s awareness shrunk away from the broader implications of their actions, focused more on the near at hand and the immediate present. We are increasingly becoming lost in little worlds of our own, unaware of our relatedness to the entire earth we inhabit. But we can only stay safe within our little bubbles for so long before the consequences of our actions come smashing through. We look away from the big picture, but it is only a matter of time before our own backyards are affected by ripples that our lifestyles produce. It’s sad to think that adults can hide from truths that are so obvious that even a child can see them. I guess it takes a child’s eyes to see the obvious, and an adult’s mind to be able to train oneself to not see what is so very natural.
Happy Earth Day, everybody.
 

Here is my new snippet of biography which I'll be using i...

Here is my new snippet of biography which I'll be using in an anthology of short stories entitled The Bitten:

James Rozoff is the sum of his influences, which include: Percy the Penguin and Eric the Half-a Bee, Harold the Barrel and Hobbes the Tiger, Adenoid Hinkel and Ma Hunkel, Featherhead and Lucky Lack, Gabrielle Maples and Ernest Everhard, Clarence Oddbody AS2 and Alucard, Terry and Julie, Desmond and Molly Jones, Latka Gravas and Sammy Maudlin, Alec Holland and Jim Nightshade, Mr. B Natural and Jim Anchower, Tasty Taste and Nigel Tufnel, Fatty Lumpkin and Jean Valjean…. You can find more about James by typing his name into a search engine.

I'm hoping there will be someone on this planet that will recognize a majority of the references I make. If I find such a person, I will consider him a brother (or sister). Actually, if you get the first reference, you're already in. You see, I've come to realize just how much I've been influenced by characters from books, films, and even music: many of the people who have most shaped my perception of life are entirely fictional. That's not to denegrate the wonderful people I have been blessed to know, but to be honest I find the people I hold most dear are those who have introduced me to those vivid characters stored on paper, wax, and celuloid. So with that thought in mind, let me introduce you to those influences of mine, hoping that you may experience some of the joy I've felt by getting to know them.

Percy the Penguin is a song by the band Stackridge and tells the story of a penguin who lamented the fact that he could not fly. You can hear the song here, but you'll have to go to 3:20: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsmhRSmoEjk

From Monty Python, Eric the Half-a-Bee is a song that is a little less than serious: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVhXkQu5_Ig

Harold the Barrel is a song from the band Genesis. It is every bit as absurd as the previously mentioned song, but decidedly darker: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qT7k7keej0k

Just to prove I'm not a total anglophile, Hobbes the Tiger is a character from Bill Waterson's great comic, Calvin and Hobbes: http://calvinhobbesdaily.tumblr.com/

Adenoid Hinkel was Charlie Chaplin's parody of Adolph Hitler from The Great Dictator. Here is a great moment of cinema: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcvjoWOwnn4

Ma Hunkel is an obscure reference, even for comic book readers. I'm rather fond of obscure references: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Tornado_(Ma_Hunkel)

Featherhead and Lucky lack are from a Blues Traveler song. It is both absurdly touching and inspiring: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Y1qdfrAPOM

Gabrielle Maples was from the movie The Petrified Forest. Portrayed by Bette Davis, she is a young woman stuck in the middle of nowhere who dreams of living in France: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ze2ACs5MinY

Ernest Everhard is the main character of Jack London's The Iron Heel: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Iron_Heel

It's surprising how many fans of It's A Wonderful Life don't recognize the name of Clarence Oddbody, Angel Second Class: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fIrXo0raaU

I was refering to the Gentle Giant song when I referenced Alucard, but I see they are not the only ones, maybe not even the first, to use Dracula's name backwards: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQlB6bDKqjE

I'm a huge Kinks fan, and Terry and Julie are characters mentioned in Waterloo Sunset: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvDoDaCYrEY

Desmond and Molly Jones from Obladi, Oblada (The Beatles):  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJhcGepfG04

Latka Gravas was a character from Taxi, a sit-com that ranks as highly as any other: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmZAxRH3Ibs

Sammy Maudlin was the character I randomly chose to represent the SCTV, which was the funniest thing on TV when I was young: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZoJroRHvp2M

It appears that I'm really delving into my childhood influences--perhaps they are the deepest kind. At any rate, I was six years old when I bought this comic, and it was always special to me. Of course, when Alan Moore started writing it, it affected me even at the age of eighteen: http://comicbookjesus.com/2011/07/02/extra-sequential-podcast-47-swamp-thing/swamp-thing-1-dc-1972/

Jim Nightshade was from Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. My fifth-grade teacher had the book and let me borrow it, making it perhaps the first real novel I ever read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Something_Wicked_This_Way_Comes_(novel)

Mr. B Natural. What can be said about this one? I guess watching the clip her is the only real way to understand: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAKentKiGOY

If you are a regular reader of The Onion, you should be familiar with Jim Anchower, a righteous dude: http://homepages.theonion.com/PersonalPages/jAnchower/

Tasty Taste is from the criminally unheard of movie, Fear of a Black Hat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jk01a63Imt8 It was obviously influenced by This Is Spinal Tap.

Speaking of Spinal Tap, here is Nigel Tufnel doing what he does best: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmHxYx74MTg

Fatty Lumkin never made it to the movie, but he was a hobbit in The Lord of the Rings.

It was the original one with Fredric March that I saw when I was 5 years old, with an older brother there to explain it to me. This scene has stuck with me since then, making me wiser than I elsewise would have been. It has lost none of its profundity through the years and has influenced many of my decisions in life: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wF3FX43F-7Y


My contribution to The Bitten anthology, I Shall See The Sun, can be found here on my blog, but only until the time the anthology is released. At that time it shall be available only in the anthology, which we have assembled as a sort of benefit for a fellow writer who is battling cancer. As you might guess, the insurance plan for writers is not an ideal one. More on The Bitten to follow.

The Sleep of Reason Chapter 5

Chapter 5 of my work in progress. I might have a rework or two to do on this yet, but I'm getting close to what I want:



Chapter 5
 
The door opened to reveal a dusty wooden floor that led into darkness. An objective eye would not have seen anything out of the ordinary with the picture, but fear twisted angles out of their ordinary proportions, shredding perspective. Dave tried to remain objective, and realized what an absurd notion that seemed to be. For all the glory of science, it failed to account for the observer or the participant of an event. Science was the act of looking in from the outside and he was very up close and personal with what he was encountering. Perhaps it was not something supernatural but only fear he experienced. But fear was enough. Fear was more than enough. Still, Dave knew it wasn’t the only thing he was experiencing. The cold that whispered from the darkness of the room was more than a result of the season. It wasn’t caused by his fear but rather the reason for it. He wasn’t sure which sense it played upon, whether it were light drafts of air upon his skin or subtle whispers that found their way into his ears.
Johnny took a few steps inside and Dave followed, his hands involuntarily groping in the cold darkness. The light bulb had been blown out by the Wilsing’s last encounter with whatever it was that inhabited the attic and had not been replaced. Johnny’s flashlight illuminated their path but it only showed what was in front of them and it was the shadows that frightened Dave. Fear always waited in the shadows. Dave’s foot touched the wooden flooring, found it less sturdy than he would have liked. Perhaps it was only his fear, but the mere act of walking seemed treacherous to him.
What a moment ago felt cold now gave way to a warm dampness, the moisture in the air hinting at coolness while the warmth seemed to make the air feel heavy. Dave wanted to keep Johnny in his sight, know that his protector was there for him. But his eyes followed the beam of the flashlight instead, searching for whatever danger may await them. The light did not travel as far as he would have wanted, did not touch the wall on the further ends, though it illuminated the beams of the roof above. “It’s just an attic, damn it,” thought Dave. “Pull yourself together.” But it seemed to stretch further than the size of the house should permit, the way something from one’s childhood can seem bigger in memory than it is in reality. Fear and reality were tugging at his perception, distorting and stretching it in waves that confused his vision.
He felt like a child again, confronting the fear that walled off his safe little world like an electric fence. And while he was fighting against his inner weaknesses, he felt a smooth presence brush up against him like a sentient waft of air. It felt like a large crawling thing gently feeling out its prey before coiling about it. He looked at Johnny, who appeared to be readying himself for contact. Dave didn’t know if Johnny felt what he was feeling. Fear spiked in him. The thought of running leapt in his mind and he couldn’t find a rational reason to oppose it. But his body was not responding, as though he was frightened of calling attention to himself. For good or ill, he was rooted to the spot.
“I can feel it,” said Dave in a whisper.
“Shh,” said Johnny. “Allow it to make contact.”
Dave willed himself to be quiet despite the desire to scream. He still felt what seemed to be a sentient draft brushing up against him, as though it were insisting on intimacy. There was a certain smell that seemed to accompany it that Dave found familiar but could not quite place. The whispering that Dave had earlier witnessed seemed like snakes writhing on the floor around him.
Dave felt a sudden jolt, as if time itself were being wrenched and he were alternating between two moments that should have been separated by decades. Light flashed like a strobe, providing glimpses of an occurrence from long ago interlaced with the present darkness. He saw a thin man in a white shirt and tie with his head cast downward. Each glimpse the light provided was accompanied by a feeling that built flash by flash within Dave, a despair the likes of which he had never felt. The whispers became more insidious, and the occasional word could be distinguished from the general murmur. Love. Betrayal. Death.
The bulb in Johnny’s flashlight burst, making the contrast between visions of the past and present more extreme. Behind him, he heard the door they had left open slam shut. Fear and despair alternated within Dave as he seemed to switch back in forth in time, each of them equally debilitating to his emotional state. The smell became more noticeable, but he was still could not remember what it reminded him of. Burnt rubber perhaps, but there was more to it than that. If he could just place where he had smelled that smell before, he might be able to deal with the fear a little better, if not the despair.
The man Dave had seen in the relative light of the flickering image raised its head now, and suddenly the look of despair merged with a hatred that seemed to burn its gaze right through Dave. The image was visible now in both the light and the darkness. Despair and fear still alternated within Dave, threatening to tear him apart from either side. Edwin Gauthier opened his mouth to speak, and it was a voice of hatred not despair that sounded.
“You shall die,” came a voice that sounded like a thousand whispers woven into a single scream. The thousand whispers that had writhed around them were summoned by that voice and came together to speak Edwin Gauthier’s message. The voice did not seem to be aimed at them, but Dave knew the hatred would not refuse any target it chanced upon.
And suddenly Dave recognized the smell around him, the smell of burnt rubber and blood, the smell he would always associate with a moment of his childhood when Gordon could not run fast enough to save his life. And it felt to Dave that death and hatred and fear were all the same thing, aspects of the darkness that always surrounded life even on the brightest of days. The look of hatred upon Edwin’s face seemed the same look Dave saw on the grille of that car that took his friends life. He remembered staring at it after the accident, stared at it because he could not bring himself to look at his friend’s body lying on the ground. He didn’t know if his friend was still alive, did not want to know. As much as he feared that he was dead, the thought of him being alive and experiencing the horror seemed to Dave to be worse. So he just stared at the car that was now stopped on the busy street, the grille of it like a grinning entity of malice and hatred. Like the embodiment of all that was evil, it did not care who or what it killed, the killing was all. It would eat its fill of children and mothers and puppies and anything that chanced in its path. It was this look he now saw upon the face in front of him, and the flashing of the light did nothing to deaden its intensity.
“Well hello to you, too.” The voice was Johnny’s, and the tone was a jarring contrast to everything that was going on inside Dave.
“You have betrayed me. I trusted you and you betrayed me!”
“I’m afraid you have us confused with someone else,” said Johnny, as though he were impervious to the hate and despair. Johnny’s voice expressed concern, but he maintained a certain authority, as though making sure that the world in which they both existed was Johnny’s world, subject to the laws of the living.
“Those who betrayed me will die. Those who stand between me and my revenge will also die.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m not standing in the way of your revenge,” there was sympathy in Johnny’s voice, replacing for a moment the authority he felt the need to convey. “That was a horrible thing they did to you, there’s no excuse for it. But they’re dead.”
The presence that had earlier seemed to rub up against them now seemed to smash into them from in front, as though confronting the source of its frustration. Long stagnant dust shook free from the overhead beams, falling upon them as the house itself seemed to shake. It seemed to be a physical projection of the image they saw. But Johnny and Dave were able to withstand the shock of the onslaught as one might stand against a bitter cold wave.
“In fact, everyone you know is dead,” Johnny continued, his tone of voice at absolute odds with everything Dave was experiencing. Johnny was talking as a mother explaining something to her child. “You’ve been hanging on quite a long time. Not to say I blame you. You must have been awfully hurt. But you see, the reason for all of your hatred is gone. You’re just a bit of emotion that has outlived its usefulness. The only people you can still affect are the current inhabitants of the house, and from what I know of them they seem like pretty decent people. They’ve never done you any harm and—to be honest—you’re creeping them out.”
The presence that a moment ago was in front of them now swirled around them. The cold seemed to intensify as the emotion grew. It was no longer a brooding hatred but an active malevolence, searching for a target. Why it did not strike them where they stood, Dave did not know.
“I live for vengeance!” The voice had lost none of its ability to strike fear in Dave’s heart.
“Uh, no you don’t,” said Johnny. His voice was compassionate but firm. “You’re not actually alive, I hate to say. And since there’s nobody living to exact your vengeance on, there’s really no reason for you to be here anymore.”
The rage in the voice woven from malignant whispers intensified, but it seemed to be coming from a greater distance. It felt to Dave like a hurricane that had passed by in its ferocity but did not touch down.
“I will kill those who have betrayed me.” The voice was desperate now, each utterance scraping Dave’s nerves like razor blades on violin strings.
“They’re already dead,” said Johnny, using a calm but firm voice to dissipate the violence. “Whatever judgment they receive is in God’s hands now.”
The presence before them had been flickering like a candle in the wind. At last, in a wavering motion upwards, it faded before them as if caught by a gust of air that blew it away. Dave and even Johnny let loose with sighs of relief as they felt the thing that was Edwin Gauthier’s grief-fed rage fade away.
“And so the life that Edwin tried to take from himself is finally ended,” said Johnny.
But even as they let down their guards, the presence seemed to blast from the floor, radiating a heat that made Dave close his eyes. But closed eyes did not prevent Dave from receiving a clear vision of the ghost in front of him. Gone was whatever despair had emanated from it, replaced with an intensity that demanded response. This was not a spirit that would abide Johnny’s paternal attitude.
The spirit spoke, its voice one of authority rather than fear and hatred. No longer did Dave see the vision of a man with hunched shoulders and broken spirit. “Mine was no act of suicide,” he said, and as he spoke, his image became part of a scene that acted out once again the events of nearly a century ago. In a bluish light, Edwin Gauthier could be seen with eyes staring at a figure that slowly entered the limited stage upon which the drama was being played for Dave and Johnny. “It was not me but my wife’s lover who took my life. They murdered me in order to live together in unholy union.”
Dave was silent and still, watching the scene of murder play out in front of him, Edwin confronting the other man, the other man striking Edwin, knocking him unconscious. Like an old film poorly shot, Dave witnessed as one man dragged the other up the stairs to the attic, threw a rope across a supporting joist and tied it to Edwin’s neck. As the man drew the other up, he saw the betrayed husband regain his consciousness as the noose tightened about his neck. Panic raised in his features as his eyes began to bulge. His gaze was unfocused as he struggled for breath. But as he came to accept the reality of his situation, his gazed fixed upon the man who was the cause of all his pain. There was calm in his stare, a cold calm that promised revenge despite his inability to achieve it. Edwin’s desire for vengeance would outlast his earthly existence, regardless of whatever physical laws he would have to break to attain it.
The scene in front of Dave and Johnny slowly faded, leaving at last only the bluish stare of those intense eyes, burning their conviction into the fabric of the material world. Turning away from the glare, Dave turned to look at Johnny, who seemed to get a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.
“I see,” he said. “You want not only vengeance but the truth to be told.”
“The truth will be my vengeance,” said the voice, no longer the slithery voice of fear and hatred but an ardent appeal for justice.
“I will let your story be known,” said Johnny solemnly. “The world will know that Edwin Gauthier did not die by his own hand. They will know the truth of your betrayal and death.”
The intensity in the air seemed to slowly dissipate as the eyes that were all that remained of the vision of Edwin Gauthier faded. So too did the presence that had seemed to crave physical contact with them vanish like dust in a breeze. This time, Dave felt as though it were really over, felt a normalcy beginning to creep back into his jangled nerves.
“What the hell was that?” asked Dave. “Were there two ghosts, or what?”
“An intense experience such as Mr. Gauthier evidently felt can bring about some strong emotions. I would guess that in this case, there were two separate strong emotions that survived Edwin’s existence: grief and a desire for vengeance.”
“You guess? You seem to trust a lot to guesses.”
“You could say I’m learning on the job. What a rush though, eh?”
“I don’t think it’s my thing.”
“But you saw it thought, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I saw it and heard it. And I felt it. With every nerve in my body.”
“That’s pretty good. Come to think of it, I don’t think I saw anything on my first encounter. The first time, it was just all purple, and then the second time, it was like the purple separated and it was red and blue.” There seemed to be excitement in his voice, as though he were a surfer talking about a wave he had ridden.
“That’s all very good, but can we get out of this attic now?”
“Yeah, I think our work here’s done.”
Dave stared into the darkness. “Any idea where the door is?”
Groping around, they eventually found the door that led them back downstairs.

The Sleep of Reason Chapter 4

Wherein our hero meets the owner of a house she insists is haunted:

Chapter 4
 
Dave and Johnny got out of the van to introduce themselves to Lynn Wilsing, a woman who appeared to be approaching middle age without much care. She was in the process of exiting her car when she was momentarily startled by Johnny’s well-inked face staring into her window. She allowed herself to relax a little when Johnny explained that they had been sent by Doug to deal with her “situation”, but not entirely.
“We’ve been living at my mother-in-law’s house lately,” she said when they were inside and she took their coats. Considering it was her own house, she seemed less than comfortable being there. As they seated themselves in the living room, Mrs. Wilsing, who was a moment ago frightened by Johnny’s appearance, was now talking tattoos with him. Dave was left alone temporarily with his thoughts and the anxiety he was feeling at what he was about to encounter. Johnny had explained that the majority of such cases turned out to be nothing more than the over-active imaginations on the part of those who reported the incidents, but he also expressed his belief that this was likely to be the real thing. It was apparent to Mrs. Wilsing which of the two scenarios was the correct one.
“If you could explain what unusual events you’ve experienced, starting at the beginning, please.”
“Well,” she began hesitantly, apparently uncomfortable sharing the information even with people who took her situation seriously, “I don’t know if it was actually an event, but the first time I felt something was wrong was while I was lying in bed one night. I awoke from a sound sleep with just a really unsettling feeling, an unnamed dread. The more I tried to think about what it was that could be frightening me, the more the fear increased.” Dave noticed the anxiety level rising in her as she recalled the experience. Her skin seemed loose, as though she had recently lost weight through worry. “I wanted to call out to my husband, to reach over just to touch him and know he was there, but I was frozen. I was all alone, staring into some nameless fear. Or…or some nameless fear was staring into me.” She was caught in an imaginary shudder.
“Anyway, that’s all it was…the first time. But it happened again a few nights later, and again. Like the first time, it was just an unameable fear, but it was a fear of something, like something too horrible for my eyes to even perceive, as though they wouldn’t permit me to see what was there. After the third time, I began researching the matter online. I learned about night terrors, did you ever hear of those?”
 “Pavor nocturnus,” said Dave, recalling the research he had done when his own nightmares had first started. At the time, he had felt as if he were going crazy. He had no idea he was developing an ability to see things in his dreams. “Feelings of intense fear while being in non-REM sleep. That doesn’t sound like what you described. If you weren’t able to move, it sounds more like sleep paralysis, a condition where one awakens from REM sleep while still subjected to the paralysis that keeps us from acting out physically in our dreams.”
Both Mrs. Wilsing and Johnny looked at Dave with an appreciation he was not used to.
“But there’s more to the story, isn’t there, Mrs. Wilsing?” Dave asked, wanting to remove the attention from himself.
“Yes. At first I tried to look for the most obvious solutions, bad dreams or some kind of sleep disorder. But then I began to hear noises even when I knew I wasn’t sleeping. And…and my husband wouldn’t hear it. We’d be in the living room together, reading quietly, and I would hear a voice whispering, and I’d look at my husband and he wouldn’t notice anything. And he has better hearing than me, he makes fun of me because I always mishear what he tells me.”
“That’s not unusual, Mrs. Wilsing,” said Johnny. “Some people are just more receptive to such things than others.”
“I didn’t know that. For a while, I thought I was losing my mind. I mean, I couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend I wasn’t hearing things, experiencing things. I even began to suspect that it might somehow be my husband’s doing, that he was trying to drive me crazy. Then, one night, I heard something up in the attic, like a buzzing or many different voices whispering. I looked at my husband, challenged him to deny that he heard anything. He tried to soothe my concerns. He wanted to go up there, but I wouldn’t let him. Finally, he pushed past me, walked up the stairs. I was too afraid to follow. It was like he was walking into a meat locker, it felt that cold. And it was summer! I could sense the courage drain out of him, thought he wouldn’t admit anything was wrong.”
She ceased speaking, waited for some kind of feedback from her listeners, as though she were looking for confirmation that what she was saying didn’t make her seem crazy.
“An experience like that can make you thing you’re losing your mind,” said Dave, picking up on her anxiety. He too had a similar experience. When he had first begun to have his revelatory dreams, he had never felt so frightened, never felt so isolated. He prayed he would never feel that way again. And yet here he was, perhaps about to plunge himself into someone else’s experiences. He looked over at Johnny, was amazed that his friend did not appear concerned, seemed almost anxious for such an encounter.
“Your husband’s reaction isn’t unusual,” said Johnny. “People do not believe in such things, do not wish to believe in such things, and so they prefer to pretend they did not feel what they felt, did not see what they saw. Please, continue.”
“Well, as he walked up the stairs, I could hear the buzzing getting louder, more intense. They, it, whatever was up there, was aware of us. I’d done some reading by this point, I knew some ghosts just go about their business without paying any attention to those who live in the house they share. But this one knew we were there, seemed angry at our intrusion. I tried to call to my husband, make him come back downstairs. But I couldn’t. It was like fear gripped me by the throat, and it was stronger than any will that I had.”
“And then…? Prompted Johnny. It seemed like she needed constant encouragement in order to continue her story. Even though she was convinced they would believe her, she was still not comfortable sharing the information, perhaps not comfortable remembering it.
“And then…when my husband reached the top of the stairs, I could tell that all of his courage went out of him. I could see it in his posture. He knew there was something up there. But he wasn’t about to let me know it. He walked to the right, out of my sight. And then, the light bulbs just exploded. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run and get a flashlight, I wanted to shout to him, make sure he was okay. But I couldn’t do any of that. I could only stare into the darkness, too frightened to do anything.” There something in her voice that made Dave feel as though a cold breeze had suddenly swept through the house. “I could still hear the whispering, no louder, but busier, more menacing. I just stood and waited for my husband to walk out of the darkness. And after a time that seemed forever, after I had time to imagine a thousand horrible things occurring to him, he walked back down the stairs and out of the darkness. But part of the darkness stayed with him. He had seen something in the attic, but he still won’t tell me what it was. Not that I’ve pushed him too hard to tell me. I’m not sure I want to know. But he believed me after that He knew there was something living in the house.”
“We left the house soon after that,” she continued. “When things started getting broken, we knew we were putting our lives in danger if we stayed another night. Of course, we couldn’t tell anyone why we left. Who would have believed us if we told them the truth? We…we told them we had to bug-bomb the house,” The embarrassment was evident in her mannerism.
“It’s true,” said Dave to Johnny. “This sort of thing really alienates you from others just when you need them the most.”
“At any rate,” she went on, “that’s when I started talking to others online. I was amazed at how many groups are out there that discuss such matters.”
“And that’s when Doug found you,” said Johnny.
“Yes.”
“We’ll take a look, Mrs. Wilsing, and see what we can do. I’d like it if you and your husband were gone while we deal with this. The only real danger is in your own reactions, but I’d hate to have it said that anyone was injured while I was doing my job.”
What about me? thought Dave. If Johnny was worried about the Wilsings getting hurt, might Dave and Johnny not be in danger as well?
“My husband’s already at his mom’s. To tell you the truth, I don’t like being here right now. I’ll join him and make sure we stay away until you give us the all clear.”
“We’ll let you know what we find out,” said Johnny. “A ghost is a riddle to be unraveled. They’re not unlike a psychiatric patient that needs to reconcile their strong emotions with reality. First I have to understand what their story is, then I need to help them make peace with whatever is bothering them. Oh, and just to warn you, things may get broken. A ghost is really not much more than a ball of frustrated emotional energy and they do tend to act out, especially as they approach the truth of their existence. If you have anything of great value you might want to take it with you.”
“We’ve already had things broken. Windows, dishes, that sort of thing. The neighbors are beginning to talk. After the front window blew out, my next door neighbor asked me if Ken was becoming violent. I covered, said he was playing around with the nail gun he got for his birthday.”
“So you haven’t told anyone you have a ghost in your house?” Dave questioned her.
“Why would I tell anybody that? Who would believe me? I hardly believe it myself. It’s bad enough having odd sounds in the house, things falling off shelves for no reason. I want to at least try to have a normal life outside of my house. If I started talking about ghosts, who knows what people would think of me?”
“But it’s really happening,” said Dave. At least, there was a good possibility that something was happening.”
“Yes, it’s really happening,” Mrs. Wilsing said, “but I don’t like to think about it. I just want it to go away. I just want my life to be like it was before. Can you help?”
“I hope so, Mrs. Wilsing,” said Johnny. “I can’t make any promises with something like this, but I’ll see what I can do. I have had my successes in matters of this sort before. But tell me, is there a certain time of day when the visitations seem to occur? Any certain event that tends to trigger them?”
She paused for a moment to consider, then said, “It seems to be sometime around eleven in the evening. Now that I think about it, that seems to be when most if not all of them occurred. We’re usually in bed by that time, and the one time I told you about in the attic, it was a Saturday night. We had just finished watching a movie and were about ready to go to bed.”
“That should give us a little time, then.”
Before they left, Lynn, as Mrs. Wilsing insisted they call her, gave them a brief tour of the house. It was the kind of place Dave would have considered a dream home, an older building meticulously updated and restored. Everywhere, the walls were coated with fresh, bright paint, augmenting the original design. High ceilings gave an airiness to the rooms without forsaking quaintness. A bright blue paint covered the living room, a cheerful but elegant flower patterned wallpaper in the dining room. Lynn and her husband must have spent long hours bringing the place up to the condition it was now. Dave couldn’t help thinking how unfair life was, for people to work so hard to make something beautiful only to find some darkness at its core.
From the dining room, Lynn led them to the kitchen. It was a bright white, even with the rays of the setting sun the only illumination. From the kitchen, a second set of stairs ran upward towards the bedrooms above, stairs that had originally been for the use of servants. They led to a bedroom that was once the servants’ quarters, which was also connected to the main upstairs hallway. But the stairs continued upwards beyond the servants’ quarters, as well. Lynn had no need to say anything, Dave knew that those stairs led to the attic. Without saying anything, Lynn led them through the servants’ quarters and out into the main upstairs hall, back down the other set of stairs that led back into the living room. Without further mention of the stairs that led to attic, Lynn grabbed a few items from around the house and left to join her husband. But before leaving, she turned back towards Johnny, apparently feeling the need to share one more piece of the puzzle.
“I wasn’t going to mention this, since I’m not sure it’s related. You must already think me…unusual. But in the interest of being honest, when we first moved into the house, I began to experience a rather intense bout of depression, despite the joy we had at finding this house. I’d had experienced depression before, but nothing like this. I don’t know if it’s related or not, but I thought I should mention it. Maybe it might help convince you it’s not the house but me that has the problem.” She laughed a nervous laugh, and then exited.
Dave and Johnny were left alone in the house, Johnny with a relaxed air, Dave not so much.
“Do you think we’ll encounter anything, Johnny?”
“Quite likely, quite likely. Mrs. Wilsing seemed honest enough. Her story sounds like a few I’ve heard before. The man I was telling you about, Edwin Gauthier, the one that committed suicide. I reckon it’s his ghost that’s causing the trouble. Although it seems odd. If he’s a suicide, he died in despair. That might account for the depression Mrs. Wilsing spoke about, but that doesn’t account for the rest of what they experienced. There seems to be a lot of anger. Angry ghosts instill that kind of fear, not suicides. Well, whatever it is, we’ll likely find out soon enough.”
Dave watched his companion as he talked, amazed at the calmness with which he discussed the impending appointment with a ghost. Johnny must know something Dave didn’t because Dave couldn’t imagine not being afraid. It seemed the Wilsings knew the right way to react a ghost, at least.
Seated on a couch, Johnny was content to stare absent-mindedly out the window. Dave was unsure if he were preparing himself for what was to come, or if he was trying to pick up on subtle emanations of the otherworldly nature. Either way, Dave didn’t want to distract him, so he tried to empty his thoughts, make himself receptive. But it was no good: he could not silence the disquiet that seemed to bubble up from the pit of his stomach. He wondered if this might be a result of some kind of supernatural contact, but decided it was just plain old-fashioned fear. Why was he here at all, and what did Doug think he or anyone else could accomplish against such phenomena? They were not things that humans were meant to deal with, they were all of them out of their depths. And yet they were each of them aware of things that others weren’t. Whether or not they were equipped to deal with such things, they seemed destined to encounter them nevertheless. At least it was better to deal with them as a group, not alone as Dave once had to do.
Alone, thought Dave. I wonder what Mindy’s up to now?
“So how come a ghost tends to show up at a certain time of night?” the question occurred to Dave suddenly.
“It’s probably the moment he died. Or some significant instant.”
“Yeah, but what does time mean to a ghost?”
“Well, it’s kinda…”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Well, no. But I’ve found it to be true. And I’ve had luck with ghosts, so far.”
“But you’re more or less groping in the dark. That’s just the way Doug described the whole problem. Something works for a while whether or not we really understand the situation. So we just get comfortable with it and trust it’s always going to work. It works until it doesn’t. It works until you encounter something that doesn’t fit your paradigm.”
“That’s life, inn’t? There aint no real answers, just some clues, some inclinations and a bit of faith. Leastways, I guess I know about as much as anyone about ghosts. Anyone living, anyway,” he said, and a smile slid across his face.
“So tell me something about them.”
“Well, for starters, there aint no such thing as an old ghost, at least not what I’ve seen. As far as I know—and like you said, I only see what little I’ve seen—a ghost is a thing formed by the intense passions of a particular event. Like this case here, a man’s wife cheats on him with his best friend. There’s rage for you. Like a child, a ghost is conceived of passion. Like anything that outlives the person who created it, it is conceived of passion.”
Dave was tempted to ask questions, but decided he wasn’t in any hurry to receive the answers. The conversation having come to an end, Johnny pulled an old paperback from his coat pocket that was hanging in the hallway, made himself at home on the couch, and began to read. Dave curled up on the chair he was on and watched the November sun make its early exit. The cold and dark outside should have made him appreciate the comfort of the house, but the thought that they were not alone sucked all comfort from him. Instead, having a few hours to wait until the anticipated encounter, Dave sought some sort of quiet and peaceful place within himself.
Sleep eventually overcame him. In time, dreams emerged from the darkness, though he didn’t recognize them as such. He was lying on a bed, felt himself being brought back from darkness towards the light. Coming back to life, he found himself looking at a man in clerical garb making the sign of the cross over him. The man’s face was filled with compassion, a slight smile on his face somehow connecting with something he himself felt deep within him. Some miracle had just ocurred, whatever had put him in this bed had been driven out by a miraculous power. And it was the man above him who had done the healing, or at least been the conduit for it. There was a bond between the two of them, healer and healed. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, he noticed himself to be in a rudimentary sort of hospital, something closer to a log cabin. There were other occupied beds around him, with other attending men and women dressed in religious garb. There was a warmth that radiated from a wood stove in the middle of a room large enough for perhaps twenty beds, but there seemed to be a different sort of warmth that radiated in the room as well. Without knowing why, he found himself saying, “Thank you Father Oxner.” The man who sat on his bed, a bald man of average build, said nothing but permitted his smile to increase somewhat. It was then that he noticed where the other sense of warmth was coming from. It seemed to radiate from Father Oxner’s smile.
 
“Did you hear that?”
The words brought Dave’s consciousness out of his dream, but it was not yet fully dragged back to the waking world. So deep had he been in his alternate state of consciousness that he did not immediately know where he was or who had spoken. Opening his eyes to see Johnny’s alert face staring at him mad Dave want to retreat back into himself, back into the comfort of his dreams. The contentment he had felt there was not something he wanted to leave. He felt quite at home there, despite the primitiveness of his surroundings. In the end, it was not the creature comforts but the warmth of a smile and caring community that seemed to bring true contentedness. But Johnny spoke again, wrenching Dave from the comfort he longed for. Instead, he stared at the faces tattooed on Johnny’s faces and arms that appeared to him like spirits trapped on flesh. Each of them seemed to share Johnny’s urgency. But the memory of where they were and why sparked a jolt of adrenaline that soon had him fully alert. Caught off guard as he was, he was unable to combat the fear that was growing within him. Between dream and wakefulness lay a darkness that seemed to cling to him. He did not yet have enough pieces of the puzzle of his current predicament to provide him any context. Fear, for the moment, was his surest protector.
“What?” asked Dave.
“There’s a noise upstairs. Not a noise, really, more like a stirring. I’m not sure if I heard something, but I sensed something.”
“So now what?”
“Now we get chummy with it.” Johnny must have noticed Dave’s state, because he said, ”You okay? Don’t worry, stick by me, you’ll be fine. Just listen to me, not it. Never do anything a ghost tells you to, for any reason!”
Dave and Johnny again ascended the stairs that led to the old servants’ bedroom. But this time, they did not stop there but continued towards the attic. There were perhaps fifteen steps, but each of them made an impression on Dave. Each step ramped up the fear within him. What he was about to encounter was a being the likes of which was once capable of causing sleepless nights for him as a child after merely hearing a story told around a campfire. It felt as he were about to cross a threshold, one that had been very well marked in him deep in his DNA. Every instinct he had, every story he had heard, every movie he had ever watched, was telling him to stay away from the door that by now was only a few more steps away. The image of the door was already etched upon his memory forever. This quite ordinary looking old door, painted white, assumed all of the fearful qualities that his imagination could summon. It was scrawled deep into the neural pathways of his mind, like some childhood trauma. His mind rushed back to such memories, his deepest fears realized. He felt himself again locked inside of a trunk, his brother’s cruel laughter drowning out any appeals to a saner world.
He remembered running with other boys through the crosswalk that led from his grade school towards home, remembered one boy who was a few steps behind the rest. He remembered the car they somehow did not see in the bright daylight of a late spring day. He remembered the daring and the feeling of immortality of youth wash away forever as the car pushed the little body of his friend Gordon, who always seemed to be a step slower than he was, into the air. With the sound of shrieking brakes in their ears, they saw Gordon’s body move in a way that did not appear real. But it was real, realer than many of the things he once believed to be real, and there was nothing—ever—that was going to make it not real. It was a stain in his memory, a black spot on the sun that would forever mar the brightness that had been his youthful life.
Feelings he had hoped never to feel again were rising from the dark places where he had stored them, places he had thought gone forever. And being an adult did not make him any more able to cope with such feelings. The fear he experienced now was the same he had felt as a child; nothing he had learned in all those years had given him any defenses against it.
Dave simply stared at the door, wondering how opening it could possibly make him more frightened, having no intentions of finding out. The price of freedom is high, he couldn’t help thinking, the idea of stepping away from the safety of the collective mind approaching insanity, an utter lack of security. Again he was asking himself to take the plunge into an utterly unknown universe, hoping that he could find something to grab onto before he fell into the awaiting abyss.
He noticed Johnny reach out his hand, grab the knob. He wished more than anything that Johnny would not open the door, but felt powerless to prevent it. And yet, while the better part of him wished for a small place to hide—even a jail cell of steel and cement, as long as it kept him safe from the outside world—a small voice inside him seemed to be whispering, even as the door was opening to reveal unnamed and unnatural fears: cool.
 

Trailer Video for The Amazing Morse

Here's a little trailer I did a while back for my debut novel. It's not professionally done but it was a fun thing to try. Music I borrowed from the band Devil Doll from their release, Dies Irae. If you like scary music, check them out.

The Amputation

I'm posting all of my short stories on my blog for a limited time. When I have finished the ones I have planned, I will be releasing them in 3 different collections, something like "The Good", "The Bad, and "The Others". "The Good" will include stories such as The Mountain and The Silver Sea, both included in this blog, stories that explore the meaning of life. "The Others" will include stories such as Eternity Inc. and The Love of Knowledge, stories that are neither dark nor light. This story is one that will be in "The Bad". It's sort of sick, and I would feel bad for writing it except for the fact that people are way more receptive to this story than anything I have written for "The Good". It was hard for me to write, even more difficult to proof. Why I wrote it I am not quite sure, but the idea occurred to me and I went with it.


“Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us…The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” Oscar Wilde

 Have you ever been driving over a bridge and wondered what would happen if you were to turn the wheel sharply? A single thoughtless action which would take only a fraction of a moment can change a life forever. I do not think I am so unique in having had this experience. I have always had a fear of heights and it is because I distrust what I will do when I am standing on a ledge looking down. A single misplaced footstep could send me over the edge.
I have never plunged my car over the side of a bridge, but I am certain that there is a part of my psyche that would be quite willing to do it. Fortunately, there is that part of my mind that overrides such hasty notions. Am I too far away from any of your personal experiences for you to relate? Consider then being ten years old and standing atop the high dive for the first time. Your courage has made you climb up the ladder and you know there is no turning back. That voice inside begins the count of three, at the end of which you will take the plunge. During the counts of one and two, there is but one voice, the voice of courage and triumph. This voice is still strong as it shouts “three”, yet there you stand quivering, unable to make the movement necessary. Perhaps you made a partial start, only to end up lying on the diving board, holding on desperately to its sides.
For all the power that the cautious side of our mind has to override whimsy and even will, it too has its lapses. Countless comedies and tragedies have been based around what can result from a single rah word or action. Though I could blame it on many things, it was merely a sudden unchecked impulse which was my undoing. I would like to blame it on my girlfriend’s parents for the present they bought me for Christmas, for, without the saw, the thought never would have occurred to me. I could also blame it on the media that found it necessary to air repeatedly one of those “dangers of the wild” programs. While both played a part, it was a sudden and intense compulsion that changed my life forever. And although the event I am about to relate to you took a full twenty-seven minutes, I swear to you it all hinged upon a momentary lack of good judgment.
I was enjoying a few hours of solitude in my apartment after a couple days of constant visits to various friends and relatives over the Christmas weekend. I sat on my couch, my attention divided between the newspaper on my lap and the television across from me. My living room was cluttered by the gifts I had recently received as well as wrapping paper I had not yet put away. On my recliner sat the gifts my girlfriend’s parents had given me. Being that I came from a small town up north and that I once took their daughter camping, they somehow assumed that I must be some great outdoorsman. The gifts they bought me—a lantern, a little hatchet, and a camping saw—reflected their perception of me. To be honest, their presumptions about my proclivity for being in nature were not that far off, but it was not the image I had hoped to convey.
Seeing my camping equipment reminded me of the real-life story that I had recently heard, something which had troubled me ever since. A hiker far from civilization somehow got his leg trapped under a rock and could not free himself. After being trapped for a considerable amount of time, it began to dawn on him that he might die of cold or dehydration before anyone would come to his aid. Facing this possibility, he decided his best option was to free himself in the only way possible to him. Having only a pocket knife at hand, he cut off his foot in order to get out from under the rock.
This story disturbed me more each time I thought of it. A pocket knife! What a tremendous amount of will and discipline must be necessary in order to overcome the pain and doubt. What if he had been two-thirds of the way through and all of the sudden heard his rescuers arriving? As for myself, I could never even leave the house without a pack of cigarettes and some spending money. I just could not fathom leaving a part of my body behind.
The idea of hacking through flesh and bone with a tool so unmade for the task seemed equally unfathomable. It must have seemed at times that the only thing being accomplished was the reaching of new thresholds of pain. I looked at the saw lying on the chair and cringed at the thought of desecrating my flesh with it. What must it feel like? When would the pain become more than my weak mind could bear?
Looking at the saw, I noted that this at least would be more like an instrument a surgeon would use for such a job. Its sharp, jagged teeth were designed for sawing through tree limbs and would be adequate for ripping through bone. I am sure many Civil War soldiers had a good deal less worthy a tool separate their gangrenous limbs from their bodies. I picked up the saw to inspect it more closely, rubbing my thumb against its rough cutting edge. I next placed it across my leg at about the spot where my sock would ordinarily reach if it were fully pulled up. I pulled the saw blade across my leg through its full cutting motion. It produced a tickling sensation along the line where it had passed: something a little more than an itch, but far short of any real pain. It occurred to me at that moment what an act of will it would be even to draw blood, let alone sever a leg. I tested my will, determined not to give up until some blood appeared in order to prove my strength of character.
The next few strokes, however, resulted in little more than the initial itchy feeling. Some part of my mind withheld my arm from putting any force into its actions. I looked at the spot where I drew the blade across my leg and saw that there was only a small white streak of dead epidermis. I gritted my teeth and took a few more passes at it and at length I glimpsed the first sign of blood. Although it hurt, the pain felt somehow different than I had expected, making it somewhat more tolerable.
I watched as my hand continued to saw, awaiting the point where the pain gave my mind the signal to stop. I awaited the automatic response the body has when a hand is placed on a hot stove, but none was forthcoming. Although the pain was becoming quite intense, it seemed to have no effect either on my hand or my mind. My mind watched as though detached as my arm continued its back and forth motion. The blood was beginning to flow freely now, and I put the newspaper on the floor with my left hand to prevent it from staining the carpet.
It was when I finally reached bone and started to rip into it that the pain became almost unbearable. The slickness of the blood made it difficult for the saw’s teeth to catch hold of bone. It slid smoothly over the bone, the pressure alone causing me to let out my one scream of pain. I changed the angle of the saw, working closer to the front of my shin where there was less flesh to get in my way. The saw’s teeth began to catch, making a sound that I will never forget and cannot attempt to explain to you. Imagine the screeching of nails on a chalkboard and amplify it a dozen times. It is at this point that my mind went blank, lost in a haze of screaming pain. The next time my mind made anything of the messages my eyes were sending it, I could see that I was fully half-way through the bone. The paper on the floor was pooled in blood, spilling over in several places. The loss of so much blood left me weak. My arm was nearly numb with pain from the effort. But I felt that my only escape from my predicament was to finish what I had started. Only when I had finished would this spell I was under be broken. I removed my sock and applied it above the cut as a tourniquet. To do this, I was forced to let go of the saw, which hung loosely in the cut. When my makeshift tourniquet was finished, I looked in horror at the results of my work. But I could not quit now. My only thought was of finishing the act, and so end my torture. I resumed the work with a single-mindedness. I was over half-way through, now; the end was in sight.
My arm was becoming sore beyond endurance, but the tourniquet brought a certain numbness to my leg. I felt I could no longer continue, yet there was only one way out of my ordeal. Had I felt this way at the start, I would surely have quit. But I was nearing the end now. I considered breaking what was left of the bone, but the thought of shattered bits and pieces dissuaded me. With as much of a mess as I had made, it was still a clean cut. It seemed that there was still a part of my mind that was working normally, the part that demanded order.
As the sawing approached the last section of bone, I was forced to change the position of my leg. I knew that it would soon reach the point where the existing bone would not be able to support the weight at the end of my leg. I put my bloodied foot on the edge of the coffee table as gently as I could. Although I braced for the pain I knew this would cause, the act of doing it sent me into a moment of semi-consciousness where all my body felt the agony.
This new position forced me to use the saw at a more awkward angle. Ordinarily, this would have caused me great discomfort, but my aching shoulder welcomed any change of position from the one it had maintained for the last twenty minutes.
When the bone had finally been cut through, my foot slumped outwards at an unusual angle. Afraid that the foot would slip off the table, dangle uselessly from the rest of my leg, I was forced to make yet another adjustment. Even in my madness, there were some situations that I would not have been able to deal with. Had my foot slipped from the table and I was forced to pick the dangling thing back up, I would not have been able to endure it. I would have lost consciousness in the attempt. Carefully, I moved my leg outwards while lifting the limp foot with my hands. Although still connected to me, my foot no longer seemed a part of my body. I had apparently already cut through all the nerves. My knee was now sitting at the edge of the coffee table, my foot lying atop my still-whole leg.
Approaching the end of this ordeal, I worked with a frenzy, slowing down only to be sure that the deed was done properly. The pain in my shoulder from my hard work no longer bothered me, so intent was I at my task. When the final sinew was separated, my severed foot teetered for a short time on the thigh it had been resting on until it finally fell heavily to the floor, sole first. Finally freed from my compulsion, I tightened my tourniquet to the best of my ability, then arose from the couch in search of help. I hopped cautiously to the front door, seizing any opportunity I could to find something to lean on. I did not care about the trail of blood I made on the carpet, my only thought was to get some aid before I lost consciousness. The distance from my front door to my neighbor’s was about three feet. I covered the distance with a lunge. He arrived shortly after hearing the heavy thud at his door. The usually friendly smile that was on his face quickly turned to confusion and then to horror. This change of attitude on his part came simply from looking into my eyes. When his gaze slid down to where I held my footless leg awkwardly, he recoiled in shock.
 
I don’t recall anything more than that; knowing that there was someone to help allowed my tired mind to finally release its hold on the situation. I did not awake until nearly two days afterward. The first person I saw as I awoke was a nurse who seemed quite uncomfortable to be in my presence. None of my family were present, nor was my girlfriend. Apparently, the story of what had happened had been pieced together by those who rescued me, as well as the police. My neighbor had been alert enough to search for my foot in my apartment. The cut being a clean one, they were able to reattach it. They really have done a remarkable job—it works almost as well as it ever did. But though the physical damage has been incredibly minor, the stigma which I bear has changed my life forever. People cannot understand that I could be capable of such a thing. They do not want to believe that I—and by extension, perhaps themselves—can have such a lapse in sanity. As for myself, I am certain that I have exorcised this impulse, confident that it shall never return. But how can I convey that to others? My wound has healed, but the scar is forever a reminder of a mind that momentarily wavered.

Ashes On The Water

Somewhere between short story and flash fiction, this was inspired by a true occurence:

Ashes On The Water

Bob was in a good mood as he drove down the country road on a glorious day. He chatted amiably to his wife, even though he knew she wasn’t listening. The incessant rain and all of the troubles of the past week were finally over. It was the first true summer day of the year and the classic rock station was playing all of his favorite songs back to back. But the real reason for his good mood was that he knew now that he had succeeded. There had been some tense moments in the last few weeks; the plans he had so carefully drawn out had really been put to the test. All the plans in the world cannot prepare one for the way things play out in reality. But he was proud of himself. When the story deviated from the script he had written, he reacted as an actor inspired. He realized flaws in his story when questioned and adapted to the situation. And now he was on the final stretch. He had merely to dispose of the ashes of his victim and the last traces of the murder he committed would be gone forever.
He looked over at his wife, who was on the front seat next to him in a little black plastic box. He missed her company and wished he could share this moment with her. He patted the box gently in remembrance. He didn’t hate her—far from it, he had always been fond of her. It seemed somewhat regrettable that she had to be the victim of his plot. It’s just that the idea had taken hold of him. Surely everyone at one time or another has wondered if they could commit murder and get away with it. Well he was no different, he just took the idea to its conclusion. It’s hard to explain how an idea can grow in the mind until it becomes a compulsion, but sometimes the only way to get rid of a temptation is to give in to it.
“Wish You Were Here” came on the radio, ruining for him the streak of upbeat tunes. He switched stations just in time to catch the weather. Sunny and warm for the next few days, it said. Good. He was driving up to the cabin to dispose of his wife’s ashes. The good weather would give him the opportunity to do a little work on the property they…he had inherited from his wife’s parents.
The radio was still on, and the local news followed the weather. It seemed that a body was discovered floating in the river somewhere outside of town. Bob immediately wondered if there was another murderer in town. “Dumb”, he thought to himself. To leave a body is to leave evidence. He was aware of how clever the police could be once their suspicion was aroused. Pride arose in him again as he started to compare himself to this possible new murderer. He had seen too many criminal investigation shows to make his plan complicated. His scheme rested solely on not leaving any evidence behind. There was no murder weapon; he had poisoned her using chemicals that were in their house, that were in most households. The result was similar to a heart attack. She was in her mid-fifties with a family history of heart disease so there was no real reason for anyone to dig too deeply for explanations for her death. And he had always been both a model citizen and husband. His whole plan rested upon him being able to get rid of the body before anyone could suspect something. As long as they did not have a body on which to perform an autopsy, he would be home free. Fortunatately, the Tri-State Crematory had taken care of that detail for him. All that was left was ashes now. He did not know if modern technology could decipher anything from these, but they would be gone soon too, scattered on the lake he and his wife had so often looked out upon from their cabin. And then he would be free.
It was a three hour trip to their cabin up north, and he continued to listen for further news on the body discovered in the river. After a time, an update was given. Two more bodies had been found and police were reporting body parts of several more. “Wow”, he thought, “I give this guy credit for quantity at least. Good, let him get all the notoriety. This ought to keep the police busy and off of my case.”
This news item held Bob’s attention now. He turned to the all-news station in order to get the latest updates. He felt some kinship with this presumed mass-murderer, felt as they were both members of an elite club. The count was at least six people now, and Bob suspected, half-hoped, that there would be more. It was about two hours into his trip that the newest information was given: a storage shed filled with stacked corpses was found upriver from town. A thrill of vicarious excitement went up Bob’s back as he realized the accomplishment of this imagined murderer. Here was a real killer, a psychopath. He imagined this man in his mind, tried to re-construct his experiences using his own as a blueprint.
As he drove into the town nearest his cabin retreat, the radio revealed the story behind the mystery. The serial killer was a figment of his imagination, no murders had taken place. He pulled the car over and sat in stunned silence as the radio report continued. It was unclear why, but it seems that the Tri-State Crematory had not been doing its job. Bodies had been hidden in the woods, stored in sheds or buried in shallow graves. The recent heavy rains had unearthed some of the bodies, washing several of them into the river. Autopsies would have to be performed on the corpses to determine identity so that loved ones could be alerted. As the radio moved on to other news, Bob sat with his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
 
  
This short story was based upon a real-life occurrence, a crematory that never got around to cremating many of their customers and instead gave concrete dust to the loved ones of the deceased. You can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tri-State_Crematory
 

The Mountain

An Allegory:
 
I cannot recall a single instance I can point to where I had first decided to climb the mountain. Looking back, there seemed to be no epiphany, no moment of clarity or certainty. It seemed to come upon me bit by bit, something that accumulated slowly until it had built itself into something within me that demanded attention. At some point I acquired a kernel of longing within me that attracted like minded sentiments. Around this kernel, ideas and ambitions began to wrap themselves the way a pearl is built upon a grain of sand. Evidently, there was some romantic notion of the mountain and man’s relation to it that appealed to the imagination of a young child. If you lean towards the metaphysical, then perhaps that seed was always in me and that it was destiny leading me since birth. At any rate, while there is no particular moment that I can say was the defining one, there are memories of moments that moved me in the direction my life has taken.
I have no memory of seeing the mountain for the first time; it has been there always in my life and in the lives of all those who live or ever have lived in the village of my birth. It towers in the western skyline, defying and denying for much of the day even the mighty sun. It is a boarder to all that lies beyond it, as defining and limiting to our pursuits as is the ground beneath or the sky above. But I can remember moments of seeing the mountain as something other than a backdrop to my existence, as something more than a limiter. I was quite a young child when I heard stories of the mountain and it significance to our world. I remember listening to a group of elders sitting around my parents table telling stories of the mountain. They spoke in reserved tones about the tales that they had heard, many which had been passed down from generations long forgotten. It was then that the idea of reaching the top first came to me as a goal worthy of pursuit. This mountain, as we all knew, was where the gods dwelt, or at least it touched the heavens where they made their home. It was taller than any other peak in all the world. It was jokingly said that even the mighty sun would scratch its hind side when it attempted to climb its peak. From the stories, I became impressed with the greatness of the mountain, and somehow the idea occurred to me what a great quest it would be to conquer it. No, not conquer, that is too foolish a world. Any man who scales a mountain is still but a man, a transient speck compared to the immensity and permanence of a mountain. Nevertheless, the thought of reaching the height of the mountain appeared to me equal to reaching the heights of human accomplishment.
Another moment comes to mind, the time when I heard that there were those who had already made the attempt to reach the summit. Many returned unsuccessful, many never returned at all. The legends also spoke of those who had reached the top and had returned to tell the tale. Some claimed to have seen the gods, others said they received revelation and instruction from the gods themselves.
It was clear that many of those who claimed to have reached the top were either liars or madmen. They preached things that made no sense or, worse yet, their words were meant to enrich their own power, prestige, or wealth. Still others were enigmas who went their own way in silence, or were driven away from their village when what they had to say was too unpopular. So although the legends had much to say on matters concerning the mountain, no one could say with any certainty what one could find there.
As I grew to adulthood, this question still possessed me. While some shared my interest, most among my village seemed quite unconcerned. Their work and family and holidays seemed to fill their time and interest well enough. I, however, gravitated towards people of like mind, and we discussed together what we had heard of the stories and legends relating to the mountain. We devoured whatever source we could find on the subject, and conjectured on the rest. Until, one day, the inevitable occurred; having exhausted all other forms of information, we decided that we would ourselves have to make the climb if we were ever to gain more insight. After long months of careful planning and preparation, we set out to find the answers to our questions, a small group of true believer with only that which we could carry. I can still clearly remember that day as we stood at the foot of the mountain and looked straight up at what we were about to embark upon. We had already lost three of our members before leaving the village, people who had decided they were needed where they were. Two more left us while still at the base, claiming the thunderclouds and lightning that encircled the mountain-top at that moment to be an ill omen. I myself almost went with them, not because of any omen, but because of the fear that clenched at my stomach at the thought of the trials that surely lay ahead.
 
The first part of the climb was perhaps the purest, for we neither looked toward what lay ahead nor what we left behind us. So dedicated were we with the climb that everything else was blocked from our sight—absolutely everything, including, paradoxically enough, the goal itself. It was too far away and our immediate concerns too pressing. Perhaps it drove us at some deep level, but it did not enter our conscious minds. It was almost as if the end of our journey were a thing we felt pushing at us from behind, if that can make sense. But whatever was working in our hearts, our minds and bodies were intensely focused on the tasks at hand. Any great accomplishment requires this disciplined approach to the task at hand, and we pushed ourselves to limits we did not know existed, which only inspired us to push further. To be young and to experience the feeling of being alive is a sweet feeling. To feel alive and to have a purpose and a goal to that life is better still.
But it is human nature that from time to time we stop to take a look around to assess where we are going, where we have been. We first halted from our labors upon reaching a vast plateau. We had known of its existence all our lives, had seen it from down below, but had no idea how huge it was. My first impulse was to look down rather than up to measure our progress. It is more encouraging to see what one has accomplished that to see what one still has to accomplish.
Looking down, we were amazed at how far we had come, how separated we were from our village that looked so small down below. The village below did not look as we had always thought. The distance seemed to rob it of its distinctions. And looking at last towards each other, we noticed that we too had changed. But it did not matter for us because we had taken so much of what we held dear with: friends, family, dreams, purpose.
Looking around we realized how different the land was around us. The air was so much purer at this height, the birds and animals more innocent of man’s threat to them. The madness and injustice that can exist amongst mankind seemed not to touch us upon this sacred mountain. So beautiful was this plain we had reached that when it was time to continue our journey, many of us wished to stay where they were. “This is good enough for us”, they said. “We have found something beautiful, and need ask for nothing more.” Whether they were right or wrong in their decision was not a question that came into my mind at this time. Had I stopped to think, I may have wondered whether they were daunted by the climb yet to come. For we had as yet only finished a small leg of our journey, and our effort and sacrifice had been great. Or, had I stopped to think, I may have wondered if they were not right in staying in this beautiful place. To be given all this and not be content was perhaps arrogant, and arrogance unto the gods is not a thing to be treated lightly. Perhaps, if I had thought, it was a fear of what they would find if they continued—a fear of failure—that made them decide to stay.
But I did not stop to think. My life I regarded as a small thing compared to my purpose. I was driven by this purpose, and was renewed by my rest in this idyllic place. For if such beauty could be found so low, imagine what awaits us as we ascend to the realm of the gods.
And so those of us who wished to continue our journey left our friends in this place. It was not easy saying goodbye, because we had already shared so much in dreams, work, struggle, and love. Those of us who continued felt no blame or bitterness towards those who stayed, anymore than we did to those down below who never desired to accompany us at all. It was our vision; those who did not share it had their own.
Of those who left the plain, there were those who turned back when the way became too hard, the obstacles seemingly impassable. Some perished in the climb. Some died saving others. Some escorted back down the mountain those who were too injured or ill to continue. We the survivors could do nothing to honor the dead but continue onwards. Our ranks continued to thin, until I alone said farewell to the last of my companions, a dear friend too weak and injured to endure. But my mind was set; for all of us, it was up to me to achieve the dream or perish in the attempt. Although alone, I knew no loneliness, for my vision was my comfort, my hopes were my warmth. Working without looking above or below me, I climbed. And in time I neared the summit, the place of countless stories and legends. For all I knew, I alone of all mortals had ever reached this height. And there above the entire world I found…
Nothing.
At the top of the summit I stood and looked at the heavens from this elevated spot. But to my complete disillusionment, the heavens were no closer than they had ever been. The sun was no larger, its radiance no warmer than it was to any human on the face of the world.
The force of my despair fell upon me. All that I was was pulled out from under me. For all there was of me had become but a surge toward this moment, and all my life had become false. Ah, how much better to be my companions, who did not live to see this moment, or to have stayed with those on the plain who could still aspire to more. Far better to be like those who had never felt the need to climb, who contented themselves with legend and myth and daydreaming. I alone had no hope, because I had killed hope for myself. With all the desire and all of the strength that I had, I had succeeded only in killing hope. I raged against the gods because they did not exist, or else were forever above me, indifferent to my plight. I wept like an abandoned child, feeling my total isolation. Overcome with emptiness I sat down at the edge of this, the top of the world, to look down at a world full of deluded people.
And looking down I saw all that was, stretched out before me. From the height to which I had ascended, the word was quite different from the one I had always known. I saw the world free from myopia, free from my prejudice and the ignorance of those who had taught me from the arrogance of their small beliefs. I saw a world without the borders that I had seen on every map I had ever looked at, a constant flow of forces unbound by the constraints that our tiny minds try to force upon the real. I saw man’s place in the world, so small. I saw lands never before seen by man, awaiting his arrival. I saw below me my friends I had left on the plain, indistinguishable from all the other people who lived on this earth. For the first time in my life I saw it all at once as one who is both distanced from and one with the world. I was the world’s eyes, regarding itself.
I sat and watched the beauty of all that is until the sun’s rays faded and darkness covered everything. And when no rays were left to aid my vision, I began immediately to descend, to share with others the vision I had glimpsed.

Of Beer And Books

As a writer who knows a lot of other writers, I have seen and heard a lot of reviews on books. As a writerit may be damaging to me personally to say this—but I have seen a lot of stupid reviews. I’ve seen the book named The Three Little Kitties That Saved My Life get a 1-star review because the reader didn’t care for cats. I have seen other books get panned because the reviewer’s e-reader broke halfway through it. I have seen many a review that did not like the book they read because they were not fond of the genre it belonged to. Think up any stupid reason for giving a bad review and chances are you will find it mentioned by some reviewer.
I have been told that it will do no good to complain because those are the rules of the game; reviewers can say whatever they want to say. But that is only true because nobody is holding up a higher standard. As well as books, I also like beer. I will often go to Beer Advocate, a site for people who appreciate beer. They have a beer rating section at their website where anybody can give their rating to any beer they have tried. You would think that of the two, beer reviews would be less well done than book reviews, but you would be wrong. Almost to a one, the beer reviews are thoughtfully done, expressing the reviewer’s knowledge of their subject rather than their biases. The reason that beer is rated more fairly and intelligently on Beer Advocate than books are on Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes and Noble, etc. is that Beer Advocate has a system for rating beer and both the site and the community hold reviewers to certain standards. It’s really that simple. With that in mind, let’s try to set some standards for book reviews based upon Beer Advocate’s system for reviewing beer.
 
Respect brewers
Behind each beer is a person with feelings and pride. Beer might be their passion, livelihood or entire life. Even if you don't like a beer, at the very least have some respect and be constructive with your criticism.
The same should hold true for authors. The vast majority of them are working really hard to create something they are proud of. Respect that.
 
Keep style in mind
Say you don't like light beers. We suggest that you do one of two things: 1) don't review them if you know you already don't like them - your opinion will be tainted. 2) Review with an open mind and for what the beer is trying to be, not what you think the beer should be or pit it against the kick-ass India Pale Ale that you had earlier.
Same for books. If you like Sci Fi, it’s probably best that you do not review romance novels. If you do review a romance novel, don’t compare it to Asimov or complain about the lack of aliens. I know it seems simple, but apparently it needs saying.
 
What to look for
Beer reviews are broken down into 5 categories to be evaluated: Appearance, Smell, Taste, Mouthfeel, Overall. Each of these catagories are rated from 1 to 5, with the “Overall” category being an opportunity to award points to those qualities that don’t fall neatly into the other categories.
 
Books should be rated by the main components of what constitutes a quality read. To simplify matters, let’s deal with novels for now. Let’s come up with some basic categories, borrowing only loosely from Aristotle’s Poetics.
Grammar and Spelling –One or two mistakes are acceptable, much more than that and one has to start thinking about deducting a point. A book would merit a one star if it is demonstrably proven to contain errors on almost every page.
Plot –One can refer to Aristotle on this category, but let me give you my thoughts. Is it of interest? Is it plausible? Does the action flow logically from what we know of the characters and the setting rather than involving a deus ex machina? Is it without any obvious flaws? If all of these are strong, there is no reason not to give it a rating of 5.
Characters –Do you care for them? Not every character has to be likeable, but the reader needs someone to connect with. Are they believable? Are their motivations clear? Are they interesting?
Themes and Ideas –Does the author involve you in ideas that relate to your real life and are you better off as a person for having read his work?
Style and Use of Language –Does the use of language and art make you further appreciate the craftsmanship that is writing? Sometimes reading a master of wordsmithing is joy enough.
Overall—Here is your opportunity to rate the intangibles.
 
Here you have a brief outline that could be used as a standard for everyone who reviews a book. It would be easily enforceable and would lead to a higher overall degree of reviews. There’s nothing wrong with demanding a little bit more from reviewers: if it is good enough for beer, it is good enough for books.
 
One last bit of advice from Beer Advocate that also applies to book reviewers: DON’T REVIEW WHILE INTOXICATED!
 

I Shall See The Sun

Here's my take on a vampire story. I wanted to see if I could add something new to a very well explored genre. Having not read too much of vampires I have no idea if this is different or too different. Feedback, again, is appreciated. Note: This is the free version, so expect a typo or two.


I Shall See The Sun
 
It is still night, but the stars cut through the darkness. Their distant rays sting me like pinpricks of sunlight. I await the dawn, running from it no more.
I shall see the sun again. I shall feel the rays that bring life to the Earth, and it shall put an end to the twisted semblance of life that is my existence. I do not ask the golden beams to cleanse my sullied flesh anymore than I pray for God’s forgiveness—I merely hope for the peace of non-existence.
Too long have I stayed in the shadows, hiding from others and myself the reality of what I am. For all my strength, I have lost the courage to stare the day in the eye. I can no more see God’s illumination than I can see myself in the mirror. Ah, if I could see myself, would I have the nerve to look? Too long have I denied the truth of my actions, unable to consciously live the life I’ve led. The darkness allows me to see only what I wish to see, to ignore that which I cannot. My existence I can only endure with lies. And when those are not enough, I seek to fill the hole with the vain attempt of sating my insatiable emptiness.
Lies have been necessary, for I was once a man and no man could tolerate the reality of the things I’ve done. I have lied to myself and all of humanity. But humanity, like myself, was culpable in believing my lies. Humans, too, wish to ignore the truth, wish to believe their own desires rather than what reason or goodness might have told them. They saw my power and it attracted them through their own selfish motivations. Though it did not matter to me whether I drank the blood of the innocent or of the guilty, those without sin seemed to keep their distance from me, so that I dare think that I have saved society somewhat from its own evil.
Heaven is fleeting, but Hell is an eternity. Hell becomes the more so the longer one lives it. I was once a man, happy in the way that a man can be. I had a wife and two children, with a third one on the way. But when I saw Catherine, none of that mattered. She was beautiful beyond a mortal beauty, and the desire I felt was beyond mortal flesh to resist. Even today I wonder, had I somehow been able to resist her call, had a dozen men held me down to save me from myself, would I have ever been able to forget her and go back to a normal life? Or would the thought of her have haunted me the rest of my mortal life?
She looked at me across the dining hall of that crowded inn, and I saw the desire in her eyes, a desire that instantly alit itself within me as well. That one as beautiful as she could look at me in such a way awoke in me longings that extinguished any ability to think of anything but her. The people and tables in that room were mere obstacles that stood between us. I would have had her then and there were it not that she asked me to follow her outside. In all the world, it was only her desire that could have overcome mine. Had she asked me at that moment to boil my children alive, I would have done it, passionately. But to walk with her, to hold her hand as we made our way out of the building, was itself a feeling indescribable. She led me behind the building and looked me in the eyes with the same sort of longing that burned my entire being. I was incapable of resistance, incapable of anything but desire for her. But it was not my lack of will that her eyes took from me that caused my damnation. Nor was it the draining of my blood from her bite upon my neck. No, it was her kiss that took from me what no mortal should part with. In her kiss, I felt what Faustus felt when kissing Helen of Troy: “Her lips suck forth my soul.” That thought flitted across my mind as my fate was sealed in passion and surrender.
Ah, she was beautiful! More beautiful than any woman I had seen before or since. In my centuries of existence, I still remember her clearly, though I only met her once. In all my life before and after, I have not known such a perfect instance of desire fully satisfied. For the most fleeting of instances, she filled every empty part of me, and in submitting to my desire of her I felt whole. Although I acquiesced in weakness, once I yielded I felt no sin or shame. I was hers entirely and I felt the longing all mortals feel had been consummated. I felt that I had arrived to the place I had been unconsciously seeking my entire life. I was a shipwrecked sailor again setting foot on land. Sin, weakness, sadness, all melted away as I felt her lips expunge all that was mortal. So that when I felt her teeth at my neck, when at last I understood who and what she was, there was nothing left in me to resist. Morality, thoughts of eternal damnation or even imminent mortality held no sway over one as enraptured as I. I gave her my soul in that instant, gave it to her fully and gladly, as though I had finally found a purpose for having one at all. I cannot express to a mere mortal the taste of immortality she gave me, can no longer appreciate it myself. But it was real, real in the way only experience can be real. In my naiveté, I did not realize she was not giving but taking. My blood I gave as a trifle—truly it pleased me that I had something to give her in return. But even as she fed upon me, I could feel that what I gave to her could not satisfy her as I wished to satisfy her. I urged my heart to pump harder that I might empty myself out for her, so that she might be filled. But she was a bottomless well that no love or desire or quantity of blood could ever fill. I could feel her bitterness enter into me in place of my lifeblood. From the height of my ecstasy, I plunged as I realized the gift of my life was insufficient. It was as though I had taken my humanity in that instant and thrown it into a black abyss, where it was lost forever more in the endless nothingness. And in place of my soul I had the eternal longing within me.
She had taken what she had desired—for what it was worth—and left me dead, at least for a time. But I returned to life, or some semblance of it. I was returned to the living with the unending emptiness inside of me. There was but one way to cure the emptiness, and that cure was only for a brief time. Though I was loath to do it, the emptiness soon became more than I could bear. And so I set about in pursuit of my first victim.
I was in no state of mind to seduce a woman, to have her give her life to me of her own free will, as I had given mine. I fell upon my first victim in the same manner as an animal attacks its prey. She was just a girl, perhaps ten years of age, and I savagely tore at her throat with my teeth. And yes, even in that horrible orgy of violence, I could feel to some degree that initial state of rapture I had felt within the embrace of my immortal lover. Even as my mind rebelled at the act, the deep emptiness was being fed. I felt for the first time the full force of my damnation, even as I slaked my thirst. I knew I was damned when I surrendered to my beloved, but the first taste of another’s blood was the sacramental rite of my damnation.
I ran back to what was now my only home, the casket my wife had buried me in. And I lay in my bed, appalled at what I had done and what I had become. My victim’s blood was sticky on my hands and lips, and the part of me that still remembered what it was to be human turned away as I licked the blood from them. And I cried for myself until sleep overcame me.
I awoke to the hunger once again. It was part of me now, ever the larger part. Even when it was not in control, still it was always behind my every thought. Always it sought to creep through my other thoughts and stand alone in front of my consciousness.
When I knew that I would again succumb to the desire—unable to deny any longer what I had become—I sought to keep some control over my actions. When I saw a child walking alone at night, I promised myself that I would not take another child as my victim, even one so foolish as this who walked alone in the dark of night. But as the child noticed me, she walked straight towards me, as though to test my resolve. It was not until she neared, that I realized that she too was seeking a victim. She had been the girl I attacked the other night, infected by me as I had been infected by Catherine. Not recognizing me, she lunged at me with incredible strength and speed. She came at me with an animal intensity, attempting to sink her teeth into my leg even after I smashed her head open with a rock. Her savagery continued until I remembered what lore I knew about vampires, and I was able to drive a tree branch through her heart. I stared her in the eyes as the twisted imitation of life faded from them. And I knew in that moment that that would be my only escape from the existence I was now in possession of. I knew as well by peering into her eyes that there would be no salvation for her. Less still for me, because I was the one who had led her into damnation. And whatever hell this life I now lived was, I was in no hurry to meet her fate, to come at last unto my judgment.
Always I fought the hunger, but it poured like water through any gap in my defenses, even as it threatened to smash through them. It struck at me through any hesitation or doubt that I might have. It was behind my every purpose, gently nudging me towards its own desires. I resisted through long days and nights all alone, fought with everything I had. But it never tired. It almost seemed the hunger enjoyed the game that it played with me, toying with me as I was later to toy with those who would be my victims. It always grew stronger as I grew weaker, until it would topple my defenses, and it would drink its fill of some new innocent.
Thus did I live for months that turned into years. I would fight the desire until it overwhelmed me and forced me into reckless action. In such a manner, I was able to keep myself from killing less often, but I was more brutal and unrestrained when I did. But one can weary of anything, become habituated to any horror if it is repeated often enough. I eventually began to accept the reality of my situation and, in doing so, I began to lose the revulsion I felt at my own actions. Because it was necessary and unavoidable I began to make the best of my situation. If I must kill, then I would do it as a human and not as an animal. I started to plan ahead, accepting the eventuality of what I would do. From the abandoned house that I made my home, I began to construct a life for myself, rejoining to some degree humanity.
From my humble means, I could only prey upon the lowest rung of society, the prostitutes and destitute. But my powers to persuade others were great and my rise up the social ladder swift. I could be charming, and when that failed, I could also be quite threatening. Most who caught a glimpse of my more threatening side were only too happy to pretend that they had not properly appreciated my earlier kindness. The few that opposed both my kindness and my threats simply vanished from society, never to be seen again. Though people feared me, they could not bring themselves to contemplate how completely dark and evil was my soul. They gave me what I required in order that they could continue their small lives with the minimum of trouble or introspection.
So there I was, in the middle of society’s notables. They danced to my tunes as they attempted to better situate themselves amid the crowd. Their thoughts were of self-advancement, and beyond that they did not care. They came to my social events because they knew that was where they would meet the right people. They all wanted to be right in the center of the social world, and they did not care that the center was a rotting vampire who pulled the strings. They spun their little webs, not caring that they were caught in my larger netting.
I ruled and they allowed themselves to be ruled, though in truth they were ruled by their own desires as much as by me. With no eternal curse cast upon their souls, they were every bit as empty inside as I was. It was all so simple that it would have bored me, were it not for the fact that I needed the game to occupy my time and fill my emptiness. Therefore I plunged my efforts into the games, took for my victims the very cream of society. I slowly seduced those women seeking to transfer their beauty into power. They courted me, could not help but court me, knowing instinctively that I was the force that moved their world. All power came through me, even though my exterior was nothing but friendliness and social graces. When people asked for favors I always said yes, and they never noticed until too late that I was the one taking. My power was subtle and confident enough that they did not see it, did not want to see for themselves what they really were.
Amongst their ranks was a beauty that stood out even among these, the elite of society: Madeleine. Had I been a warm-blooded being, she surely would have stood above me like a goddess. But she was just flesh to me, a ripe peach, a container for nectar. Not only was she in possession of a rare beauty, but it was one that had aged well. The beauty of some fades at the slightest use or misfortune, but she was one almost like unto us, who do not age. Her beauty had followed her into an age where most women were already abandoned of it altogether. But she, with some subtle art it must be admitted, transcended even the beauty of her youth. In her was revealed a remarkable feat of breeding, demonstrating beauty that even great artists could not relate. Indeed, humanity must bow at the feet of such beauty. It must do its best to insure that her limited breeding opportunities were not wasted, that each child she produce be of the highest lineage. She had already had three children, all with her husband if that is to be believed. He was a member of the ascending aristocracy, part of a wave that had not reached its peak. The children looked enough like their father at any rate to avoid wagging tongues. But she was capable of one more child at least, capable of producing the kind of offspring that could be remembered by history, given the right luck, the right father.
She was looking for an affair, and I was the obvious choice. I was the power that lay beneath the world she knew, the force that shaped events.
Humans recite the words to the play they are in without ever bothering to read the script. I have lived long enough to see the same scenarios play out a dozen times, each individual believing themselves in control of their actions when in fact they were acting according to primordial desires etched deep into their nature. So it was with Madeleine: she believed herself to be creating an elaborate plot, but the motivations were entirely predictable. The mating ritual was complex and consuming although the ending was never in any doubt. The very stuff of her life was tapped into and spent in the emotional pas de deux we engaged in. On my part, of course, it was all a charade for my amusement, a way of passing time of which I had no shortage. She ruined herself for me as I slowly picked her passions apart. This, the very peak of human flesh, was as a mouse that I played with. She would have given herself to me earlier, but it suited me to drag out her suffering a while. When I finally allowed her to cede herself to me utterly, she did so with relief, knowing that her agony would soon be over, at least in this life.
And thus it is that she—among the hundreds who have fed me with their blood at the cost of their souls—is no more than a brief memory, another desire only briefly sated. After all, how many meals are remembered a week after they are finished? She was just another to whom I had given eternal life, only to take it from her before she had the opportunity to experience it. I learned early that there was no call for more of my kind in the world: they are of use neither to me nor to humans.
One woman only could still evoke some emotion in me: Catherine. Within my soul or flesh dwelt still a longing for the woman who made me what I am. I remembered the brief moment of being wholly sated, the last instant before the unending emptiness began within me. It was centuries before I saw her again, and yet the memory of our meeting leapt to my mind as I saw her one evening on a crowded street one winter evening. She did not recognize me—I was nothing to her. But she was everything to me, and so I followed her. Quiet as I was, she must have realized someone was behind her, for she walked outwards from the crowded streets until she stood at a ridge of trees that lay beyond the houses and shops. Reaching the tree line, she turned, and I could see in her face the utter lack of fear that centuries of being the predator had instilled in her. An instant of doubt appeared in her gaze as she recognized a similar lack of fear in me. And then she recognized me for what I was if not who I was and I knew her intention. There was to be no reuniting, no last physical communion. There was only going to be the death of one or the other, and I had no desire to meet my maker on this night. She broke a branch from the tree she was standing next to, aimed it like a spear towards my heart as she approached me with a speed that was granted to her by some unholy power. My one chance was to feint a movement in one direction and then move in another. In such matters of combat, luck plays a greater part than any victor cares to admit, and luck was with me in this instant. She stabbed towards where she thought I would be, leaning her entire weight behind it. I stood solidly to her side, was able to grab the branch she intended to stab through my heart. But I was unable to grab it from her grip. Our strength was too great for the wood, which split in pieces, some in her hands, some in mine. I found my hand in possession of a piece of wood with a jagged end aimed straight at her heart. Again, it was mere chance—I am centuries past believing in fate—that I was able to stab her before she stabbed me. And in that instant I saw in her eyes the full awareness of what death meant to one such as us. But despite the horror of the death that was to finally be hers, there was a certain amount of relief that it had finally arrived.
I returned home that evening, too weary even to feed, which had been my intent when I had left. The one thing in my life that had meant anything to me, to see Catherine again, was now behind me. Although it was a foolish desire, it had been my one reason for sustaining my life. But my life is hollow, the emptiness is all. I stand upon the balcony of a mansion built upon lies and sin. The sun is somewhere to the east, its light hidden behind the mountains that stand between.
I cannot express the wrongness of time passing without aging, as though great gears were ill-fitted and grinding into each other. Centuries without change, without hope. Hundreds of victims, whom I have had to kill to slake my thirst, and kill again lest they become like me and perhaps bring mankind to a greater knowledge than I would like of me and my kind. There are those out there too, who I have managed to convert but was unable to kill. There are undoubtedly some of those who seek vengeance. I am weary of it all, too weary even to fear God’s judgment, for what fate can be worse than this unnatural life? I do not ask for forgiveness, I only hope He allows me to cease to be.
The moment nears. The sun’s rays creep about the earth on either side of me, begin to clear the mountain top. I lean my face forward, as though awaiting a kiss of benediction upon my brow. But I feel myself unwittingly creeping backwards with the shadows as if I too was a shadow, as though the sun could no more touch me as it could them. I try to will myself to stay where I am, but will is a gift from God, desire from the devil. I who design society’s movements am powerless over myself, a coward that everyone fears. There is no will, hence no “me”. Forsaken even by death, I retreat to my sanctuary to await another night, another hunt.